Page 17 of Neap & Spring

His apartment is just two streets away. We don’t discuss which direction we’re walking. We don’t discuss much of anything, really; there’s nothing that needs saying. Not tonight. And we both seem to know it.

His arm stays around me as we walk, protecting me against the chill, and I find comfort in the way it feels so instinctive. I fit against him perfectly, like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

When we reach his apartment — a small, one-room space with a window overlooking the street — he clicks on a lamp, casting a soft glow that dances across the room. There are dishes in the sink, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair, and his knife roll resting on the counter. It’s a chaotic kind of cozy, and I can’t help but feel a sense of warmth washing over me.

He turns around and looks at me, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The world outside, the expectations of the future — none of it matters. Then we crash into each other, the air thick with the electricity of unspoken words.

His hands cup my face like I’m something precious, and he kisses me hard, backing me toward the bed. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I pull back just enough to breathe, our foreheads still touching, our breaths mingling in the space between us.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low and rough with desire.

I’m breathless, my fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt, each one slipping free with a soft pop. “You. I want you.”

“Yes, Chef,” he murmurs against my mouth, and I can feel the smirk tugging at his lips.

I laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it, charged with a mix of nerves and excitement. “Did you really just say that?”

“Too much?” His dark eyes are dancing and full of mischief while I pull him down with me onto the bed.

“Say it again.”

He does, low against my ear, then his mouth is trailing down my jaw, and I stop thinking about words entirely.

He takes his time with me. Unhurried like he’s trying to make this last and he already knows it won’t. His hands move slowly, his mouth following behind them, and he stops every so often just to look at me in the warm light, his eyes moving over my face with an attention that feels unbearable.

“Cal, please.” His name comes out unsteady.

“I like when you beg.” He presses his lips to my collarbone, my sternum, the curve of my breast.

His mouth closes over my nipple, and I arch into him with a sharp inhale, my fingers sliding into his hair.

I reach for him, pulling at his shirt until he shrugs it off and tosses it somewhere behind him. The tattoos are still fresh in places, the ink still healing, dark against his skin. I trace the lines of them without thinking.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“You’re distracting.”

He grins and kisses me again, slower this time, one hand sliding slowly up my thigh, and I stop paying attention to anything else.

“God, Vivi.” His voice comes out rough. “You’re so —” He shakes his head. “You have no idea.”

“Tell me.”

His eyes darken. “Beautiful,” he says, his hands skimming up my sides. “Stunning.” His mouth drops to my throat. “So good.” The praises land against my skin, heating my core. “So incredibly perfect for me.”

I make a sound I wasn’t expecting to make.

I can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”

“Shut up,” I gasp.

He doesn’t shut up. He keeps going, a steady stream of praise murmured against my skin that absolutely should not be working as well as it is. Good girl. Perfect. Just like that. I file away the information about myself for later — specifically the part where apparently all Callum Reid has to do is tell me I’m doing a good job and my entire nervous system short-circuits.

By the time we’re both breathless, the narrow bed creaking under us, I’ve completely lost track of who I was twenty minutes ago.

“Please,” I whisper against his mouth. “I need more.”

He shifts his hips and pushes forward, watching my face the entire time. I exhale at the stretch of him, at the fullness, my hands gripping his shoulders tightly.