"Not a word," I warn him.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"You're laughing."
"I'm admiring your technique."
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it, tosses it aside, and pulls me on top of him.
"Hi," he says, grinning up at me.
"Hi yourself."
The humor fades as we look at each other. This is the moment—the one where we could still stop, still pretend this is just attraction and nothing more. His hands are warm on my thighs, his chest rising and falling beneath me, and the want in his eyes mirrors everything I'm feeling.
"Still sure?" he asks softly.
"Still sure."
He sits up, one arm wrapping around my waist, and kisses me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His free hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head so he can kiss down my neck, my collarbone, the spot that makes me gasp.
"Found it," he murmurs against my skin.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I do.
What follows is a conversation without words. His hands learn the geography of my body—what makes me arch into him, what makes me dig my nails into his shoulders, what makes me say his name like it's the only word I know. I learn him too—the groan when I bite his earlobe, the shudder when I rock against him, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
His dog tags get tangled in my hair that’s hanging down between us at one point, and we have to stop while he carefully untangles them, both of us laughing.
"Sorry," he says. "Occupational hazard."
"You could take them off."
"I could." He doesn't. Something about that feels significant, though I can't say why.
When we finally come together, I'm on top of him, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow. He fills me completely, and we both go still for a breath—just feeling, adjusting, learning this new geography.
"Okay?" His voice is rough, strained.
I rock my hips in answer, and his head falls back against the pillow with a groan that goes straight through me. He flips me back over onto my back.
We find a rhythm that's messy and urgent—too much wanting, too long waiting. I place my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound under my palms, and he meets every movement with one of his own. The dog tags swing between us, cool metal against heated skin.
"God, Callie—" His fingers dig into the sheets, guiding himself into me, and the angle shifts just enough that I gasp.
"There," I breathe. "Right there."
He keeps that angle, that rhythm, watching my face like he's memorizing every reaction. One hand slides up my neck, tangles in my hair, eases down until our foreheads press together. Our breath mingles, eyes open, and there's nowhere to hide.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs. "Look at you."
The words hit differently than any compliment I've gotten before. There's wonder in them. Reverence.
I kiss him—messy and desperate—and move faster. He matches me, thrust for thrust, until the tension coiling in my belly becomes unbearable.
