Page 7

Callie

I’d imagined what Gabriel would be like in bed.

I’d been wrong. So gloriously wrong.

His military precision translated into something else entirely when applied to intimacy—an intense focus that made me feel like I was the only woman in the universe. His large, calloused hands had moved over my body with unexpected gentleness, then gripped with possessive strength that made me gasp.

And his mouth....

I woke slowly, tangled in warm sheets that didn’t belong to me. For a second, I didn’t move—just breathed in the scent we’d made.

My body ached in ways that felt unfamiliar but good. The soreness between my thighs wasn’t something I regretted—it was something I relished. A reminder of what we’d done. What I’d finally given to someone.

I blinked against the dim light and turned my head.

He wasn’t in bed.

He was in a chair in the corner of the room.

Sitting in the shadows like some battle-worn guardian, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at the floor like it held the answer to a question he couldn’t bring himself to ask. His jaw was tight, that beautiful mouth pressed into a hard line. His body—usually coiled with tension—was loose now in a way that didn’t look relaxed.

It looked defeated.

The ache in my chest was sharper than the ache between my legs.

He hadn’t slept. I was sure of it.

Whatever war he’d fought last night hadn’t ended with his body inside mine. It had just shifted to a different battlefield.

I sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down to my waist, and whispered, “Gabriel?”

His head snapped up. Eyes on me. No mask this time. No gruff wall to hide behind. Just raw emotion—tight and quiet and so damn vulnerable it made me want to cry.

He didn’t say a word.

He just stood, crossed the room in two strides, and scooped me into his arms.

“Gabriel—” I started to protest, startled by the sudden move.

“You’re sore,” he said, jaw tight. “I was too rough. Let me take care of you.”

Not I want to.

Not I should.

Let me.

He was asking for permission when he didn’t have to and that broke me a little for some reason. Didn’t he know I’d give him everything?

I melted into him as he carried me to the bathroom, the warmth of his bare chest seeping into my skin like an anchor. When he set me down, I swayed slightly, and his hands steadied me.

He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature with clinical precision. The bathroom filled with steam as he opened the glass door, stepped in and held out his hand.

I took it with a bit of hesitation. This was the first time I’d ever taken a shower with a man. I didn’t know what to do, what to expect. I’d read about shower sex, of course, but from the look on his face I didn’t think that was going to happen.

He wore that same closed off expression he’d had the moment we’d met—like he was battling something I couldn’t see. It made my heart ache. He stepped in behind me, adjusting the spray. His body was a wall of heat, and I leaned back into it automatically, shivering under the weight of everything I was feeling.

The water sluiced down over both of us, and I felt his hand reach around me to grab the soap. He lathered his palms, then began running them over my skin—my shoulders, my arms, my back. His touch wasn’t tender. It was as if touching me went against his better judgment and he wanted to pull away but couldn’t.

I felt tears start to form in my eyes. Was he already regretting what had happened between us? I knew I never would, but I didn’t know how to tell him that. Or even if he wanted to hear it.

When he reached between my thighs, I gasped.

“Too much?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Just… tender.”

His hand paused. Then his voice dropped lower. “I should’ve gone easier.”

“You were perfect,” I said quietly. “It was perfect.”

He didn’t respond. Just rinsed the soap away and turned me in his arms.

I looked up at him—wet hair slicked back from his face, water tracing the hard lines of his jaw, his chest heaving like he was still trying to get himself under control.

And I wanted to help. Not fix. Not soothe. Just give him something that felt good. Something that didn’t hurt. I reached for him. My hands slid down his stomach, lower, wrapping around the hard length of him. Touching me had affected him, no matter how he tried to deny it.

“Let me take care of you,” I whispered.

Something flashed across his face—want, yes, but also something darker.

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no.”

He gripped my wrists—not hard, but firm—and lifted my hands away from him, pressing them against his chest.

“I’ve already had everything I want,” he growled. “You think I need more from you after that?”

My breath caught. Had last night meant something to him? Something more than two strangers in a cabin?

