Page 73 of Boiling Point
Cal stopped short, looking around the space as if grounding himself in its secrecy. “You weren’t joking,” he said softly.
I squeezed his hand and pulled him closer. The quiet down here was different—expectant, suspended in time like the rest of the world had vanished aboveground. I slipped my hands around his waist.
His breath was a low exhale against my hair, relief and want tangled together.
“You really shouldn’t have called me out like that in class,” I murmured into his shirt.
He drew back just enough to look at me, his gaze tracing the curve of my jaw. “That was nothing.” His smile was slow, a promise. “You should see what I’ll do next time.”
Heat rose in my cheeks as he tilted my chin, his mouth soft on mine. It was tentative at first—an almost-question—but I answered before it could form, closing the distance. He kissed me harder, restraint giving way to something deeper and more dangerous. Every hesitation—every careful line we’d drawn—dissolved in the dark. No rules here. No roles. Just us and the quiet madness of wanting what we shouldn’t.
Cal gathered me to him like he never meant to let go and pressed me back against a stack of crates. He slipped his jacket from his shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind him.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered.
He smiled against my skin, his hands at the hem of my sweater, then warm beneath it.
“And you’re meant to be studying.”
I worked quickly to loosen his tie and undo his top few buttons. He watched me as if every movement burned. I tugged his shirt free from his waistband and slid my hands beneath—finally—pressing against smooth, warm skin and the taut muscles of his abdomen. He shuddered at my touch, each breath a quiet burn against my neck. I splayed my fingers across his chest, felt his heartbeat—wild, a perfect match for mine. He caught my wrist as if to steady himself, then released it just as quickly, like his own restraint had surprised him.
“Gabrielle,” he said, voice rough-edged and urgent.
I silenced him with another kiss, tugging him close until there was no space left between us. We were frantic now, heat climbing with every touch. He tangled his hands in my hair, then slid them down my back to grip me tighter. The world spun, free-falling around us.
We stumbled sideways into a battered armchair and toppled over its edge. I landed half on the floor, half tangled in Cal’s arms—laughing breathlessly at the absurdity. At how careful we weren’t being. His weight pinned me to the cool concrete beneath a threadbare rug, and it was all I could do not to come undone.
He traced his fingers along my ribcage as he kissed me again. “I want you,” he said between kisses, “so badly.” He pulled back slightly. “I’m genuinely considering ravishing you right here in the chapel. I really am going to hell.”
I shook my head as I undid his belt. “No, you’reunderthe chapel. There’s a difference.”
His belt gave way under my fingers, and something shifted in him—restraint melting into something darker, needier. He kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. Like he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the last time. Maybe he hadn’t.
My sweater was gone before I even realized I’d raised my arms. He sat back just enough to take me in. His hands skated over the curve of my waist, the rise of my ribs—slow and reverent, as if he had all the time in the world.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast.
Then he moved again—lips at my collarbone, my throat, a trail of heat down my chest. His hands followed—confident, unhurried. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring.
He smiled against my skin—smug, warm, and completely focused. “Is this what you want?” he asked low and gravelly as he slid his hand under the waistband of my jeans.
“Yes,” I breathed. “God, yes.”
“Good,” he said, leaning in. “Because I’ve been imagining this all day.”
He kissed his way down my stomach, fingers following steadily, every motion tuned to me as if I were the only thing that existed. When he slid his hand lower and found me—really found me—my hips arched helplessly, and he groaned into the fabric of my jeans.
“You’re soaked,” he said, voice thick.
“Your fault,” I managed, barely holding on.
His laugh was pure sin, low and close to my ear—and then he was kneeling between my legs, dragging my jeans and underwear down with aching slowness, as if every inch of bare skin was something he needed to see, to memorize.
He dipped his head and kissed the inside of my thigh. Then another. And another, higher each time. I shivered beneath him, the air cool on my skin, my nerves electric.
When he touched me—featherlight at first—I jolted. Pleasure flared, sharp and immediate. He dragged his fingers more firmly through the slick heat between my legs with maddening control, learning the rhythm of my breath, the arch of my hips.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
