I press the warm cloth between her thighs—gently.Reverent.Slow circles to soothe first, not scrub.She whimpers, but not from pain—from sensation.Overworked nerves still sparking under every touch.
“Too much?”I ask, pausing.
“No,” she breathes.“Just ...tender.”
“I know.”I kiss the inside of her knee.“We’ve got you.”
I clean between her legs, catching the mix of slick and come, wiping slow and careful while Callaway strokes her hair and whispers sweet nothings against her temple.
“You were perfect,” I murmur, lifting her calf to clean behind her knee.“Took us so beautifully.Let us worship you.”
She turns her head to look at me, barely, eyes glazed and soft.“I love you.”
My breath catches.So does Cally’s.
I lean in and kiss her—slow, lingering.First her lips.Then her cheek.Her temple.The slope of her jaw.I trail kisses down her throat, across her collarbone, over the soft center of her chest.
Then I lower myself, kissing the bare skin just above her navel—soft and warm beneath my mouth.I don’t linger like it’s mine to claim.I just offer what I can.A thank you.A promise.A quiet act of devotion to the woman carrying more than just our love.
“Thank you,” I whisper, mouth brushing her skin.“For all of this.For letting us love you.”
Her hand finds my hair, loose and lazy.Her thumb traces my scalp once before slipping away again.
I move gently—careful not to disturb her further—as I help guide her arms through the sleeves of one of my shirts.Soft cotton slides over her skin, swallowing her frame.She doesn’t resist, just exhales, pliant and trusting.
Callaway’s already moving, instinctively.He kneels beside me, lifts one of her legs, then the other, and together we slip a clean pair of his boxers up her thighs.Her hips shift, barely, just enough to let us dress her, her limbs loose with sleep.
She hums, small and content, curling slightly into the warmth we’ve wrapped her in.
She’s already falling.Already fading into that soft place only she knows how to reach—where safety lives, where love lingers even in sleep.
I switch clothes and clean her again, whispering praise with every pass—how good she was, how soft, how strong, how perfect.
She’s asleep before either of us speaks again.
I look over at Callaway.
His fingers are still tangled in her hair.His chest is rising, too fast.His eyes are on her, but I know he feels me watching.
ChapterForty-Three
Alberto
I ease down beside them, careful not to jostle the bed.Vesper’s breathing is slow now—gentle and deep, her face relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in weeks.One of her hands is curled against her chest, the other’s resting lightly on Callaway’s wrist like she needs to know we’re still there even in sleep.
But Cally ...
Cally’s quiet in a different way.
He’s still on his side, one arm wrapped around her, his body curled into hers like he’s holding in what’s left of himself.His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his temple.His shoulders tremble once, and then go still.
I don’t ask if he’s okay.
Instead, I move.
I cross to the ensuite, grab a cold water bottle from the mini fridge, and return without a word.He hasn’t shifted.Still curled into her, still quiet in that way that tells me everything.
I press the bottle into his hand, curling my fingers around his wrist just long enough to make him feel me.
