Chapter 7: Flash Back

Bella pov

We ate together at the kitchen island—not the formal dining room, which somehow made it feel more real. Caleb asked me about my day, actually listened to my answers. I learned he hated mushrooms, loved his grandmother fiercely, and had a dry wit that caught me off guard and made me laugh.

For one night, the ice around him thawed. For one night, I let myself believe Caleb's grandmother had been right. The wine led to more conversation. Conversation led to him moving closer on the couch where we'd ended up, reviewing old photo albums his grandmother had left—pictures of a younger Caleb, before the world had frozen him solid.

"She talks about you constantly," I said softly, studying a photo of eight-year-old Caleb grinning beside a bicycle. "She loves you so much."

"She's the only one who ever has." His voice was rough. "My father certainly didn't. My mother died trying to please him, my sister" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

I didn't push. Instead, I did something reckless. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. He stared at our joined hands like I'd performed a magic trick. Then his fingers curled around mine, holding on like I was the only solid thing in a tilting world.

"Bella." My name sounded different in his mouth. "I haven't been... I should have"

"It's okay," I whispered, even though it wasn't. Even though weeks of loneliness had made me feel less of myself. "I understand."

"You shouldn't." His grey eyes found mine, and the intensity there stole my breath. "You shouldn't understand, you should demand more. You deserve more than this arrangement, more than a husband who treats you like"

I kissed him. I don't know what possessed me. Temporary insanity brought on by wine and loneliness and the way he was looking at me like I mattered. Like I was someone worth seeing. For one frozen heartbeat, he didn't move.

Then he was kissing me back, hard and desperate, like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning. His hands cupped my face, then slid into my hair, scattering pins. The photo album tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

"Bella," he breathed against my lips. "We shouldn't"

"I know."

But I kissed him anyway, and he responded like a man starving. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger that made my knees weak, his lips firm yet surprisingly soft. One hand cupped the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he deepened the kiss, tasting me like I was something precious he'd been denied too long.

When he finally broke away, we were both breathing hard. Without a word, he lifted me into his arms, carrying me up the stairs to his bedroom—not the guest room I'd been exiled to, but his space, his sanctuary. For one night, he was letting me in.

We fell onto his bed in a tangle of desperate hands and shed clothing. He kissed me again, slower this time, his mouth trailing from my lips to my jaw. When he reached my neck, I gasped. He found that sensitive spot just below my ear, sucking gently, then soothing with his tongue. My hands clutched at his shoulders as he worked his way down, kissing, nipping, making me forget every reason this was a terrible idea.

His hands were everywhere—one sliding down my back, pulling me closer, the other gripping my hip. When his palm curved over my ass, squeezing through the worn denim of my jeans, I moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to unlock something in him. He groaned in response, his grip tightening as he pulled my hips flush against his.

"These need to go," he murmured against my throat, his fingers already working at the button of my jeans.

I became acutely aware that I was wearing old jeans and one of my threadbare college sweatshirts, my hair piled in a messy bun, face free of makeup. But when I started to protest, he silenced me with another kiss.

He peeled the sweatshirt over my head, his eyes darkening as he took me in. Then his hands were on my waist, sliding my jeans down my hips with aching slowness. Every brush of his fingers against my bare skin sent shivers through me.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, and for one reckless moment, I let myself believe him.

"I've never" I gasped as his mouth traced down my throat.

He pulled back, grey eyes searching mine with sudden focus. "You're a virgin."

It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway, heat flooding my cheeks. At twenty-three, I knew it was unusual. But between putting myself through college and being invisible in my own family, there hadn't exactly been opportunities for romance.

Something shifted in his expression, the desperation gentled into something almost... tender.

"Then we'll take this slow," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "Tell me if you want to stop."

I didn't want to stop. I wanted this—wanted him—with a fierceness that terrified me.

He sat back on his heels, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. I watched, mesmerized, as he worked each one free with deliberate slowness, revealing an expanse of toned chest and defined abs. The shirt fell away, and I couldn't help but stare at the lean muscle, the breadth of his shoulders.

Then his hands went to his belt. The clink of metal seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. He stood briefly to push his trousers down his legs, stepping out of them with unconscious grace. When his fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, my breath caught.

He paused, eyes meeting mine as if checking for permission. I managed a small nod.

The boxers slid down, and my eyes went wide. Heat flooded through me—equal parts nervousness and anticipation. He was... I hadn't known what to expect, but the reality of him was overwhelming.

"Still okay?" he asked softly, crawling back onto the bed, his body covering mine.