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He kisses me, deep and unhurried, and his hand slides up my thigh beneath my skirt. His fingers find the edge of my underwear, and his fingers slide beneath the fabric. I gasp into his mouth, my hips lifting off the bed. His hand is warm, calloused at the tips from years of guitar strings, and the contrast of rough skin against the softest part of me makes my whole body shudder.

“Jesus.”

“Not talking,” he murmurs against my jaw.

I can’t answer.

His mouth moves down my neck, my collarbone, lower. His tongue traces the line between my breasts, and I fist my hands in his hair, pulling him where I want him. He obliges. His mouth closes over my nipple and I arch off the bed, a sound escaping me. His hand doesn’t stop moving between my thighs, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the weight of him above me is so much that I can’t do anything except feel it.

He’s everywhere. He lowers his head, dipping it to my sweet spot.

He looks up at me from between my thighs, and the sight of him there, his hair falling forward, his eyes dark, his mouth wet from kissing me, makes my core tighten

His thumb finds the peak of my nipple, circling slowly, and the sound that leaves me is embarrassing. His fingers twist, just once, sharp enough to make me gasp, and then he’s gentle again, rolling the sensitive skin between his thumb and forefinger while his mouth moves lower. The contrast—the sharpness of the tweak and then the softness of his tongue—sends a shiver straight down my spine.

“I’m close.” I’m so goddamn close.

His mouth closes over my clit, and I stop being able to form sentences. His tongue is flat and warm and exactly where I need it, and his hand doesn’t stop moving on my breast, fingers rolling and tugging with a confidence that tells me he’s paying attention to every sound I make. The calloused pads of his fingers against my nipple, the wet heat of his mouth between my thighs, the weight of his arm across my hips—it’s too much and not enough.

I look down at him.

Then his eyes open and they find mine, and the blue of them shocks me even still. Bright, even in the low light of the bedroom, even with his pupils blown wide.

I force my eyes open.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my inner thigh.

“I want to try something.”

I nod because I can’t do anything else.

He kisses the inside of my knee, then the other, and then he’s moving up the bed, his body sliding against mine, and the friction of skin on skin makes me gasp. His jeans are still on, and the denim is rough against my bare thighs. I want them off, I want all of it off, I want⁠—

“Off.”

He laughs, low and warm against my neck.

“Demanding.”

He sits back on his heels, and his hands go to his belt. I watch him undo it, the buckle clinking once, and then the button, and the zipper, and he pushes his jeans down his thighs and kicks them off the bed. His boxers go next, and then he’s just there.

My breath catches.

I’ve seen him before, obviously, but it’s been weeks, and my brain has apparently decided to forget the specifics. He’s hard, flushed dark against his stomach, and the size of him makes something low in my belly tighten in a way that is equal parts anticipation and alarm.

His mouth curves, then his weight is on me again, his hips settling between my thighs, and the heat of his skin against mine makes my whole body arch.

He doesn’t push inside me.

Instead, his hand slides down between us, and his fingers find me again—two of them, slipping inside with a slow, deliberate ease that makes my breath stutter. His thumb settles just above, resting there, not moving yet, and I can feel the heat of him against my inner thigh, the heavy weight of him pressing close but not where I need it.

“Cal, I need you inside me, right now.”

“Patience.”

“I’ve been patient for weeks.”

His laugh is rough against my ear. “I know.”