He blinks, dazed, but drinks.Slow sips.His lips are still kiss-bruised.His skin flushed.He’s wrecked—and beautiful.
When he lowers the bottle, I set it aside and kiss his temple.
“Let me take care of you now,” I murmur.
He doesn’t argue.
I shift down the bed, careful not to disturb Vesper.She murmurs something in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.Her body curves instinctively toward Callaway’s even in rest, like her gravity still knows him.
When I reach his hips, I run a hand gently over his thigh.His breath stutters, but he stays still—watching me with wide, wrecked eyes.
I murmur something quiet, a breath more than words, and then slowly—so slowly—I ease the condom off him.
His cock is still flushed and sensitive, twitching as I peel the latex away.I wrap it in tissue and toss it into the small wastebasket near the bed, then reach for a fresh, warm washcloth I’d left folded nearby.
I press the cloth to his skin—gentle, reverent.Not cleaning.Tending.
His breath hitches again when I glide it over the soft head of his cock, collecting what’s left of the slick.He twitches again, and I swear I see his lips part, his eyes flutter.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” I whisper, leaning in to press a kiss just beneath his navel.Then lower.
Then—just once, soft and slow—I kiss the tip.
He shudders.A full-body tremor, not from arousal, but from something deeper.Something like being seen.
“You want me to suck you, babe?”
His eyes shine but then, I shake my head.“Not tonight.Maybe another day when you’re rested.”He hesitates, then looks me in the eye.“Monty,” he says as if he’s trying to make some words.“You ...am I pushing too hard?”
Is he?I’m not sure what took over me when I agreed to do this.I just knew he needed it—me.Us.
I reach for his hand, tangle our fingers together.
“No,” I say softly.“You’re not pushing too hard.”
His throat works, like he doesn’t believe me yet.
“You’re just ...finally reaching for something you used to pretend you didn’t want.And I guess I wanted to be the one who didn’t let you reach alone.”
I pause, give him time to breathe.
“I don’t regret a second of it.I just think maybe we give tonight the space it deserves.”
Vesper breathes slowly between us, wrapped in my shirt and his boxers, mouth parted, lashes resting against her cheeks.She makes a soft sound—nothing coherent, just a sleepy little hum that means she’s still here.
Ours.
Callaway’s eyes shine, and it pisses me off how fast it hits me.Because Cally doesn’t cry.He grins.He talks and makes everything lighter, as if he can keep it funny, it can’t cut him.
But this isn’t funny.
I lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips—just enough to ground him, to quiet whatever guilt he’s about to voice.
His mouth twitches like he wants to turn it into a joke.But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I toss the cloth into the bathroom bin and come back with a clean pair of boxers, tossing them onto the bed beside him before grabbing another for myself.
“No rush,” I say, then sit beside him, my hand landing at the back of his neck.My thumb presses into the tense muscle there—the one that’s been locked all damn day.
