Page 167 of Neap & Spring

Then he’s on his knees in front of me, his hands careful on my ankle as he lifts my foot to examine it.

“It’s not deep,” he mutters, his thumb brushing near the cut. “But we need to clean it.”

“Later.” My hands find his face, tilting it up so he’s looking at me. “Callum. Later.”

His eyes search mine. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He stands in one fluid movement, and then his hands are on me again, sliding up my sides, pushing under my shirt. His palms are warm against my skin, and I’m reaching for him, pulling at his soaked jacket, needing it off, needing him closer, needing skin.

The jacket hits the floor with a wet slap. His shirt follows, and I lose my breath at the sight of him. The tattoos covering his forearms and creeping up onto his shoulders and chest, the ink dark against his skin. The muscle definition that makes it clear he does a lot more than just cook.

“You’re staring,” he says, and his mustache quirks up with a smirk.

“I’m admiring.” My hands trace the lines of ink on his forearm. “You’re beautiful.”

“Vivienne.” My name comes out rough and strained. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to go slow.”

“Then don’t go slow.”

His expression goes hungry and predatory.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, and I lift my arms, letting him pull it over my head. His eyes travel down, taking me in, and the way he looks at me makes me feel like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Stunning,” he murmurs reverently, his hands skimming up my sides, his thumbs brushing just under the curve of my ribs. “I’ve thought about this every night since that night after graduation. About you.”

I reach for him, my fingers working at his belt, fumbling slightly with the wet leather. “Show me.”

He captures my mouth again, and this time there’s not an ounce of hesitation. His hands are everywhere — sliding up my back, finding the clasp of my bra and flicking it open with ease, tangling in my hair, relearning the shape of me like he remembers every curve, every dip, and every place that makes me gasp.

His mouth leaves mine to trail down my jaw, my neck, and lower. When his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him with a moan I can’t suppress.

“That’s it,” he groans against my skin, his tongue circling, teeth grazing gently. “Let me hear you, Vivi.”

I pull him down with me as I lie back on the bed, and he follows, covering my body with his, settling between my thighs. His mouth trails from my breast to my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear.

“Give it to me, baby,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot. “Every sound. I want all of it.”

The storm rages outside. The cottage threatens to come apart around us. But in this moment, with Callum’s hands on me and his mouth trailing fire across my skin and years of wanting finally being answered, nothing else matters.

His jeans come off, the wet denim peeling away. Then he reaches for mine, and he takes his time, kissing down my legs as he pulls them off, his lips brushing against my thighs, my knees, my calves. Each piece of clothing a barrier removed, each inch of skin revealed another discovery.

Another homecoming.

When I’m finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels and just looks at me.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, his hands praising as they trace up my legs, over my hips and waist. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

I can see how much he wants me. I can see it in the hard length of him straining against his boxer briefs. His hands tremble slightly as they explore my body.

I arch into his touch, my hands sliding down his back, feeling the muscles shift and flex under my palms. “Cal, please.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“You. Just you. All of you. Forever.”

He makes a sound low in his throat — half groan, half growl — and then he’s kissing me again, his body pressed against mine, and I can feel every hard inch of him through the thin fabric between us.