Chapter 11
eleven
brEE
Damn it. I’m being awkward. This was supposed to be fun.
I thought I could go with the flow and be chill and sexy and all the things women in movies seem to pull off without blinking.
Except the truth is… I’m rattled. It’s been a while since I’ve let anyone this close, and now that I’m here, wrapped in him, I’m completely out of my depth.
The last time I felt anything remotely like this was with Dillon.
And even that feels like a different lifetime.
He’s the only one I’ve ever actually been…
intimate with. And now I’m here, half tangled in sheets and unexpected nerves, trying to remember how to be with someone new without letting my past write the script.
My heart is hammering, my breaths a little too shallow. I want to play it cool and act like I’ve got this, but every time I look at Callan, the knot in my stomach tightens.
And yet, despite all the nervousness bubbling up inside me, Callan’s just…
being Callan. Calm, cool, and collected with that easygoing confidence of his.
He’s lying here, still fully clothed, holding me in a way that makes everything around us fade into the background.
All I can focus on is the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his touch, and the way his presence seems to anchor me, making everything else… less important.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, like a stone dropping into still water and sending ripples through everything I’ve been trying to hold together.
There’s no pressure in it, no urgency. Just quiet concern threaded through every syllable like he genuinely wants to know—not because he’s supposed to ask, but because he cares.
I look up, and his eyes meet mine with an intensity that burns straight through me.
Not heat. Not lust. Just this anchoring light that makes me want to crumble and lean in at the same time.
His hand rests lightly on my back, fingers barely touching like he knows I’m fragile as he lets me set the pace.
And maybe I am fragile. Maybe I’m one deep breath away from falling apart. The scariest part?
I don’t hate the way it feels to have someone there to catch me.
I nod, because the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere between my ribs and my throat, tangled up in all the things I’ve never let myself say out loud. I want to tell him that I’m scared. That I haven’t let anyone this close in a long time. That this moment is so safe, it almost hurts.
And it’s him.
This reckless, wild, maddening man with his rough hands and easy smile. The one who rides too fast and lives too loud. The one I always thought was too much. And yet, here he is. Quiet and steady.
Who knew Callan had a soft touch and the patience of a saint?
Right now, I’m borrowing courage from the way he looks at me. From the way his touch tells me I don’t have to be anything more than exactly what I am. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.
Which is probably why my mouth blurts, “I’m sorry. This isn’t what you signed up for.”
My voice wobbles at the end, damn it. I was aiming for breezy. The Bree who cracks jokes and never lets anyone see the full emotional breakdown brewing under the surface. That’s our thing. We banter. We toss sarcasm back and forth like a hot potato. Not…this.
I try to backpedal, fast. “I mean, unless what you signed up for was an unhinged woman having a minor emotional crisis in front of your very symmetrical face. In which case, congrats.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, which only makes my brain spiral harder.
“Seriously, though,” I add, softer now. “You didn’t ask for this.”
As I say it, part of me wonders if maybe he kind of did. Not with words, but in the way he shows up. Every time. No expectations. No pressure. Just…him.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Hey, don’t apologize. This… Whatever this is, it’s not about signing up for anything.” His voice is unwavering, like it’s a simple fact. The way he says it settles my nerves. All the swirling thoughts in my head slow down, and suddenly, I don’t feel so out of place.
“Besides,” he adds, with that teasing grin that has his eyes sparkling, “I don’t care if you’re beside me, above me, or below me. I’m just glad you’re here.”
My heart skips a beat. Then he shoots me a playful wink, and just like that, the tension melts away.
If there’s one thing Callan’s good at, it’s breaking through all the heavy stuff. I can’t help but chuckle, a laugh bubbling up before I have the chance to stop it.
“You’re insufferable,” I tease.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans in and presses a gentle kiss to my lips.
It’s soft, slow, and leaves me breathless.
Everything else fades away—my thoughts, the room, the world—and all I can focus on is him, the warmth of his lips, and the way it makes everything else seem so far away.
The sound of my contented sigh fills the room, and I swear, I could stay right here, just like this, forever.
