My fingers graze over the hard line of hischest. “If I had known this was hiding underneath, I’d have demanded a private showing sooner.”
This still counts as innocent, right? I mean, technically, I’m clothed if you count underwear. And he’s just shirtless. In a kilt. Which, god help me, is doingthingsto my insides I wasn’t emotionally prepared for.
I’ve dreamt about a moment like this with him. Quiet little fantasies I’d never say out loud. Only now, it’s happening. He’s real. This is real. And it’s so much better than anything my imagination could’ve cooked up.
I still don’t know how far I want to take this. My breath quickens, my heart pounds like it’s not sure whether to race forward or hold back. But here, in this moment, with his hand skimming gently over my hip, his touch asking instead of taking, this feels right. Not rushed. Not dangerous. Just…safe. Like maybe I don’t have to decide everything all at once. Like maybe I can let myself want him, one heartbeat at a time.
The sheets are cool against my skin as we fall back onto the bed together. The solid weight of his body presses into mine, heat radiating off him.
I bite back a gasp as his lips trace a path down my body. He moves slowly, pulling the straps of my bra down with such care that I feel it all—the soft glide of the fabric, the cool air hitting my exposed skin, and the sudden rush of goosebumps that follow. The feeling of him, of his mouth on me, is almost too much. Every touch sends a jolt of desire and vulnerability through me that I haven’t felt in ages. It’s as if he’s claiming pieces of me with each kiss, each caress, and I can’t decide whether to pull him closer or keep my distance.
When his teeth graze my nipple, a moan escapes my lips, the sensation shooting straight through me. My back arches off the bed, pressing into his touch, wantingmore. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud before he sucks it into his mouth, and I see stars.
My fingers tangle in his hair as he lavishes attention on my breasts. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle scrape of teeth, sends another wave of pleasure crashing over me. I’m breathless, panting, and completely lost in the feeling of him worshipping my body.
When he pulls away to stand beside the bed, the absence of his touch is immediate. But his eyes never leave mine.
His slow smile does nothing to calm the heat between us. “You have no idea how much I want you right now,” he says, his voice gravelly, like a whisper of promise and desire. I hear the weight of his words, feel it settle into my bones.
That’s when the panic rises. Not from the way he looks at me. God, no. It’s everything else. The intensity in his gaze, the rawness in his voice that makes my pulse spike and my breath shallow. I want him. I want this. And yet, there’s a chasm between wanting him and being ready for this. My skin hums under his touch, but my mind can’t keep up.
I shift on the bed, fingers fumbling with the edge of the blanket as I try to distract myself from the way my body reacts to him. His touch. His words. Everything about him is like a magnet pulling me closer, but my hands, my nerves—they’re reaching for anything that can keep me from falling too fast.
Callan doesn’t move quickly. Doesn’t rush. Instead, he kneels beside the bed, his hands gentle as they find mine. His thumb strokes across my knuckles, and when he looks up at me again, the heat is still in his eyes, but there’s also patience.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a gentle rumble. “No rush. Not with me.”
My skin tingles under his touch. He’s giving me every chance to stop him and trusting me to choose whether or not I do.
Callan watches me for a moment, his eyes tracing every little shift in my expression. Then, slowly, he stands. “I want to make you feel good,” he says gently, like he’s considering his words carefully. “That’s all I want. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but…”
His eyes meet mine, searching with the same intensity, but more tender now. “I have an idea, if you’re open to it.”
I give a small nod. “Okay.”
His mouth curves into the smallest, encouraging smile. Like he knows I’m trying, and that alone matters to him.
“Touch yourself,” he says quietly. “Do whatever feels good. I won’t do anything unless you ask me to.”
Oh.
I didn’t expect that.
The way he says it isn’t dirty or performative. It’s more like a gift. Like he’s handing the reins over to me and saying,Here. You set the pace. You’re in control.
I reach down slowly and slip my fingers beneath the lace of my panties. He watches me with a fierce intensity, his gaze darkening as my fingers graze my most sensitive spot. I’m already wet, my body responding eagerly to Callan’s commanding presence.
“That’s it, lass. Let me see you,” he murmurs.
I let out a soft moan, my hips lifting slightly off the bed as I circle my clit with featherlight touches. It’s almost too much, the combination of his stare and my own fingers pushing me toward the edge embarrassingly fast.
He’s watching me like he’s starving, and I’m the only thing that can satisfy him. Like he wants to devour me whole.
My fingers move faster, circling and stroking, teasing myself higher. The pressure builds with each passing second, and I watch as he palms his cock through his kilt, his jaw tightening with each circle of my fingers. Thesight of him touching himself, the raw need etched across his face, the barely restrained hunger in his eyes almost sends me over the edge.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he breathes, his voice strained as his hand presses rhythmically over his kilt. The muscles in his forearm flex with each stroke, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the hypnotic movement. “Keep going, just like that.”
My back arches involuntarily as pleasure builds, coiling tighter with each pass of my fingers. I’m not performing for him. This is too raw, too real for that. Being watched by him this way is intoxicating.
