3

My fingers find the waistband of his sweats. The cotton is warm from his body, and I feel him go still above me—every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. I curl my fingertips under the elastic, just barely, and the air in the room changes.

His hand catches my wrist.

Gentle. Firm. His thumb presses against the inside of my arm, right where my pulse is hammering, and I know he can feel it. I know he can feel everything.

"Bella." My name sounds like a warning and a prayer all at once, and I watch the war play out across his face—want and guilt and something deeper, something that looks like fear. The kind of fear a man wears when he's about to get exactly what he's been denying himself. "If I stay in this bed tonight, I'm not going to be able to stop at just my mouth. I need you to know that."

His eyes search mine, looking for a way out. Looking for me to give him one. But I don't.

I pull his hand down, press it flat against my stomach, and hold his gaze. "I know."

Something breaks in his expression. The last wall, the one he's been holding up since he walked through that door, finally crumbles. His jaw tightens, and I watch him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He's still fighting it. Still fighting himself.

"Say it again," he says, his voice rougher now. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this." My voice is steadier than I feel. "I want you, Caleb. I've wanted you for so long I don't remember what it felt like not to."

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, the hesitation is gone. Replaced by something rawer. Hungrier. His hand slides up my stomach, over my ribs, until his palm cups my breast. His thumb finds my nipple through the silk of my robe, and I arch into his touch before I can stop myself.

"You're sure?" he asks, and I can hear how much it costs him to ask. "Because once I—"

I cut him off with a kiss. Hard. Desperate. My hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound against my mouth that I feel everywhere. His tongue slides against mine, and the taste of him—salt and something darker, something that's just him—floods my senses until I can't think straight.

His hand leaves my breast, trails down my side, over my hip, and I feel the heat of his palm through the thin silk. He pushes the robe open, and the cool air hits my skin, but I barely notice. All I can feel is where he touches me. Where he's about to touch me.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and looks down at me. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's a flush spreading across his cheekbones.

"God, you're beautiful," he says, and the way he says it—like it hurts him, like it costs him something to admit out loud—makes my chest ache.

He lowers his mouth to my neck, kissing the spot just below my ear, and I shiver. His lips trail down, over my collarbone, between my breasts, and I feel every inch of the journey. His stubble scrapes against my skin, and the sensation is rough and electric, making me gasp.

He pushes the robe wider, baring me completely, and then his mouth is on my stomach, kissing a path down, down, and I know where he's going. My thighs fall open without being asked, and I feel him smile against my skin.

"Eager," he murmurs, and there's a laugh in his voice. But it's not mean. It's fond. Tender. Like he's cataloging every detail of this moment because he knows he'll want to remember it later.

He settles between my thighs, and I feel his breath against me, warm and constant. I've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but I've never felt safer either. He looks up at me, and his eyes meet mine.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he says. "At any point. Tell me, and I stop."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

And then his mouth is on me.

It's different this time. Slower. More deliberate. He takes his time, learning me, mapping every reaction with his tongue. I feel him groan against me, the vibration sending a shock through my entire body, and my hands fly to his hair, gripping tight.

"I could stay here forever," he says against me, his breath hot, and I'm too far gone to form words. All I can do is feel.

The pleasure builds, crests, crashes over me, and I hear myself cry out, his name falling from my lips like a prayer. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.

He kisses his way back up my body, and when he reaches my mouth, I taste myself on his lips. It's intimate in a way I didn't expect, a claiming that feels deeper than anything physical.

"More," I whisper against his mouth. "I want more."

He pulls back, meeting my eyes. "Are you sure?"

I answer by reaching for the waistband of his sweats again. This time, he doesn't stop me. I push them down, and I feel him—hot and hard through his boxers. My fingers brush against him, and he hisses, his hips bucking into my hand.

"Careful," he says, his voice strained. "It's been a while since I—"

I wrap my fingers around him through the fabric, and he cuts off, his head dropping forward. His breath is ragged, uneven, and I feel a surge of power I've never felt before. I did that. I made him fall apart with just a touch.

He pushes his boxers down, and I see him for the first time. He's beautiful—thick, hard, the head already slick with something that makes my mouth water. I want to taste him. I want to know what he feels like in my mouth. But before I can move, he's shifting, positioning himself over me, his weight settling between my thighs.

"Lie back," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Let me take care of you."

I do, sinking into the mattress, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts. He leans down, kisses me, and I feel his hand between us, guiding himself. The head of his cock presses against me, and I feel the pressure—just that, just the beginning—and my entire body tenses.

It's real. This is really happening. He's really going to—

He pushes, just a fraction, and I feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible reality of him at my entrance. I gasp, and he stops immediately, his forehead dropping to mine.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice rough, strained with the effort of holding still.

And I want to say yes. I want to be ready. But the fear that's been lurking in the back of my mind finally breaks through, and I feel tears prick at my eyes.

"I—" My voice cracks. "I can't."

The words hang in the air, and I expect him to pull away, to be frustrated, to sigh and roll off me. But he doesn't.

He stops. Completely. He doesn't push. He doesn't argue. He just stops, his body still over mine, his breathing heavy, and he waits.

"Okay," he says, and the word is so gentle, so patient, that the tears spill over. "Okay, Bella. We stop."

He pulls back, and I feel the loss of him—the heat, the pressure, the almost-ness of it—and I want to take it back. I want to be brave enough. But he's already moving, settling beside me, pulling the robe closed over my body with a tenderness that breaks something open in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to meet his eyes. "I thought I was ready. I wanted to be ready."

"Hey." His hand cups my chin, gently turning my face toward his. "Look at me."

I do. His blue eyes are soft, no trace of frustration or disappointment. Just warmth. Just him.

"You don't have to apologize," he says. "This is your first time. It's supposed to be when you're ready, not when you think you should be."

"But I wanted—"

"I know." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "And when you're ready, I'll be here. But not until. You understand?"

I nod, the tears still falling, and he pulls me against his chest. I feel his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my ear, and I let myself breathe.

"We can do other things," he says, his voice rumbling through his chest. "If you want. There's no rush."

"Other things?"

He laughs, soft and low. "Yeah. Other things. Lots of ways to be close without going all the way."

I look up at him, curiosity cutting through the embarrassment. "Like what?"

His smile turns knowing, and he rolls me onto my back, settling beside me. "Let me show you."