Chapter Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
Annie
I close and lock the door behind us, and I think about the last time I was up here in the apartment above Virtu: Cal attending to my injured hand, discovering the goose under the quilt, using it as leverage to get him to let me show him what I can do.
So much has changed since that night. The goose’s location, for one (a few times, actually). And the way we see each other.
Even without the blackmail, I’m confident Cal now understands that I have a whole lot to offer.
We take off our coats and hang them on the hooks beside the door, and it reminds me of the other night when they were hastily cast aside on the shop’s floor.
It was all so quick, so hunger-filled, instinctive.
A race to a destination when we weren’t completely certain of its location.
But this time we’re going on a slow, deliberate journey somewhere we’re both interested in exploring.
I wrap my arms around his neck the way they were back in the warehouse and stretch up to press my lips to his. “I’m going to take good care of you, Cal,” I promise. It feels so natural to say in the moment that I don’t even think about it until he pulls away and looks into my eyes.
“We’re going to take good care of each other,” he corrects tenderly. It hits me like an old-timey Valentine-card Cupid coming along and shoving an arrow directly into my heart rather than risk missing from afar.
Because something I’ve only recently realized is that sex for me has always been primarily about my partner’s pleasure.
My own has simply been contributory to theirs.
From the very first time I slept with someone, I was so focused on being his perfect girl that there was never room for being anything else.
Then here comes Callahan Leitner, emphasizing that this is something we’re doing together.
A meeting of equals, in service of both ourselves and each other.
As much as I tried to convince him we’re doing this as a sort of reciprocal favor (albeit one that’s not exactly a hardship for either of us), I can’t deny now that it’s more than that.
I know I told him I need practice being myself, but it’s really hitting me in earnest how much this means, this chance for us both to grow in a way that feels safer than anything else I’ve ever known.
“Yes,” I say. “We will.” I kiss him again, deeper this time. “Let’s go to your room before we wind up on the floor.”
“This way.” He takes my hand and leads me through his space, stopping once in the middle of the short hallway to press me up against the wall and kiss me again, as if he wants to make sure I’m still real.
Before we move along, he reaches up by my head to straighten a picture frame we must have knocked askew, and the action is so oddly endearing that it’s impossible to contain the resulting affection that balloons inside me.
“I’m really starting to like you, you know,” I say as I move ahead into the doorway to his bedroom.
I take off my blouse, slowly, sensually, watching Cal’s pupils go darker.
He just saw me topless an hour ago, but the circumstances were somewhat different, considering we had an audience of Roland and about two dozen mannequins.
His eyes drift back to my face and convey an almost surprised sweetness. “I really like you too,” he says.
“Yeah? Come show me how much.”
He doesn’t need any further invitation, and before I can blink I’m in his arms, his lips on mine, and then on my jaw, my earlobe, my shoulder.
His fingers investigate where my bra fastens and he murmurs, “Will you take this off for me? I don’t want to damage the lace.
It’s so lovely.” Part of me can’t help but think this is an excuse so he doesn’t embarrass himself fighting with the many hooks, but then Cal’s nose sweeps against my cheek as he plants a soft kiss on my skin and he murmurs, “You are so lovely,” and I decide I don’t really care what his motive is.
“I bet you say that to all your blackmailers,” I joke as I slide the bra straps down my arms.
“Huh. I guess I do,” he says with a chuckle that turns into a ragged exhale as his hands cup my now-bare breasts. “You like this, right?” he asks. “Being touched here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I like it a lot.”
He nods subtly to himself. “And you’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like? Or if you want to stop?”
“Of course. As long as you promise the same?”
“I promise.”
I take the condoms I thankfully had the presence of mind to grab from my purse as we journeyed upstairs and place them on the nightstand, then wrap my hand around Cal’s forearm and pull him toward the bed.
I’m a bit surprised to find that it isn’t made, comforter and sheets all tangled up as if he spent the night tossing and turning.
Cal is such an interesting conundrum, buttoned up in a way that feels deliberate instead of part of his personality.
Like someone taught him to be that way and he sees the value of it, but it still doesn’t always come naturally despite years of practice.
The same way his usual precise articulation while speaking occasionally collapses into thick Bawlmerese, frustrating him whenever he catches it.
I’m beginning to suspect that Cal has a mask of his own that he’s been wearing for so long he forgot somewhere along the way that it isn’t his own face.
But I’m distracted from the thought as he gently lays me back, takes off my boots, and slides my pants and underwear down my legs.
His skillful fingers swipe through the wetness at my entrance before sliding inside, more confident in the movements than he was on Thursday evening, and his mouth returns to my nipples.
It isn’t long at all until I’m writhing against the mattress and making all sorts of desperate noises.
“Why are you still clothed?” I ask impatiently, tugging at his sleeve. “Remedy this situation posthaste.”
Cal gives me one last excruciatingly delicious thrust, then slides his fingers into his mouth while maintaining eye contact and letting out a breathy little “Mm.” Good thing I’m already lying down, because I think I might faint.
“Do you always start talking like a nineteenth-century society matron when you’re turned on?
” he asks after completing this maddeningly erotic performance.
“Clothing. Off,” I reiterate.
“I’m working on it.” He tries to move too hastily and winds up stuck inside his sweater for a second. “Pretend that didn’t happen,” he says as he emerges from the soft wool. “Pretend I did that very suavely.”
