Page 92 of Fall into Place

“Hi.” She flushed with pleasure at the sight of him. He looked even more handsome than she remembered in another set of his insanely chic dark sweats.

“All right?” he asked. He had a bit of a nervous smile, and she felt a twinge of pleasure that he was anxious to see her too. She opened her arms to hug him, and he beamed as he pulled her close. “God, you smell good.”

“I took a bath,” Tess murmured, leaning against his chest as he inhaled the scent of her hair.

“I don’t think it’s the bath,” he said, and she could feel the vibrations of his voice against her cheek.

He followed her into the room, and they sat on the little velvet settee Sylvie had glamoured—the same place Tess had found Callum when she emerged from her shower that first morning on the Isle. How long had it been since then? It felt strangely impossible to imagine that there had ever been a time when she didn’t know this man.

“How are you, though?” she asked. “Is your leg—are you feeling…”

“Good.” He swallowed hard. “I feel…I’m not quite sure how to describe how I feel, actually.”

“Me neither.” Tess bit her lip.

“Your heart’s racing,” Callum said quietly. “Are you afraid?”

“You can hear it?” Tess leaned toward him, and he nodded. He seemed tentative—tense, even. “No, Callum. I’m not afraid.”

She looked up at him; his eyes were steady on her as his breath grew shallow.

“I’ve been thinking…” She laid a hand on his arm, and his muscles went rigid beneath her touch.

“Tell me,” he urged. His face was open, vulnerable; it reminded her of the way he’d looked just before he laid his hands on the angel statue, the specific pain of allowing yourself to want something so desperately.

She needed him to understand that she wanted him just as much.

She moved her hand down his arm, took his hand, and laced her fingers between his. He looked down at their hands, then met her gaze—she felt like there was a piece of twine connecting her body to his, pulled so taut it might snap if she didn’t kiss him right fucking now.

“Tess,” he said her name in a way that came out half plea, half moan, and she couldn’t take this for one more second—she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his.

He made a noise when she kissed him, a low, guttural sound, and his lips were so soft, his body so thick and strong, she felt like she might break from how badly she wanted him.

“Callum,” she breathed. She couldn’t take this slowly—her body was screaming for her to give in to everything she wanted, everything she’d denied herself for so many years. She climbed into his lap, raking her fingers through his hair, kissing him hard. The connection felt electric, like he understood her body perfectly, the way he took her bottom lip between his teeth and nipped it gently, his lips moving along her jaw, her neck, the decadent surrender of his tongue in her mouth. Her hips started to rock against him, she wanted to feel his hands pulling at her, grasping her, touching every part of her body, except—

Except, she realized, his hands weren’t on her at all. They were balled up in fists, clenched at his sides.

“What is it?” she asked, laying her hands gently over his. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t want—I mean, I wouldn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Do you not want this?” Tess asked, a pit forming in her stomach. Was it possible she’d somehow read this—and him—completely wrong? “Should I stop? Oh god, it’s okay if you want to stop.”

“Tess, no.” He took her hands and held them against his chest. “I want you more than I can remember wanting anyone. I just—after everything you’ve been through…I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. Not one thing.”

Her heart was pounding—with adoration for this man, with adrenaline, with desire—as she placed his hands firmly on her hips.

“Then let me show you what I want,” she breathed. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

She kissed him again, and she fucking loved the feeling of his fingers digging into her, pulling her closer, her chest pressed to his as his hands roved up her back. She needed to feel him against her skin, needed to get out of this stupid dress—

She went to tear the damn thing off, but he reached up to stop her.

“Hey.” He smiled at her. “There’s no rush. I’m literally immortal.”

“But I’m not.” She grinned. “And I’ve been waiting long enough.”

Callum considered it a privilege to sleep with any woman—an opportunity he endeavored to earn through an arduous devotion to all things pleasurable. Before the Isle, Callum had slept with more women than he could possibly count, let alone remember. Women of all ages, races, and sizes, cis and trans, he took joy in all of them and tried his best to give them joy in return. (And in his own humble opinion, he rarely disappointed in that regard.)