4. Clara #2
The door opens immediately, as if he'd been waiting. He's shirtless, wearing only low-slung gray sweatpants, and my brain short-circuits at the expanse of his tattooed chest, the ridges of muscle, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.
"Clara." His voice is rough with surprise. And something darker. Hungry.
"I wanted—" My throat is dry. "I wanted to thank you. For today. For all of it."
His gaze drops to my bare legs beneath the hem of my sleep shirt, then lifts slowly back to my face. "You don't need to thank me."
"Yes, I do. You keep—you keep taking care of me, and I keep running away, and I just—" My words tangle. What am I even saying?
He reaches out and gently tugs me inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. The lock engages.
The air in his room is warm, heavy. His bed is unmade, sheets twisted as if he'd been tossing. A single lamp casts amber light across everything.
"Clara." He steps close, crowding me back against the door. "Why are you really here?"
"I don't know," I whisper.
"Yes, you do."
His hand lifts to cup my jaw, tilting my face up. His thumb drags across my lower lip.
"Tell me," he says quietly. "Tell me what you want."
"You." The admission rips from somewhere deep. "I want you. Even though I shouldn't. Even though you're my stepbrother and this is wrong and I don't understand what's happening to me?—"
He kisses me.
It's not the hard, claiming kiss from the car. This one is slow, thorough, his mouth moving over mine with devastating patience. His tongue sweeps in and I open for him, rising on my toes, fisting my hands in his hair. He tastes like mint and heat and I can't get close enough.
When he pulls back we're both breathing hard.
"You're a virgin," he says. Not a question.
My face burns. "Yes."
"And you want to do this with me?"
"Yes."
Something fierce and possessive flares in his eyes. "Good." His hands slide down to grip my hips. "Mine. Every first. Mine."
"Callum—"
"Say it." His forehead presses against mine. "Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours," I breathe. "God help me, I'm yours."
He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to his bed. Lays me down on the tangled sheets and follows me onto the mattress, his body covering mine. For a long moment he just looks at me, drinking in every detail, and then his hands move to the hem of my sleep shirt.
"Let me see you."
I lift my arms and he pulls it off, leaving me naked except for my panties. Immediately my hands fly up to cover my breasts, my face burning with embarrassment. I've never been fully bare in front of a man before.
"Don't hide from me." He gently pulls my hands away, pinning them to the mattress on either side of my head. "You're perfect. Every inch."
His mouth descends to my breasts, kissing and licking, and when his lips close around one nipple and suck, milk releases in a warm spray. He groans, drinking it down, his free hand kneading my other breast until milk leaks from that one too.
"Callum—please?—"
"Please what?" His voice is muffled against my skin.
"I need—I don't know—something?—"
He releases my nipple with a wet sound and moves down my body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my ribs, my stomach. When he reaches the waistband of my panties he hooks his fingers in and tugs them down my legs.
I'm completely naked now. Exposed. My thighs want to close but he's kneeling between them, his hands on my knees, holding me open.
His gaze drops to the patch of dark curls between my legs and his jaw clenches. "So fucking beautiful."
"I should have—I didn't shave or anything?—"
"Don't." The command is sharp. "Don't you dare. I want you exactly like this."
He lowers himself between my thighs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider, and then his mouth is on me. Licking, sucking, his tongue working my clit in devastating circles. I cry out, my hands flying to his hair, and he devours me like a man starving.
When he pushes two fingers inside me, stretching me open, I come hard, my pussy clenching around his fingers as he works me through it.
He rises up, his mouth and chin wet with my juices, and strips off his sweatpants. His cock springs free—thick, long, the head already glistening with precum. My eyes go wide. There's no way that will fit inside me.
"We'll go slow," he says, as if reading my mind. He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. "I'll make it good for you, Clara. I promise."
He pushes in. Just the tip at first, and already I feel stretched impossibly full, my body struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion.
He holds there, unmoving, his breathing harsh and deliberate, and I can feel every second of it—the burning stretch, the pressure, the way my body doesn't quite know whether to accept him or flee.
"Fuck, you're so tight." His voice is rough at the edges, strained in a way I've never heard from him before. "Relax for me, baby. Let me in."
I try. I press my head back against the pillow and force my hands to uncurl from fists, force my thighs to stop trembling. He watches my face the entire time, those blue eyes locked on mine, not missing a single flicker of discomfort.
He pushes deeper. The pressure builds fast, thick and burning, edging from uncomfortable into something sharper. My thighs instinctively try to close and his hands press them back open, firm and immovable, his grip warm against my skin.
"Stay open for me," he murmurs. "Let me have you."
Then something inside me gives way—a sudden, tearing ache that makes me gasp so hard the sound scrapes out of my throat. Tears spill hot down my temples before I can stop them.
He freezes instantly. "Clara?—"
"Don't stop." My voice breaks on the words. "Please—please don't stop."
For a moment he doesn't move at all. His jaw is tight, his entire body held under rigid control, and I can feel how much that stillness is costing him.
He's buried halfway inside me and the stretch is immense, my body clenching around him involuntarily, not sure whether it's trying to pull him in or push him out.
"You're bleeding a little," he says, low and careful. "I know it hurts."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and something shifts in his expression—something dark and reverent at once, a look I don't have a name for.
He stays perfectly still, giving me time, and his thumb finds my clit and begins to work slow, deliberate circles against it.
I exhale shakily. The pain is still there, a deep, stretched ache, but beneath it something else begins to stir, tentative and warm.
"That's it," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Taking your stepbrother's cock like such a good girl."
Slowly—so slowly—the burn eases. My body softens around him in increments, the tension unwinding from my inner thighs, my belly, my clenched hands.
He doesn't rush me. He keeps working my clit in those patient circles and watches my face until the crease of pain between my brows smooths out and my lips part on a soft, unsteady exhale.
Only then does he push the rest of the way in.
"Oh—" The sound comes out of me on a long, shuddering breath as he seats himself fully, his hips flush against mine, his cock buried to the hilt inside me.
I'm stretched so completely tight around him that I can feel every ridge and vein of him, feel the blunt pressure of his head pressing deep against my inner walls in a place that has never been touched.
My whole body feels reorganized around him, like he's taken up space inside me that I didn't know existed.
"Feel that?" His voice has dropped to something barely above a murmur, rough and low, meant only for me. "That's all of me inside you, Clara. You took all of it."
I can't speak. My fingers grip the sheets.
He withdraws—slow, achingly slow—until just the tip remains, and I feel every centimeter of that drag, the slick heat, the oversensitized stretch. Then he pushes back in, one long, measured stroke, and my back lifts off the mattress.
"Ahh—yes?—"
"You feel that?" He thrusts deeper, the pace still controlled, each movement deliberate. "You feel my cock filling your tight little pussy?"
"Yes—oh god—yes?—"
The rhythm he sets is slow and deep, each stroke pressing into me fully before pulling back, and the friction builds from something almost unbearable into something overwhelming in the best possible way.
I can feel the slide of him with every nerve ending I have.
My thighs are slick where they press against his hips and when I look down—just once—I can see a thin smear of red on his skin where we're joined, proof of what he's taken from me, proof of what I've given him.