Finally, he speaks again, his voice hushed. “I want you to know I don’t expect anything, lass. We can go back downstairs and have a drink, I can take you back to Rose’s, whatever you want.”
I don’t need to think about it. The idea of walking away from this doesn’t sit right. I don’t want to go anywhere. Not yet.
“I’d like to stay right here,” I say softly.
A tender smile plays on his lips. “Aye, I’d like that, too,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently across my cheek.
I lower my gaze for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. “You know, I’ve imagined this moment more times than I care to admit.”
His gaze sharpens. “Oh? Do tell, Sunshine. What exactly did you imagine?”
I let out a small, breathless laugh, lifting my eyes to meet his. “Well, it usually involves being a little less clothed,” I admit. There’s humor in my voice, but I can tell from the way he watches me that he hears more than just the joke.
He hums as he runs his fingers gently through my hair. “That’s all right, lass. We can take it slow.”
Oh, he’s dangerous. Not just in the reckless, bad boy way.
That I can handle. This is worse. This is the kind of dangerous where a man is patient and sweet and says all the right things in a voice that could melt the polar ice caps.
The kind that makes a girl start picturing things she has no business imagining.
Like Sunday mornings tangled in sheets or lazy afternoons spent stealing kisses just because.
I’m in trouble. Big, stupid, sweet Scottish man trouble.
He leans down, his lips skimming mine for a second time. So gentle but hesitant. The kiss deepens slowly, each brush of his lips igniting something inside me. His hands roam my body, fingers tracing lines of tenderness and heat that sends shivers through me.
He pulls away just enough to trail his lips along my jaw, down my neck, each kiss lingering like a quiet promise. His hand slides to the zipper of my dress and time stops. He pauses, his breath warm against my skin.
“Is this okay?”
I nod, my voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
I shift slightly, sitting up to give him room to slide the straps off my shoulders. The fabric slips down, pooling at my waist, and the sudden brush of cool air against my skin makes me shiver.
He rises, his eyes never leaving mine, and takes my hand to pull me to my feet. The dress slips the rest of the way, puddling on the floor, leaving me in nothing but my lace bra and panties. His gaze doesn’t waver, his expression hungry and reverent, making my pulse flutter wildly.
His eyes wander slowly, like he’s taking in a masterpiece, and I feel every inch of his stare like a touch.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs, and the words hit me like a spark. There isn’t a single part of me that wants to hide from him.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, trembling in a way that betrays me. One by one, I ease them open, revealing smooth, warm skin and muscle that makes my breath hitch in my throat.
My fingers graze over the hard line of his chest. “If I had known this was hiding underneath, I’d have demanded a private showing sooner.”
This still counts as innocent, right? I mean, technically, I’m clothed if you count underwear. And he’s just shirtless. In a kilt. Which, god help me, is doing things to my insides I wasn’t emotionally prepared for.
I’ve dreamt about a moment like this with him. Quiet little fantasies I’d never say out loud. Only now, it’s happening. He’s real. This is real. And it’s so much better than anything my imagination could’ve cooked up.
I still don’t know how far I want to take this.
My breath quickens, my heart pounds like it’s not sure whether to race forward or hold back.
But here, in this moment, with his hand skimming gently over my hip, his touch asking instead of taking, this feels right.
Not rushed. Not dangerous. Just…safe. Like maybe I don’t have to decide everything all at once.
Like maybe I can let myself want him, one heartbeat at a time.
The sheets are cool against my skin as we fall back onto the bed together. The solid weight of his body presses into mine, heat radiating off him.
I bite back a gasp as his lips trace a path down my body.
He moves slowly, pulling the straps of my bra down with such care that I feel it all—the soft glide of the fabric, the cool air hitting my exposed skin, and the sudden rush of goosebumps that follow.
The feeling of him, of his mouth on me, is almost too much.
Every touch sends a jolt of desire and vulnerability through me that I haven’t felt in ages.
It’s as if he’s claiming pieces of me with each kiss, each caress, and I can’t decide whether to pull him closer or keep my distance.