2

Caleb steps forward. One step. Then another. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound is final, a seal on something that can't be undone.

I don't pull my hand away. I leave it resting on my stomach, my fingers still wet, my chest still heaving, and I watch him cross the room like a man walking to his own execution. He stops at the edge of my bed, looking down at me, and I see the conflict in his eyes—the want and the guilt and the thing he's been carrying for years, all of it written in the tight line of his jaw, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

"I can do that better."

His voice is low, rough, and it sends a shiver down my spine, pooling heat in my stomach. I don't look away. I don't hide. I let my hand slide up my stomach, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of my own wetness on my skin, and I watch his eyes follow the movement.

I swallow. The words feel huge in my throat, too big to get out, but I force them anyway. "I'm a virgin, Caleb."

The silence that follows is the loudest thing I've ever heard.

He doesn't move. For a long moment, he just stands there, looking at me, and I can't read his expression—it's too many things at once, flickering too fast. Surprise. Want. Something that looks almost like pain.

"I know," he says, and the words are so quiet I almost miss them.

My heart stops. "You know?"

He runs a hand through his hair, a rough, frustrated gesture, and he looks away for the first time since he walked through that door. "Callum told me. A long time ago. Said he was worried about you, that you were too shy to put yourself out there, that—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Fuck, this is not how I wanted this to go."

"How did you want it to go?"

The question comes out before I can stop it, and I watch something shift in his eyes. He looks at me again, really looks, and I feel stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with my open robe, my bare thighs, the wetness still cooling on my skin.

"Not like this," he says. "Not with you half-undressed and me standing here like a fucking idiot, still hard from watching you touch yourself." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jesus, Bella. You're supposed to be off-limits."

"Says who?"

"Says your brother. Says every rule I've ever told myself about you. Says—" He stops, his jaw working, and I watch him fight with whatever he's about to say next.

"Says what?"

He meets my eyes, and the look in his is raw, open, nothing left to hide. "Says I don't deserve to be your first."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I sit up slowly, letting the robe fall where it wants, not bothering to cover myself. "That's not your choice to make."

"Bella—"

"You walked in here." My voice is steadier than I feel. "You watched me. You stood there and touched yourself while I was coming apart, and now you're going to tell me what you do and don't deserve?"

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and I see the war in his eyes, the thing he's been fighting for years, the line he's never let himself cross.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit, and the vulnerability in my own voice surprises me. "I've never done any of this before. But I know what I want. And I know—" I hesitate, then push through. "I know I trust you."

Caleb's breath catches. I see it, the crack in his armor, the moment something shifts behind his eyes. He takes another step closer, close enough that I can smell him—clean soap and something warmer, something that's just him. His hand reaches out, slow, like he's afraid I'll spook, and his fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he says, but his voice is soft now, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Then show me."

He looks at me for a long moment, and I feel the weight of everything unsaid between us—every glance, every almost-touch, every night I've spent thinking about him while my hand moved between my thighs. And then he leans in, and his lips brush mine, feather-light, a question more than a promise.

I answer by kissing him back.

It's soft at first, tentative, like we're both testing the shape of this new thing between us. His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he tilts my face up, deepening the kiss. His mouth is warm, sure, and I feel the last of my resistance dissolve, melting into the way he tastes, the way he feels, the way he holds me like I'm something precious.

He pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against mine. "If we do this," he says, his voice rough, "if I touch you, I'm not going to be able to stop at just this. I need you to understand that."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"And I need you to tell me." His hand slides down to my shoulder, his thumb tracing circles on my collarbone. "I need you to tell me what you want, Bella. Say the words."

I take a breath. Let it out. "I want you to touch me, Caleb. I want you to show me what it feels like to be touched by someone who actually wants me."

He groans, a low, wrecked sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine. His hand slides lower, pushing the robe off my shoulder, baring me to his gaze. His eyes trace down my body—my breasts, my stomach, the still-damp curls between my thighs—and I watch him swallow, hard.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and the words are so quiet I almost don't hear them. "You've always been beautiful. But like this—" He shakes his head, like he can't find the words. "Fuck, Bella."

His hand cups my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple, and I gasp, the sensation sharp and electric. He does it again, slower this time, watching my face as I react, learning what makes me arch into his touch, what makes me gasp, what makes me moan.

His mouth follows his hand, tracing a hot, wet line down my throat, across my collarbone, lower, until his lips close around my nipple and I cry out, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him there. He swirls his tongue, gentle at first, then harder, and I feel the pull low in my belly, the same coil building again, faster this time.

He switches to my other breast, giving it the same attention, and I'm already shaking, already desperate for more. His hand slides down my stomach, fingers trailing through the wetness between my thighs, and I buck into his touch, a wordless plea.

He pulls back, looking up at me, and the sight of him—dark hair disheveled, lips swollen, blue eyes dark with want—makes my breath catch. "Lie back," he says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. "Let me taste you."

I do. I lie back against the silk sheets, my legs falling open, and I watch him lower himself between my thighs. His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer, and the first touch of his tongue against my clit makes me see stars.

He's good. Of course he's good. But it's more than skill—it's the way he learns me, the way he responds to every sound I make, every twitch of my hips. He finds the rhythm I didn't know I needed, the pressure that makes me gasp, the pace that builds and builds, relentless, until I'm trembling on the edge, my fingers gripping his hair, my mouth open on a silent scream.

"Caleb—" His name is a broken prayer, a plea, a surrender.

He hums against me, the vibration pushing me over, and I shatter, my body arching off the bed, a cry tearing from my throat as I come apart under his mouth. He doesn't stop, working me through it, gentling his touches as I come down, until I'm a boneless, shaking mess, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling around his head.

He crawls up my body, kissing a trail up my stomach, my chest, my neck, until his lips meet mine. I taste myself on his mouth, and it should be strange, but it's not—it's intimate, honest, the most real thing I've ever felt.

"That was—" I start, but I don't have the words.

He smiles, soft and genuine, and presses another kiss to my forehead. "That was just the beginning."

I feel him pressed against my thigh, hard and heavy, and I know what he's not saying. I know he's holding back. I know he's thinking about Callum, about the line he swore he'd never cross, about the weight of being my first.

But I also know what I want.

I reach down, my fingers brushing against the waistband of his sweats, and I hear his breath catch. "I want more," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "I want all of it. But only if you want it too."

Caleb looks at me for a long moment, and the war in his eyes is still there—the want and the guilt and the love he's never let himself name. But when he speaks, his voice is quiet, certain, true.

"I've wanted you since the day I realized what wanting even meant, Bella. I've just been too much of a coward to do anything about it."

He kisses me again, deep and slow, and I feel the shift between us—the last wall crumbling, the line finally crossed. There's no going back now. There's no pretending this didn't happen.

And for the first time in years, I don't want to pretend anymore.