Page 6 of The Wrong Play

His hands were warm, steady. Assured. Like he had all the time in the world to do this, to unwrap me piece by piece.

A shaky breath left me. This was happening.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Maybe for him to be rougher. Hungrier.

Instead, he was methodical and patient, like I was something to be unwrapped slowly. Like he was memorizing every little reaction, every hitched breath, every moment of hesitation.

“I’ve never done this before,” I whispered, my hands curling into fists.

The words felt fragile, like something I should have kept to myself.

Something dark flashed behind his eyes, and he tilted his head like he was studying a rare find.

“That’s okay.”

The way he said it…it sounded like he already knew. Like it was something he had suspected. Planned for.

A strange sort of sickness rolled through me. Something…off.

Callum tilted my chin up with a finger, his gaze locking onto mine with that effortless confidence of his.

And suddenly, the moment felt too big. Too charged. Too irreversible.

“I’ll take care of you, Riley,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over my jaw.

I swallowed hard. He sounded so sure, and I wanted that certainty.

Desperately.

Because for the first time in weeks…in years, someone was looking at me like I mattered. Like I was worth the effort. Like I was worth something.

So, when his lips brushed against mine—soft, coaxing, deliberate—I didn’t pull away. I let him kiss me.

And I kissed him back.

Pain.

It was the first thing I registered. A deep, throbbing ache between my thighs. A slow, dull pulse that radiated through my limbs like an echo of the night before.

I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented. My sheets were tangled around my legs, the weight of the heavy comforter pressing down on my overheated skin. The air was thick, stifling, carrying the lingering scent of his cologne.

Callum.

The name sent a shock through my system, a cold rush of nausea tightening my throat.

The memories came back in pieces—his hands on me, his voice low and coaxing, the way he had looked at me as if I belonged to him. As if I was something to consume.

I turned my head, my gaze darting to the other side of the bed. Empty.

A cold, hollow feeling settled in my chest.

I pushed myself up, wincing as another pang of pain lanced between my legs. A slow, sinking dread crept over me as I felt the dampness beneath me, as I saw the dark stain on the crisp white sheets.

Blood.

A sob clawed its way up my throat, violent and raw, and I pressed a hand over my mouth, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.

It was real.

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