Page 75 of Boiling Point
I sank onto him slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully inside me. The stretch burned—delicious and deep. He gasped as if it broke him.
“God,” he breathed. “You feel like sin.”
“I was going to say heaven.” I rolled my hips, and his hands flew to my waist, fingers digging in like he was holding on for dear life.
We moved together—slow at first, testing the rhythm—then faster as heat built and the world slipped away. His hands roamed, reverent and greedy. I leaned in to kiss him, and he met me with everything—teeth, tongue, breath—as if I was the only air he had left.
The rug burned my knees. The air was thick with sweat and want and the soft, rhythmic thud of bodies meeting in secret.
He tangled his fingers in my hair. “Let me see you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Please.”
I sat up just enough for him to watch me ride him—eyes locked, hands everywhere. Desperate worship, nothing to do with religion, everything to do with us. With now.
He brushed his thumb over my nipple, and I gasped. With his other hand, he gripped my hip, guiding the rhythm—anchoring me as he moved, deeper, slower, then harder again.
“Come for me again,” he whispered. “I want to feel it.”
The words struck somewhere deep. I closed my eyes and gave in—to the friction, the steady drag of him inside me, the way my thighs trembled from the strain, from the pleasure, from the wave cresting higher with every breath. I clutched at his shoulders, then slid one hand between us, circling my clit, desperate for just a little more.
Then everything went hot and sharp and brilliant.
I shattered with a cry I didn’t mean to make—body clenching, every muscle locking down as the orgasm tore through me. I pulsed around him—greedy, relentless—and he groaned.
“Fuck, Gabrielle—” He thrust once, twice—then he was gone too, undone beneath me.
We had no words for a long moment. Just the echo of what we’d done. And knowing that nothing about this was safe anymore.
I collapsed onto his chest, both of us breathless, hearts pounding in sync. He wrapped his arms around me—like instinct, like shelter—holding me through the aftershocks.
When I finally stirred, my muscles trembling, I eased off him with a soft, spent sound. The rug scratched my shoulders as I rolled onto my back, blinking at the flickering overhead lights. Cool air licked across my sweat-slicked skin, a sharp contrast to the molten ache still humming through me.
Cal stretched out beside me, then he rolled over and crawled over me with slow, deliberate care, as if he couldn’t bear the loss of contact. He pressed kisses up my thighs, over my hip, back to my lips.
“Now,” he whispered. “Now I’m officially going to hell.”
I pulled him down. “As long as you take me with you.”
Chapter 27
Callum
Iwalked the long corridor back toward my office, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly as if registering my altered state. My tie hung loose around my neck, a small rebellion that felt enormous after years of polished convention.
The university’s old boiler clanged in the basement below, heating the building with all the elegance of a steam train on its last legs. The smell of it was evident even on the third floor—a metallic tang beneath the more familiar scent of scorched coffee from the departmental lounge. But nothing could overpower Gabrielle’s lingering presence. It clung to me like static—sweet, charged, and impossible to ignore.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying for decorum before anyone noticed how thoroughly unraveled I was.
“Cal!” a voice called down the hall, cheerful and persistent. “I was about to text you.”
I turned to find Bill Watkins lumbering toward me, his gait no match for his exuberance.
“There’s a student camped outside your office,” he managed between breaths. “He’s been there long enough to make himself at home.”
I stopped short, blinking as if he’d pulled me from a dream. “A student?” My mind spun through possibilities—Gabrielle first among them, despite all logic. Unlikely. Bill had clearly saidhe.
“Jackson, I think,” he added. “One of your research students.”
Jackson. Of course. I checked my watch—12:57 p.m.Damn it. I’d completely forgotten the meeting about his revised project proposal.
