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I buck my hips. He shifts his weight and settles more firmly over me, and the movement presses him against me in a way that makes my breath catch audibly. His eyes go darker.

He lowers his head and nips at my ear, just a small, sharp bite that makes me gasp, and then his mouth is on my neck, warm and open, and I feel his tongue against my pulse point and I can’t help it, I arch up into him, my hips lifting off the mattress to meet his, and he makes a sound against my skin that goes straight through me like electricity.

He lets go of my wrists. I don’t move them. He cups my face with both hands and kisses me, kisses me so good, his tongue in my mouth, and it is—God, it is everything. I kiss him back and I don’t hold anything back because I can’t, because every nerve in my body is lit up and I’m making sounds I don’t recognize and I don’t care.

His hand slides down my side, over my ribs, making me shiver. He grips my thigh and pulls it up around his waist. The position presses him harder against me, and I gasp into his mouth

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His chest is rising and falling, and his pupils have swallowed almost all the blue.

“I want to do such dirty things to you,” he says, and his voice is rough in a way that makes my stomach flip. “I want to put my fingers in you, then I want to kiss your pussy until you come. Okay?”

I can’t speak. My mouth is open, and nothing is coming out. I nod.

He watches, and then he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, and his hand slides down between us and under the hem of my shirt, and his palm is warm and broad against my stomach. I stop thinking entirely, my head spinning with lust.

His fingers find the waistband of my panties. He pauses there, looking at me, and I nod again because I can’t form words. His hand is on my thigh, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin, and I am shaking.

He kisses my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat, and his hand moves higher, up the inside of my thigh, and I feel every inch and try to be patient but make a noise that suggests otherwise.

His eyes are dark and full of lust, but he continues to take his time. When his fingers reach the edge of my underwear, I hold my breath.

He presses his palm flat against me through the fabric, and I make a sound I’ve never made before, high and broken, and he kisses me to swallow it.

“You’re so wet,” he says against my mouth, and his voice is wrecked. “Jesus, Bea. Even through these.”

I can’t answer. His fingers trace the outline of me through the fabric, and I am burning, every nerve ending in my body concentrated in that one point of contact, and when he slips his hand inside my underwear, I cry out.

“There,” he says, and his voice is low and certain, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and God, he does, because his fingers are moving in exactly the right place at exactly the right pace.

He kisses me again while his fingers work, and I’m shaking, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. I feel the tension building low in my belly, that familiar coil tightening, and I’m so close, so impossibly close⁠—

He stops.

I make a sound of protest that would embarrass me if I had any capacity left for embarrassment.

“Not yet,” he says, and his voice is dark with promise. “I want to taste you first.”

My whole body flushes hot at his words. He shifts down the bed, pressing kisses along my jaw, my throat, the hollow between my collarbones. He pulls my shirt up and over my head.

“You’re perfect,” he says. He kisses down my sternum, my ribs, the soft curve of my stomach, and each press of his mouth sends a shockwave through me. I’m trembling, my hands in his hair, and when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls them down, I lift my hips without thinking.

He settles between my legs and looks up at me from there with a hungry expression.

When he lowers his mouth to me, the first touch of his tongue makes me cry out so loud. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and he licks a slow, deliberate stripe that has my back arching off the mattress. He does it again, and again, each time finding the exact right spot, and I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, high and desperate, my fingers twisting in the sheets.

“God,” I hear myself say. “God, Cal, please⁠—”

He hums against me, and the vibration sends me spiraling. His tongue circles and flicks and sucks, and his fingers join in, two of them sliding inside me with an ease that tells me exactly how ready I am, and the dual sensation, his mouth and his fingers working in tandem, is so overwhelming that I feel the orgasm building like a wave, huge and inevitable. I gasp his name, pull at his hair, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just keeps going with a focus that makes my vision blur.

When it hits, it hits hard. My whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking, and I cry out so loudly I’m sure Sydney’s going to hear me from wherever she is, and then I’m shaking, trembling through it, and he doesn’t stop; he keeps going, gentler now, drawing it out until I’m writhing and oversensitive and pushing at his shoulders.

“Too much,” I gasp. “Cal, too much⁠—”

He pulls back slowly, pressing one last kiss to the inside of my thigh, and looks up at me with his mouth wet and his eyes dark and satisfied, and I have never seen anyone look more pleased with themselves in my life.

“Okay?” he says, his voice rough.

I can’t answer. I’m still shaking. My legs are trembling, my chest is heaving, and I am staring at the ceiling trying to remember how to form sentences.