10. Clara #2
He reaches behind me and unzips my dress in one slow pull, his fingers trailing the length of my spine, and the fabric pools at my feet and I step out of it.
He looks at me the way he always looks at me—complete, consuming, like there is nothing else in the room—and then he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom.
He lays me down on the bed and takes his time.
That's the only way to describe it—he takes his time, and there's a ceremony to it tonight that isn't usually there, a deliberateness that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with attention.
He kisses my jaw and my throat and the curve of my collarbone, both hands framing my ribs, and when his mouth reaches my breasts I exhale in a long, slow shudder.
They're full tonight, tender with it—I can feel the pressure before he even touches me—and when he cups one breast in his hand and looks up at me, the question is in his eyes before he asks it.
"Please," I say.
His tongue circles my nipple slowly, once, and then his mouth seals around it and he draws with a long, slow pull, and my back arches off the bed.
"Ahh—" The sound comes out on a breath. My hand finds his hair and my fingers curl into it automatically. The milk releases in a warm rush, and I feel his throat work against my breast, swallowing, and the intimacy of it punches through me every single time, months in, and tonight more than ever.
He nurses from me unhurried, switching between one breast and the other, his hands staying warm and steady on my ribs, my waist, the curve of my hip. By the time he works lower, pressing kisses down my stomach, I'm already trembling.
He settles between my thighs and looks up the length of my body at me, chin resting just above my hip, those blue eyes dark and certain.
"Callum—"
"I've got you." He turns his head and presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh, slow and warm. "Let me have you."
When his tongue finally finds my clit, the sound I make is immediate and mortifying—a high, breathless cry that I muffle against my own forearm.
He licks me in long, unhurried strokes at first, learning the pace, and I grip the sheets with both hands because there is nothing else to hold on to.
He knows exactly what he's doing—he's always known exactly what he's doing—and tonight he's in no rush, working me up in slow, methodical increments until my thighs are shaking against his shoulders and my hips are rolling toward him without my permission.
"Oh god—" The words dissolve. "Callum, I'm?—"
He seals his mouth around my clit and sucks, and I come apart with a cry loud enough to embarrass me later, my whole body arching taut, my hands fisting in his hair and holding on while the orgasm crests and rolls through me in long, heavy waves.
He works me through it without pausing, drawing out every last pulse, and I'm still trembling when he kisses the inside of my knee and moves up my body.
He settles over me in missionary—face to face, his weight balanced on his forearms, his eyes on mine—and I feel the broad head of his cock press against my entrance and then he pushes inside, slow, so slow, inches I feel each of individually as my body opens around him and takes him in.
"Oh—" I exhale, hands gripping his shoulders. "Oh, that's?—"
"I know." His jaw is tight with the restraint of it. "You feel incredible."
He's fully seated inside me and he barely moves, rocking just slightly, a gentle, rolling motion that hits deep and holds deep, and I understand what he's doing—he's giving me every inch to feel, all at once, with nothing else to distract from it.
"My beautiful wife-to-be," he murmurs, his mouth brushing my temple. "You're going to wear my ring every day."
"Yes," I breathe, and the word is agreement to everything.
He starts to move properly then, slow and deep, each thrust measured and full, and his mouth finds my breast again, his tongue circling my tender nipple before he draws the milk from me, and the dual sensation—his cock filling me, his mouth pulling from me—knocks the breath from my chest entirely.
"Uhh—" I clutch his hair. "God—Callum?—"
"Come again for me," he murmurs against my breast.
"I can't—I just?—"
"Yes you can." He thrusts deeper, a slow grind that presses into me at the perfect angle, and his mouth seals around my nipple and pulls again, and I feel the second orgasm building with an insistence that shocks me—different from the first, fuller, deeper, originating somewhere much further in.
"Oh—oh no—Callum?—"
"That's my girl," he breathes. "Give it to me."
The second one tears through me with a violence that makes the first feel like a warm-up.
I cry out, my nails dragging his shoulders, my whole body shuddering as my pussy clenches and spasms around his cock in rhythmic, helpless pulses that I have absolutely no control over, and I feel him groan against my breast at the sensation of it, the sound low and raw.
"Fuck," he breathes, and he comes with me—his rhythm stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside me as I clench around him, his fingers pressed hard into my hips.
He stays inside me afterward, his breath warm at my neck, my ring catching a glint of city light on the pillow beside my own hand.
I feel everything. The full weight of his body. The tender ache in my breasts. The thick, satisfied throb of the orgasm still working through my hips. The cool metal of the ring.
After a while, my hand drifts down his chest—over the tattoos, over the flat plane of his stomach—and I feel his breathing shift in response before I even speak.
"I want you again," I say.
A pause. His hand tightens on my hip. "Clara."
"Harder this time."
Another pause, weighted and warm. Then?—
"Three days, Callum. You had that ring sitting in that drawer for three days and you genuinely thought I hadn't noticed."
"You knew about the ring for three days." His voice has shifted into something darker, lower. The calm before the particular kind of storm I've become extremely familiar with. "Pretending you hadn't seen it. Letting me believe I'd been subtle."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Naughty girl." His hand slides from my hip to the back of my thigh, deliberate. "You're going to need to be punished for that."
"That seems?—"
He flips me over.
The sound that leaves me as he enters me from behind—hard, deep, without ceremony—is not dignified in any way, and I don't care in the least. My hands shoot to the headboard and I grip it and he sets a pace that is absolutely nothing like the tender, ceremonial worship of twenty minutes ago.
He drives into me with focused, unrelenting force, his hand fisting in my hair, and the contrast of it—gentle to rough, slow to urgent—sends white heat cascading through every nerve I have.
"I'm going to punish my stepsister," he says against my ear, low and dark, and a full-body shudder rolls through me at the words.
"Yes," The next thrust punches the words out of me. "Fuck—oh god?—"
I think, in the fractured, breathless, ungovernable seconds that follow: four months ago, I was a terrified twenty-year-old who had never been kissed properly and who sat in a fluorescent-lit bathroom convinced her body was malfunctioning and her life was unraveling.
And now I am here—engaged, loved, pinned happily to this bed by a man who has reorganized himself entirely around me—and I am not afraid of a single thing.
I am exactly, precisely where I belong.