Page 46 of Boiling Point
Each thrust was deliberate—deep, reverent, like he was memorizing the way I wrapped around him. Like worship. Like discovery. I took in every inch—the slow drag out leaving me aching, the sharp rush when he pushed back in stealing what breath I had left. My body opened to him—greedy, grateful, trembling under every relentless stroke.
Pleasure bloomed low and hot, each movement stoking the flame. I arched beneath him, back lifting from the bed, meeting him thrust for thrust as his rhythm deepened—slower now, but somehow more desperate. More certain.
His breath was rough against my skin, hot and ragged in the hollow of my neck. He kissed me between gasps—cheek, collarbone, the swell of my breast—leaving a trail of heat where his mouth lingered. I traced the curve of his back, his shoulders, feeling every flex and shift as he moved over me—inside me.
“You feel—” He broke off with a moan, teeth grazing my shoulder. “You feel like heaven.”
I clung tighter, digging my nails deep into his skin. “Don’t stop,” I whispered, almost pleading.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “Not even if I tried.”
His control slipped further by degrees—each thrust harder, rougher—his rhythm unraveling into something raw and real. His body was fire against mine—sweat-slicked skin, the air between us charged and electric.
I met every thrust, hips rising to take him deeper, chasing that sweet edge with abandon. The pressure surged, cresting higher with every filthy-sweet word whispered against my throat.
“You’re perfect,” he groaned. “Bloody perfect.”
Pleasure coiled in my spine, my thighs. Hot and high. Ready to snap.
“Cal—” I gasped, voice breaking as the orgasm slammed—sharp, overwhelming, stealing the ground from under me. I bowed into him, shuddering, my cry muffled against his mouth as he kissed me through it.
He didn’t stop. Neither did I. A few more thrusts, and then he broke—body tense and trembling, face buried in the curve of my neck, spilling into me with a sound that was pure need and surrender.
He slumped against me, panting, every inch of him draped over me like armor. His heart pounded wildly against mine. I held him close, wrapping my arms tight around his shoulders, threading my fingers into his damp hair, not ready to let go.
Not ready to come down.
We sank into each other—a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths—his weight anchoring me in the best possible way.
Minutes passed before either of us stirred.
He braced on one elbow, looking down at me with eyes full of mischief. “Well,” he said, voice hoarse, “I think that concludes the tour.”
My laughter bubbled up like light. “Best tour I’ve ever had.”
And when he kissed me again—gentler now, slow and soft and aching—it felt like more than passion.
It felt like the start of something that might change everything.
Chapter 19
Callum
Morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting pale gold across my navy satin sheets and the bare curve of Gabrielle’s shoulder. She was still asleep, her hair a soft, tangled halo against my pillow. One arm was tucked beneath her head, the other draped across the sheet she’d dragged to her side during the night.
She looked impossibly peaceful. Like she belonged here.
I should’ve felt something heavier—regret, at the very least. Shame, maybe. We’d crossed every line, broken every rule. But watching her sleep, all I felt was a dangerous kind of warmth.
And peace.
And if I were honest with myself, an ache that wasn’t entirely physical.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and sat up slowly, careful not to wake her. My body protested, sore in all the best ways. She’d left her mark—in the tiny crescents from her nails, the ghost of her mouth along my collarbone. My body was a map of the night before, and I had no desire to forget the terrain.
I stood, padded to the kitchen for a glass of water, then returned to the bedroom doorway. And there she was.
Still asleep, just beginning to stir—brow furrowing, lips parting with a soft sigh.
