I drag my hands up to his jaw, into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. That sound shoots straight through me, leaving me trembling.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to rest his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“This isn’t adrenaline,” he whispers fiercely. “Not for me.”
“It’s not for me either,” I whisper back, my voice shaking with truth.
Something shifts in his eyes, I’m not sure if it’s relief, desire or something terrifyingly close to awe, and then he’s kissing me again, guiding us away from the door, his mouth trailing along my jaw, the line of my throat, setting fireworks under my skin.
We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and soft laughter that dissolves back into need the second his weight settles above me. His hoodie comes off, and I trace the warm, solid lines of his shoulders, feeling him shiver under my touch as if he’s trying not to fall apart.
He kisses me like he’s starved and I’m the first tangible thing he’s tasted in months.
My Space Taco Cat pyjama top rides up, and his hand slips underneath, his palm hot on my waist. My breath stutters. His thumb strokes slow, reverent circles into my skin, like he’s memorising me.
I wrap my legs around him without thinking. His hips press down, and the shock of sensation steals any remaining rational thought I had left.
“Cal…” It comes out on a plea.
He freezes. His chest rises and falls against mine, breath ragged.
“If we keep going,” he says, voice roughened by restraint, “I don’t know how to stop.”
My heart squeezes. Because the truth is I don’t want him to stop. I want him everywhere.
But there’s something in his eyes, fear tangled with desire, that tugs me back from the edge.
I cup his cheek. “We don’t have to do everything tonight.”
His exhale is full of relief and frustration in equal measure.
“Right,” he says, resting his forehead to mine again. “Right. Just… tell me if I’m going too far. Or not far enough.”
I laugh softly. “Trust me. Not far enough is not the issue.”
He grins, eyes dark with promise. “Good to know.”
He kisses me slower then, softer. He’s savouring every second instead of racing through it. His fingers draw invisible lines on my skin, mapping me. And I do the same to him. We kiss until time stops existing, until the only thing that matters is thetaste of him, the weight of him, the way he whispers my name as if it’s dangerous.
Eventually the heat settles into something warm and encompassing. He shifts so I’m curled against his chest, his arm snug around my waist, holding me so he stays anchored.
The room is noiseless except for our breathing and the soft hum of hotel air conditioning. His lips brush the top of my head.
“You make everything feel less impossible,” he murmurs.
My heart squeezes so tight it aches. I want to ask what he means. I want to press until he gives me all his shadows and regrets and why he looks tortured every time the past slips into his eyes. But not tonight.
Tonight, this is enough.
“You make everything feel like a beginning,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away. But his hand slides up my back, pulling me closer, like the fear inside him needs to feel me right here to believe I’m real.
Eventually his breathing evens out, deep and slow. He falls asleep holding me as though he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, letting it lull me, letting it reassure me that he’s here, actually here, and I’m not dreaming this.
I fall asleep believing something wild. That maybe I’m allowed to want this.
