Page 59 of Boiling Point
We didn’t even make it fully inside before his mouth was on mine.
Clothes fell away like afterthoughts—my heels kicked off at the door, his jacket tossed across a chair, the zipper of my dress halfway down my back as we stumbled blindly toward his bedroom. Hands everywhere. Mouths hungry and wordless.
By the time we hit the bed, I didn’t want soft. Or slow. I wanted him frantic. Desperate. I wanted to feel every ounce of what he’d been holding back.
And God, he gave it to me.
He kissed me like he was starving—like he’d waited all night to strip the composure from my body and see what I looked like coming apart.
I gasped as he pinned me to the mattress—one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding sinfully up my thigh. “Now. Please?—”
He caught my mouth again, swallowing the plea with a growl so deep it lit a fuse down my spine.
“I won’t be gentle this time,” he said against my skin, voice thick with hunger. “You still want this?”
I arched into him. “I want you.” I raked my nails down his back before I gripped his shoulders. “I need you inside me—right now—before I rip you apart.”
Everything after that blurred—heat and motion and pressure, his name on my lips in a thousand broken pieces.
I barely registered the drawer sliding open, his quick, deft movements. And then he was there. The hard, solid weight of him filled me in one fierce thrust that stole my breath and lit every nerve on fire.
He moved like a man possessed, like this was the only thing keeping him sane. He pounded his hips into mine in a relentless rhythm, each thrust stoking the fire inside of me until I was sure I’d combust.
He groaned—low and deep—as my nails dug into his back. “Christ, Gabrielle?—”
I pressed my forehead to his shoulder, my world narrowing to the slick heat of our bodies crashing together and the wild pulse pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. The air turned electric, thick with the heady thrill of every restraint falling away.
I bit down on his neck, arching into him as he shifted—God, that angle—and drove even deeper.
He slid a hand to my hip, fingers digging in before he flipped us—one swift motion that left me gasping on top of him.
“Show me,” he said, voice ragged and demanding but threaded with something raw that split my heart wide open. “Show me how reckless you can be with me.”
I rose to my knees, watching his eyes darken as he let his head fall back against the pillow. He bucked into me, grip fierce, guiding me deeper, faster. Every inch of him inside me was glorious friction, building a storm in my blood. I gasped, my breath ragged and broken, as the world shattered and reassembled in brilliant, fractured pieces.
I dug my nails into his chest, clawing at him as I rode out wave after wave of dizzying heat. He clamped my hips in his hands, almost bruising, pulling me down harder until there was only this—heat, motion, and the raw, rapturous ache of finally letting go.
He flipped me beneath him again, groaning low and deep as he thrust hard into me—a desperate rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of my heart.
“Cal,” I breathed, my voice catching on a broken gasp.
“God, Gabrielle.” His thrusts turned sharp and urgent as he drove us toward the edge.
I raked my hands down his back, feeling the flex of muscle under his skin. I was close again—so close—and his name tore from my lips as I shattered around him.
He followed with a final, brutal thrust that sent us both spiraling into white-hot oblivion.
We collapsed together—chests heaving, breath mingling in a hot, humid blur. The air around us was thick and charged, our bodies slick with effort and the heady release of every restraint. My heart pounded, ricocheting against my ribs like it couldn’t be contained.
Our limbs were tangled—no idea where he ended and I began. And I never wanted to know. Everything burned—skin, lungs, every place he’d left me tender and raw. I felt entirely alive. Entirely undone.
He pulled me close, grip fierce like he’d never let me go, eyes shut tight as though stunned by the enormity of what we’d done. What we’d become.
“God,” he said hoarsely. “You’re magnificent.” He kissed me—forehead, cheekbones, lips—each one steeped in hungry gratitude before he buried his face in the curve of my neck.
He softened his grip just enough to shift and find my mouth again. The kiss was gentle this time—slow, lingering—as though he had all the time in the world. As though we did.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured between kisses. “You’re going to be the end of me.”