He leaned down, kissed me. Not soft. Not sweet. It was possessive, filled with hunger. His hands slid back down between my thighs. “Do you want me to make you feel better? Take the edge off?” He bit down on my earlobe. “Because I know you’re still hungry, baby. You’re wet for me.

“I… I don’t know if I can again.”

“You can,” he said. “And you will.”

And then he was on his knees.

Water poured over us, his hands gripping my thighs as he pulled one over his shoulder and buried his mouth between my legs.

I cried out.

Everything inside me clenched. My body was sore, sensitive—but his mouth moved like a man making a vow. Every stroke of his tongue was a torment I didn’t want to escape. It was mercy. And penance. And pure possession

“Hold on to me,” he ordered.

I did. My fingers tangled in his hair as he devoured me, not stopping until my head fell back and I shattered again, water and heat and sensation crashing down over me all at once.

When it was over, I couldn’t stop shaking.

He stood and caught me before I could slide down the wall. He turned off the water and grabbed a towel to wrap me in. I couldn’t speak, but he didn’t ask me to. He was silent again.

Back in bed, I curled into him, still damp, the towel forgotten. Gabriel’s body was warm and solid behind me, one arm draped over my waist, his breathing steady.

I traced the line of a scar along his forearm. He didn’t stop me. So I turned over. My fingers moved higher. To his shoulder. His chest. So many marks. Some faded. Some not. Scattered scars that hinted at stories he hadn’t told me. One in particular, a jagged line across his ribs, caught my attention.

“Afghanistan,” he said without me asking. “Shrapnel.”

“And this one?” I brushed a small, twisted scar under his ribs.

He was silent for a moment. “Bar fight.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You? Really?”

He gave a rough huff of a laugh. “I wasn’t always this locked down.”

“Tell me,” I urged, genuinely curious about the younger version of this man.

He was quiet for so long I thought he might refuse. “I was angry. Lost. Looking for trouble to distract myself from things I couldn’t change.” His hand continued its gentle exploration of my back. “The military gave me purpose, structure. Something to channel all that energy into.”

“And now?” I asked softly.

His eyes met mine, something unreadable in their depths. “Now I have different distractions. I need you again, baby.”

I should have said no. I was still tender, wrung out. But I could feel the way he trembled. Like he needed this. Needed to feel me around him again. Not for the sex—for something else.

“I need you, too,” I whispered.

He moved, positioning himself between my thighs. He took the blunt head of his cock and poised it at my entrance. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

“I will.” He pushed inside me, slow and easy, watching me. I knew what he was looking for. Any signs of discomfort. And while I was sore, I wanted this as much as he did.

Why? Because I knew, just like him, our time was limited.

The first time had been rough and almost untamed, this time was so tender it almost made me cry. He rocked into me as if he was memorizing the way it felt to be inside me. Every thrust steady. Controlled. Setting a pace I knew, for all my innocence, was laying havoc with his control. But still, he maintained it until I was clutching at his shoulders once again, the need inside me building.

“Harder, Gabriel, please,” I begged, the words breaking on a gasp.

My words must have snapped something inside him, because he was driving into me now, fast and without remorse, leading us both to the pleasure filled edge before pushing us completely over.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice sharper than I’d ever heard it.

I forced my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he moved within me.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, one hand cradling my face as he maintained that unrelenting rhythm that was rapidly rebuilding my pleasure.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to feel the full weight and heat of him. Our bodies moved together as if we’d been lovers for years instead of minutes, finding a perfect synchronicity that made every thrust, every touch, feel like coming home.

This time, when release came, it crashed through both of us at once. I felt him pulsing inside me as my own body clenched around him, drawing out our shared pleasure until we collapsed together, spent and breathless.

After, he gathered me against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around me as if he feared I might disappear. I traced idle patterns on his skin, marveling at how quickly intimacy had developed between us.

The rain was still falling outside. But inside, in his bed, in his arms, the storm felt far away.

I didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. I didn’t know if he’d let me stay, but right now, in this moment—he was mine. And I was his.

Even if he’d never say it out loud.

Even if the silence was the only promise he could give me.