“I’ve never seen anything suaver in my life,” I assure him.
“You watching me undress makes me all muddled,” he confesses, fumbling with his belt. “It’s like I completely forget how to use my body in the excitement of thinking about yours.”
I grin. “Would you like some help?”
“No, no, I’ll…get there eventually.”
My quiet laugh at his endearing struggle fades away as soon as Cal’s knee presses down on the mattress between my legs and he climbs onto the bed beside me.
I didn’t get to see this much of him when we hooked up downstairs or when we were at the photoshoot earlier, and I want to study every angle, every slope of his naked body.
The men I used to date kept fit as a point of pride, going for runs, spending hours in the gym each week, trying to retain their youth and health as they aged.
So I’m fascinated as I kiss along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his stomach, by how Cal’s organic strength, earned through the course of his work at Virtu over the last two decades, feels against my lips.
Cal might not have built his antique store (Graham and Harold are to thank for that), but it certainly seems to have built him, in more ways than one.
“So, now that we’re here, how are we feeling?” I ask when I’ve made it back to his mouth. “Still want to keep going as planned? Or we can do some other stuff first, or—”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Keep going.” Then he’s kissing me again as we adjust our bodies to fit onto the bed properly, reclined against pillows that smell so deliciously like him—old paper, polished wood, apples, and sweet autumn leaves.
Cal reaches for one of the condoms and I watch, rapt, as he frees it from its packaging and rolls it down his length.
Then he positions himself between my thighs, and I wriggle against the pressure of him settled there at my entrance, urging him on in both a show of encouragement and pure need.
But he doesn’t move into me right away. Instead he pauses, staring down into my eyes.
“Hey. All good up there?” I check in.
“Mm. Bit overwhelmed, is all.” He smiles slightly, somewhere between charming and abashed.
“Just…I don’t know if you know this,” he says, “but I’m sort of an expert when it comes to beautiful and rare things.
And there’s so much that’s beautiful and rare about you, Annie O’Neill.
” His fingers brush, feather light, over my neck and his thumb comes to rest gently against my throat.
Something about the physical sensation of that, mixed with the sweet words, unlocks the last hidden part of me that was still trying to cling to the role I’ve always played, and I feel suddenly even more exposed than I did the other night, beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.
There’s nothing at all left to separate our bodies or our hearts and it’s fucking terrifying.
But as Cal slides into me at last, his warm eyes never leaving mine, all of my fear is surrendered along with a shaky breath.
Everything is too bright with pleasure and joy and a deep abiding knowledge that I’m safe here, with him, as much as he’s safe here with me.
Because as vulnerable as I might feel, I know Cal is feeling it too.
This is, I understand deep inside my soul, what it means to take good care of each other.
It’s a mutual endeavor, and there’s a slight pain, a tenderness in my chest, when I realize that, despite my supposed “experience,” in this way at least, Cal has a definite advantage over me.
I follow his lead, learning as I go to both give and take instead of simply giving and giving and giving as has always been my impulse.
I tell him how amazing it feels to be taking him, slow and deep, but also how he can make it even better for me.
Because I know he wants to, the way that I want to make it even better for him.
And that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Making something.
Building something together. Up and up, higher and higher, until I find my release the same way I did atop the counter Thursday night: intense, all-encompassing, a single moment of both strength and weakness, an explosive beginning and ending.
Something I know means so much more than what I told myself it would, especially when Cal immediately follows me over the edge, both of us trembling against each other in the aftermath.
After a few minutes of lying there, tangled and spent, he shifts to the space in the bed beside me. Through heavy eyelids, I watch him slide the condom off, tie it, and lay it atop its wrapper on the nightstand.
“There’s a trash can in your bathroom?” I ask. Cal responds with an exhausted noise that I’m pretty sure is a stand-in for a yes. “I’ll take it with me,” I say, and head to clean up.
When I return, I consider redressing and getting ready to head out.
But the space I vacated calls to me, warm and soft, sex- and Cal-scented, and I find myself unable to resist sliding back into the bed.
Which Cal doesn’t seem to mind, if his immediate gathering me into his arms is any indication.
His breaths start evening out, fluttering the hair by my ear.
I trace his collarbone with my finger and ask, “What are you thinking?” In the past, I never would have dared.
No man wants to converse right after sex, I would tell myself.
Especially about emotions. Don’t make him think you’re needy.
But I’m flying high on the novelty of no longer centering my partner’s needs to the detriment of my own.
I want to keep going after what I want, and right now that’s to know if Cal felt the same way I felt, and if he’s aware how much more it meant to me than I ever intended.
“I’m thinking…” he says slowly, “that I’m glad I recently happened to put clean sheets on the bed. ”
“I also appreciate that.”
Cal loosens his grip in order to put enough distance between us to look me in the eyes, his voice going quieter and more earnest. “I’m also thinking that it’s almost three in the morning. So maybe you should just stay here tonight instead of going back to Harold’s.”
“Oh. Um.” I’m thrown off by the suggestion. It is late, and I am tired…
“You don’t have to, though, if—” he starts.
“No,” I cut him off. “I’d like to. I want to. I’ll stay.”
I figured heading out right after we were done was the best way to reinforce that this is just a casual fling. But it isn’t. I think we’re both aware of that, even if I’ll never admit it aloud.