He obliged to my nonverbal with a single powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt, the sudden fullness pulling a strangled cry from my throat. He kept up his punishing pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall and obscenities falling from my lips in a continuous stream.
This time, when I came, he followed, his rhythm faltering as he groaned my name. He pulsed inside me, his entire body tensing as he found his release.
We stayed like that for several moments, breathless and tangled together, before he carefully lowered my legs and collapsed beside me. His arm draped possessively across my waist, pulling me against his chest.
“Holy shit,” I managed after a moment, my voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” he agreed, sounding equally wrecked.
“Yeah,” I nodded, no further elaboration needed.
“Still need to brush your teeth?” he murmured against my hair, a smile in his voice. He wove our fingers together as we had at the B&B on the island.
“Shut up,” I laughed, too boneless with satisfaction to come up with a better retort.
I wasn’t sure how long we lay there. I might’ve even dipped into a post-orgasm nap. Eventually, though, I stirred, making moves to get up.
“Where are you going?” Callan asked, his hand tightening around mine.
“Shower,” I replied. “Then probably home. I have work to do today.”
“Stay,” he said, and it wasn’t a command so much as a request. “Have breakfast with me.”
I hesitated, torn between the sensible choice and the temptation of more time with him. “I really should go...”
“I have Belgian waffle batter in the fridge,” he said in a singsong voice, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
Despite myself, I laughed. “Fresh strawberries and whip cream?”
“I’ll make sure they’re there by the time you’re done with your shower,” he assured me, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to my knuckles that somehow managed to be both courtly and suggestive. “Please?”
“Fine,” I conceded. “But just breakfast. Then I really do need to go.”
His smile was triumphant. “Deal.”
After a shower that took twice as long as it should have due to Callan’s insistence on “helping” me wash my back (and other areas that definitely didn’t need assistance), I stood in his kitchen, wrapped in a borrowed T-shirt that hung to mid-thigh and boxer shorts that were comically large.
The kitchen was clearly well used. Callan moved through the space, pulling ingredients from the massive refrigerator and heating up the waffle iron.
“I think it’s really cool that you cook,” I said, watching him whisk the batter. “That you actually seem to know your way around a kitchen.”
“Many talents,” he replied, pouring batter into the waffle iron. “Some of which you’ve recently experienced firsthand.”
“And yet somehow your ego remains your most impressive feature,” I noted, accepting the mug of coffee he handed me, prepared exactly how I liked it.
“I would argue that after this last night and this morning, there is at least one other feature you found more impressive,” he countered with a wink.
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Yes. Quite a bit.”
There was something disarmingly domestic about the scene; Callan in sweatpants and nothing else, making breakfast in his kitchen while I sat at the island in his clothes, nursing coffee andwatching him move. It was the kind of moment that could make a person start thinking dangerous thoughts about futures that had no right to be considered.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching me staring.
“That you look unfairly good in sweatpants,” I shrugged. It felt wrong to ruin the moment with depressing thoughts.
Callan grinned. “I should bend you over more often. You seem to give out compliments when I do,” he said, setting a plate in front of me with a golden waffle, fresh berries, a dusting of powdered sugar, and a dollop of whipped cream.
“I just have to space them out. Can’t give them all out at once.”
