Page 54 of Flat Out
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice husky and sexy and only forme. "That's yours."
He was so deep I could barely breathe. "You did this," he continued. "I'm here because of you." The beat under my palm was strong and steady andreal.This wasreal.He wouldn't say these things if it wasn't. He wouldn't keep showing up for me again and again and again when I was losing myself if it wasn't fucking real.
His hand covered mine, holding it flat to his chest. "You were the last thing I thought of when I blacked out. You were the first thing I wanted when I opened my eyes. Knowing you were there… that's what kept mehere. That heartbeat you're feeling? That's yours, mon cœur. It's always been yours."
I pressed closer, like maybe I could absorb him into me, praying maybe if I held on tight enough, all the jagged parts inside me would find their way back. I started riding him again. We both moaned. His hand moved to my chest, resting flat over my heart. Then he looked down, watching the space where we touched, the way our bodies synced—rhythm against rhythm, breath against breath, pulse against pulse. His cock hit deeper with every thrust. My walls fluttered around him. My bodyheardhim.
“I love you,” he said, kissing my jaw. “Iloveyou,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to mine.
“Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime.” I clenched down so hard I thought we might fuse together, brain melting at how good it felt.
“Two hearts beating as one,” he murmured. “That’s what we are.”
My nails dug into his shoulders, carefully avoiding his bruised flesh. My hips kept moving. I was wet and needy, slick from everything he’d drawn out of me. I felt him there—everywhere. The way he held me while I cried, the way his cock hit deeper inside me when I said his name, the way my body unraveled from thetruthin his voice.
And when he came—when he groaned my name and kissed me like it was his last breath—I went right over the edge with him, shattered and sacred in his arms.
Because I was home.
And for the first time, I finallybelievedit.
I didn’t noticethe shaking at first. We were still wrapped together, knees pressed into the mattress, our foreheads resting against each other. His cum had dripped out of me, trickling down my thighs. My lips had just grazed the corner of his mouth when I felt it, barely there. A tremble in his arms, a flicker beneath my fingertips.
Then the heat hit me. Not the kind we’d just shared or the kind that flushed skin and made pulses race. This was different. This was wrong. His skin burned under my fingertips, but not like a fever—like fire doused in exhaustion. Like he was breaking beneath the surface and trying to hold it all together. His body was still slick with sweat that wasn't from exertion, but something deeper and scarier.
“Cal,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him. His skin was too warm and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his hairline, locks curling in that way I loved so much. His breathwas shallow. He blinked slowly with that dazed, blissed-out look that would've been endearing if it didn't terrify me. My stomach turned. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, then closed his eyes and flinched. "Mmhmm."
Oh mon Dieu.I'd been so wrapped in this, in our reunion, that when he said he was fine at dinner, I just assumed… fuck, that was the problem. I assumed he would take care of himself. “Don't you lie to me right now when you're still inside me and your cum is leaking out of me. When was the last time you took your medication?”
He didn’t answer right away, just rested his head on my shoulder and exhaled, the sound ragged and tired. “Before my flight.”
I blinked. “That was—Callum, that washoursago. What time exactly?”
“I’m fine,” he said, but even his voice cracked around the lie.
“No, you’re not.”
He shook his head, like if he didn’t acknowledge it, the pain wouldn’t exist. “You’ve already done enough. Look at this week. You cooked, you cleaned, you rearranged your entire life to take care of me. I saw your calendar, Aurélie. I know what you canceled. I can’t put this on you, too.”
I reared back and stared at him. Furious, gutted, and in awe. “You think love keeps score like that?” He looked away. I cupped his jaw, gently turning his face back to mine. “What just happened in this room—between us—aftereverything? Don’t make all those words you said feel like empty promises.”
His mouth parted, but nothing came out.
“Love shows up, Callum.Iwill show up. You should know that after this last week."
He clenched his jaw. “You don’t understand. I—fuck, I’m used to doing things on my own. Pushing through. I don’t like feeling like a burden. I felt like that my whole childhood.”
I huffed a bitter laugh. "Really? You think I don't understand?" Guilt flickered in his eyes. “You’re not a burden,” I snapped, fierce and sudden. “You’re my person, and you’re hurting. That matters to me.”
He swallowed. And finally, he nodded, so I climbed out of his lap, wincing when the tender skin of my ass touched the bedding. I went straight for his bag, and he didn’t stop me this time. I yanked at the zipper like I had a vendetta against it, and dug through his stuff until my fingers closed around three bottles. I rattled them gently, checking each label.
“Tramadol, codeine,” I muttered under my breath. Then I paused. “Tizanidine.” My chest tightened. He was taking theseblindlyand drinking? I turned the bottle and read the label to confirm my fears, then closed my eyes with a quiet, sharp inhale as I remembered, in vivid detail, the dangers of mixing just one of these medications with alcohol. It didn't take much for some people.
Do not mix with alcohol, risk of dizziness, slowed heart rate, cardiac complications, extreme drowsiness or sedation, confusion, loss of coordination, unconsciousness, increased risk of overdose, and liver strain/damage. Consult a medical professional before using with other prescriptions.
I turned toward him again, hands trembling now—not with anger, but with dread. “Did you drink anything else today?” I asked, barely breathing.
