Page 41

Not like I’m fragile. Like I’m his, and this is how he treats what belongs to him.

The sheets are cool against my skin. The towel slips from my shoulders.

His jaw tightens, just slightly, but enough to betray the depth of his restraint.

The stormglass of his gaze darkens, not with lust, but with something deeper.

Like awe. Like the sight of me, bared and willing, is more than he knows what to do with.

And Cal just stands there for a moment. His eyes trace every inch of me like he’s trying to memorize this, us, before it even begins.

I feel exposed, but not in the way I expected.

Not embarrassed, or afraid.

Just… open.

His.

I watch him pull his towel free. Slow and deliberate, and when he steps closer, there’s no weight in his footsteps—just intention.

“Emmy,” he says, low and sure.

“Yes?”

He sits at the edge of the bed, his hands skimming the outsides of my thighs, before he leans in.

And kisses me. His lips part mine like a promise. His tongue sweeps once, slow and absolute. Deep.

When he pulls back, we’re both breathless.

“You sure, sweet girl?”

I nod, but he doesn’t move. The intensity of his gaze holds mine.

“Use your words.”

I swallow.

Then—soft, shaky, true:

“I want you.”

He exhales like that just saved his life. The words are barely out before he’s kissing me harder—even deeper.

There’s no hesitation now. No apology in the way his hands slide up my thighs, firm and certain and hot. One of them finds my hip, grips it like it belongs to him. The other—planted by my head, bracing him over me as he deepens the kiss.

He growls low when my legs part for him without needing to be told, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest where need and restraint have been warring for hours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I shiver, my hands sliding over his shoulders, down his back. All that muscle. All that steadiness.

His thigh nudges mine wider.

He shifts between my legs, and I feel the full press of him, thick and hard and already there.

Not demanding.

Not teasing.

Just inevitable.

“I thought about this,” he says, voice like smoke and stone.

“About what?”

“This.” His mouth grazes my jaw, my neck. His teeth barely scrape my collarbone. “You. Spread out in my bed. Looking up at me like you need me.”

“I do,” I whisper.

His hand wraps around my throat—not tight. Just there. Anchoring me. Claiming me. The weight of it doesn’t scare me. It stills something inside me instead—like my body knows I’m safe under him, held in place not by force, but by the depth of his care.

His thumb brushes my jaw.

“Say it again.”

His voice is rougher now, edged with something raw. His eyes darken, steady and unblinking, as if the words are the only thing tethering him to control. There's a flicker in his throat, a breath caught like restraint is costing him everything.

My lips part, and I say it louder.

“I need you.”

His cock drags against my entrance, thick and unrelenting. But he doesn’t press in, not yet. Not until his mouth dips back to mine, and he growls it:

“Mine.”

The word sinks into me like heat—low and searing. My breath shudders out. My whole body answers to it, like that one word anchored me in place.

He shifts, one hand still braced beside my head, the other gliding down between us. Fingertips teasing where I’m already soaked. Already open for him.

I gasp—hips tilting toward him, chasing that touch.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs.

The pad of his thumb brushes where I need it most. Slow, deliberate, and claiming.

“You’re so wet for me.”

I whimper, back arching, thighs trembling.

He groans low, the sound dark and possessive in his throat.

“Been so fucking good,” he mutters. “Taking care of me, letting me see you like this.”

His mouth finds the hollow of my throat.

“You ready to let me in, little one?”

The question sinks into me like a vow. My breath hitches, eyes stinging. I nod once, heart pounding, body already saying yes—but the words feel like something bigger. Like surrender. Like trust.

I nod again, but he’s not letting me get away with that.

His eyes darken, wild and grounding all at once. There’s a roughness in his exhale, like keeping control is tearing something loose inside him. He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes.

His thumb still circling, coaxing.

“Words.”

My voice breaks when it comes.

“Yes, yes. Please.”

His responding growl is almost feral.

Not with anger, but with something wild and reverent. Like the sound was dragged from his chest by the weight of finally having what he's craved.

Just undone.

“Good girl.”

The praise lands like a hand at the base of my spine—firm, warm, inescapable. I melt into it. Into him.

