11

I don't know when I fall asleep. One moment I'm staring at the ceiling, tracing the shape of his mouth on my skin with my fingertips. The next, I'm surfacing from something dark and heavy, my eyes opening to a room that's still dark.

The clock on my nightstand says 2:47 AM.

I'm not sure what woke me. A sound, maybe. A creak in the hallway. I lie still, listening, and that's when I hear it—a soft knock on my door. So light I almost miss it.

I hold my breath.

Another knock. Three taps, spaced apart, careful.

I swing my legs out of bed before I decide to. My feet find the floor, and I cross the room in four steps, my hand hovering over the handle. The wood is cool under my palm.

I open the door.

Caleb stands in the hallway, backlit by the dim light from the living room. He's shirtless. Just sweatpants, low on his hips, the shadows carving out the lines of his chest, his stomach. His hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it.

He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me, and I see it—the same restlessness that pulled me out of sleep. The same inability to stay on his side of the wall.

"I couldn't sleep," he says. His voice is rough, barely a whisper.

I should tell him to go back to his room. I should close this door and press my forehead to it and pretend I didn't see the want in his eyes.

Instead, I step back.

He crosses the threshold, and I close the door behind him. The click of the latch is loud in the silence.

We stand there, two feet apart, the air between us thick and electric. His chest rises and falls. My heart is a fist in my throat.

"Bella." My name, the way he says it—like it costs him something. Like it's the only word that matters.

"I know," I whisper. "I know we shouldn't."

"Callum is—"

"I know."

He takes a step closer. Then another. His hand comes up, and his fingers brush my jaw, featherlight, like he's asking permission. I lean into his touch, and something in his eyes breaks open.

"Tell me to leave," he says, "and I will. I swear to God, I will."

I don't tell him to leave.

I rise on my toes and kiss him instead.

It's soft at first. Tentative. His lips are warm, and he tastes like toothpaste, mint and something underneath that's just him. But then his hand slides into my hair, and the kiss deepens, and I'm pressed against him, his chest hard against my palms, his mouth hungry on mine.

He walks me backward until my knees hit the bed. We fall onto it together, a tangle of limbs and breath, and his weight settles over me, familiar and strange all at once.

"I've been lying there," he says against my throat, "thinking about you. About tonight. About every second of it."

"Me too."

His mouth finds the mark on my collarbone, and I gasp. "This is mine," he murmurs against my skin. "I put this here."

"Yes."

His hand slides under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach. His fingers are warm, rough from training, and they spread wide like he's measuring me, memorizing me. I arch into his touch, and he groans, low and broken.

"We have to be quiet," he says. "Callum's room is right—"

"I know." I pull his mouth back to mine. "I know."

His hand moves higher, finds the curve of my breast through my bra, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. His thumb circles my nipple, slow, deliberate, and my hips shift beneath him, searching for pressure, for him.

He feels it. Of course he feels it. His thigh presses between my legs, and I rock against him, instinctive, desperate. The friction is nothing, everything. My fingers curl into his shoulders.

"Easy," he breathes. "Easy."

But I don't want easy. I want—

His hand slides down, over my stomach, past the waistband of my sweatpants. His fingers find me through my underwear, and I'm already wet, already aching, and he makes a sound against my neck, something between a curse and a prayer.

"Fuck, Bella."

He pushes my underwear aside, and his fingers slide through my slickness, circling, teasing, and I dig my nails into his back and press my face into his shoulder to muffle the sound that wants to tear out of me.

"That's it," he whispers. "Let me feel you."

One finger slides inside me. Slow. Deep. I clench around him, and he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect."

I can't think. Can't breathe. His finger moves inside me, and his thumb finds my clit, and I'm already climbing, already falling apart, and we've barely started.

"Caleb—"

"I know." He kisses me, soft and deep, swallowing my whimper. "I've got you."

A second finger. The stretch is sharp, full, and I gasp against his mouth. He stills, waiting, his eyes finding mine in the dark.

"Okay?"

I nod. "Don't stop."

He doesn't.

His fingers move inside me, finding a rhythm, and I let myself fall into it, into him. My hands grip his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor me as the heat builds, coils, tightens in my core.

I come apart on his hand, biting down on his shoulder to keep from crying out, and he holds me through it, whispering my name like a benediction, like a secret only we share.

When I finally open my eyes, he's looking at me, his fingers still inside me, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my hip.

"I could stay here forever," he says. "Right here. Like this."

I pull him down and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, and I don't tell him that forever sounds like exactly the right amount of time.