That’s when he grabs me—rough, certain, like he’s done waiting.
My back hits the window with a dull thud, cool glass against overheated skin, and then his mouth is on mine.No hesitation.No breath between.Just heat and tongue and need.
I kiss him back like I’m drowning in it—hands flying to his waist, his hips, anywhere I can touch.His body presses into mine, all muscle and history, and I moan into his mouth because there’s nothing careful about this.It’s raw.Starving.The kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve run out of words.
He grips my jaw, tilting my face, biting down on my lower lip before licking over it like he regrets it.His mouth tastes like breathlessness, like memory.Like everything I tried to forget.
His hand trails down my side, fingers splaying across my stomach, and I buck into him because we’re both hard now—friction and fire between us, desperate for more.My hands slide up his back, nails digging in just enough to make him gasp against my tongue.
He groans into my mouth.“Fuck, Monty.”
I gasp as his thigh presses between mine, as his hand grips my jaw, holding me there while he kisses me like he’s punishing us both.
And I let him.
Because I never stopped wanting this.
I just got really good at pretending I could live without it—him.
Callaway kisses like he’s been starving and just remembered the taste of food.His hands are already roaming, palms sliding over my ribs, my back, gripping my hips like he needs leverage to keep himself upright.
I groan into his mouth when his fingers hook under the waistband of my shorts, skin on skin, his thumbs brushing the lines where my body reacts without permission.I’m hard—aching, obvious, trapped against damp fabric—and the sound I make is humiliatingly desperate.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing to mine.“You’re already like this for me.”
The knee between my legs presses up, slow and knowing, and I lose the last clean thought I had.I rock into him without meaning to, grinding against his thigh, chasing friction like it might save me.
He smiles against my mouth—soft and ruined.“That’s it.Let me feel you.”
His hand cups me.Fully this time.Fingers curling, squeezing until my breath stutters and my hips jerk forward.
I grab his wrist, not to stop him—never to stop him—but to ground myself in the reality of what he’s doing to me.
He’s hard too.I can feel it through the thin barrier of our shorts when I pull him closer, when my thigh drags against him and he hisses like I’ve touched something raw.
“You feel that?”he murmurs, voice wrecked.“That’s what you do to me.Every fucking time you’re around, babe.”
My hand slides down his stomach, over the muscle I know by heart, finding him.He bucks into my palm, a low sound ripping out of his chest that makes my vision blur.
“Monty,” he groans.“Touch me.Don’t stop.”
I stroke him once, slow and full, feeling him thicken under my hand, slick at the tip already, and the urge to drop to my knees nearly guts me.I want to take him into my mouth, hear him lose control, feel his hands in my hair again.
I want it bad.
His fingers tighten around me, thumb brushing just right, and my knees threaten to give out.
And that’s when it hits me.
Reality.
Vesper’s face flashes behind my eyes.Her smile.Her exhaustion.The way she trusts us to not tear her apart while we’re trying to figure ourselves out.
If I let this go any further—if I come undone in Callaway’s hands, if I let him finish me off here, desperate and shaking—there’s no pretending later.No rewinding.No clean way to explain what this means for the three of us when things are still in shambles.When I’m not even sure if we’ll be able to work anything out that seems like a family for her.
My hand drops from him.I step away even though my body screams in protest, even though I’m still painfully hard and want to crawl right back into him.
“Monty—” he starts, reaching for me.