And then, he shifts again. The bed creaks softly beneath his weight. His hand curls around my thigh, grounding and sure, guiding me open with gentle insistence. Lines himself up. Every movement measured, reverent, a promise written in the heat of his skin and the weight of his gaze.

His cock pushes at my entrance, thick and hot and already stretching me before he even sinks in.

I clutch at his shoulders, breath caught in my throat.

Because it’s been so long.

Because no one’s ever touched me like this.

He watches my face like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

The head of him pushes deeper. Just an inch, then another. Slow, measured, and utterly possessive.

I try to choke back a moan—quiet and helpless. It burns a little, but it’s good.

It’s so good.

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. My temple. “You’re doing perfect, sweet girl. So fuckin’ tight. So brave.”

His hands never stop moving. One on my jaw, large and warm, anchoring me in place with reverent steadiness. The other guiding my hip, fingers splayed wide, tilting me just so—like he knows exactly how my body needs to open for him.

His chest brushes mine, hot and solid, and I can feel the tremble in his breath, the restraint in his frame.

Another inch.

And another.

Until I feel him deep, filling me, stretching me.

Claiming every part of me that ever doubted I was wanted.

Before I can stop them, tears slip down my cheeks.

He catches them with his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand cradles my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, and holding me is the only thing tethering him to earth.

His jaw flexes. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s barely restrained, a tremor riding every breath. The weight of him, the warmth, the depth—he surrounds me completely, like a storm choosing not to break.

His voice is a vow against my skin. As if he can't say it enough.

“You’re mine now.”

He stays still for a moment, buried so deep I can barely breathe. Letting me feel all of him. Letting himself feel it too.

My legs tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist.

My fingers curl into his shoulders, and all I can do is look at him, at the way his jaw is clenched, the way his eyes burn with want barely contained.

His voice is barely more than a breath.

“Tell me how it feels, sweet girl. Let me hear it—every bit of it. I need to know I’m giving you what you need.”

His voice is a tether, low and gravelly, thick with restraint and care.

Only just holding back, but refusing to let himself go.

One hand still braces beside my head, the other cradling my jaw like I might break if he doesn’t hold me just right.

His gaze burns down into mine, steady and searching, like he’s cataloguing every flicker of emotion across my face.

Not just asking. Needing. Like my answer matters more than his own release. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking as he looks down at me like I’m something sacred. Like hearing me say it will undo him as much as being inside me already has.

I try to find words, but it’s everything. Big and overwhelming and grounding all at once.

“It’s… a lot,” I whisper. “Full.”

He leans down and kisses my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.

“You’re taking me so good,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ tight around me. Like you were made for me, baby.”

He pulls back.

Just an inch.

Then pushes back in—slow and deep.

A long, steady glide.

I gasp.

The stretch is thick and aching and perfect. Cal groans above me, low and rough.

“God, baby. You feel so fuckin’ good.”

Another thrust. Deep again. Measured, unrelenting. Every inch of him sliding into me like he’s meant to be there.

His hand finds mine. Laces our fingers together above my head, his grip firm and grounding. His thumb brushes the back of my hand like he’s soothing something deeper than skin.

He keeps his eyes on me as he moves.

Slow.

Sure.

Rhythmic.

Each stroke presses deeper, more claiming than the last—like he’s carving himself into me with purpose.

Each breath grows harder to hold, but he never lets me drift. His chest brushes mine with every thrust, heat radiating off him like a furnace, his muscles taut with control.

“Not gonna rush this,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “Want you to feel it.”

“I do,” I breathe. “I feel all of you.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s pouring every unsaid promise into my mouth.

And when he thrusts again, just a little harder, a little deeper—

I moan. Not quiet, not controlled. Just his.

And he smiles against my skin.

“There’s my girl.”

That phrase... like thunder and shelter all at once. His voice wraps around me—low, rough, warm with praise and something fiercer. Possession. Awe. His mouth brushes my cheek, and I can feel the smile there, reverent and wrecked. Like he’s been holding back just to give me this.

He starts to move again. Long, deep strokes. Unhurried. But sure.

Like he’s teaching my body what it means to be his.

Every thrust brushes against something inside me that makes my breath catch, my legs tighten around his hip, and my fingers dig into his back like I don’t ever want to let him go.

He groans again—lower this time. Rougher.

His mouth finds my neck.