Page 11 of Tides of Redemption
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to the door.
Caleb stood in the hallway, holding a steaming casserole dish, a familiar blue and green afghan folded over his arm.
“I thought you might want company,” he said, his voice hushed.
The scent hit me first—rich, creamy macaroni and cheese with the tang of extra sharp cheddar. My comfort food. And the afghan—my mother had crocheted it, her fingers working the yarn while she watched TV with me nestled against her side. I’d taken it to college, and it had somehow ended up in the third-floor apartment.
My throat tightened. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” He shifted slightly, uncertain. “May I come in?”
I stepped back, letting him enter. The warm notes of his cologne wafted past as he moved to the kitchen. It was the same scent he’d worn in college, and my body remembered it before my mind could catch up.
“I thought maybe a movie marathon?” He set down the casserole and draped the afghan over the sofa. “Something to distract us from the storm.”
The normalcy of the suggestion, the casual kindness of it, made my eyes sting. “That sounds good.”
“You choose.” He pulled plates from my cupboard.
I scrolled through streaming options, finally settling on a Regency period series based on romance novels I loved. Caleb tried to hide his wince, but I caught it and almost smiled. “You don’t have to?—”
“Non. It’s perfect,” he insisted, carrying two plates of steaming mac and cheese to the coffee table. “I think I need more empire waistlines and meaningful glances in my life.”
The first bite of macaroni and cheese melted on my tongue—creamy and sharp and comforting, with perfectly toasted breadcrumbs on top. It tasted like care, like someone paying attention, like being known.
“This is exactly how Pop-Pop used to make it.” I took another bite.
He settled beside me on the couch, leaving a careful distance between us. “I may have called your grandfather a long time ago to get the recipe.”
The thought of Caleb calling Pop-Pop, the two of them discussing cheese ratios and breadcrumb techniques, made something warm unfurl in my chest.
Outside, the storm continued its assault, but with each crack of thunder, my flinch lessened. The series played, all elegant costumes and British accents and yearning glances. At some point, Caleb reached for the afghan and spread it over both of us.
“Warmer?”
I nodded, suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting. The weighted comfort of the blanket, the familiar scent of Caleb beside me, the taste of childhood comfort food lingering on my tongue—it all combined to make me feel safer than I had felt during a storm in years.
As the series progressed, the space between us gradually disappeared. I wasn’t sure who moved first—maybe both of us, seeking warmth and connection like plants growing toward sunlight. His arm slipped around my shoulders. My head found the perfect spot in the crook of his neck. His hand covered mine beneath the afghan.
On screen, the heroine was making a tearful confession of love in the rain. I wondered if she knew how cold and miserable rain really was, how it could change lives in an instant.
“You okay?” Caleb murmured, his breath warm against my hair.
I tilted my face up to answer, not realizing how close that would bring our lips. We froze, caught in each other’s gaze. His eyes searched mine, asking the question I was finally ready to answer.
“Yes,” I whispered to both his spoken question and the silent one.
He closed the distance between us, his lips meeting mine in a kiss so tender it made my heart melt. Gentle, tentative, like he was afraid I might break or pull away. I didn’t. Instead, I leaned into it, my hand coming up to cup his face. The slight roughness of stubble scraped beneath my palm. And I knew I was ready for more. “Touch me, Caleb.”
His breath hitched, and his arm tightened around my shoulders. He leaned back, his expression concerned. “Are you sure? Are you sure this isn’t the storm talking?”
“I want you,” I answered. “I’m tired of fighting this magnetic pull between us. This…attraction that hasn’t lessened, even in eleven years.”
“If you’re sure…” He nibbled on my earlobe, raising goosebumps on my arms. My cock pulsed, trapped uncomfortably against the zipper of my jeans. I adjusted myself, but he lightly batted my hand away.
“Mine.” He made quick work of freeing my erection, and relief poured through me. He tossed the afghan to the side—the cool air a blessing against my fevered skin—and kneeled on the floor at my feet. “Lift,” he ordered, and I raised my ass so he could shove my jeans to my ankles. His hands slid lightly up and down my thighs, and then he parted my legs and leaned in.
I held my breath in anticipation, but he didn’t make me wait long. His warm, wet mouth enveloped my cock, and I moaned. I gripped his hair, as if I would float away without the tether.
