Page 60 of Boiling Point
I laughed—breathy and weak—and slumped against him.
“But what a way to go.” He nuzzled into my neck, leaving a trail of kisses that sent ripples through my trembling body.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, words lost to the wild pulse still thrumming in my blood. This was what I’d needed, what I hadn’t realized I’d been missing: a perfect storm of abandon and intimacy that left no room for fear or doubt.
I woke to the scent of him on the pillow and sun-warmed sheets tangled around my legs. For a long moment, I didn’t move. My body ached in the best way—sated, heavy, humming with quiet aftershocks. The room was soft around the edges, sunlight slipping through the curtains in muted gold ribbons.
But the bed beside me was empty.
My heart kicked once—stupid, startled—before I heard it: the soft strum of an acoustic guitar drifting in from the living room. A voice followed, low and gravel-edged, just cresting over the chords.
I smiled.
I slid out of bed and crossed to where his shirt was draped over a chair. The same light blue button-down from yesterday. I shrugged into it, savoring the familiar weight, the faint scent of him woven through the cotton.
The hallway air was cool against my bare legs, and the music grew clearer with every step.
When I reached the end, I stopped.
Cal sat on the edge of the ottoman, guitar in his lap, head bent low. The morning light caught in the tousled mess of his hair, painting it gold. He wore a simple T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and the sight of him like that—barefoot, unguarded, lost in song—hit me somewhere deep.
He didn’t see me right away.
He was singing something I vaguely recognized, voice pitched just under the melody. I leaned against the doorway, watching him for one long, quiet moment—swept under all over again.
He glanced up, registering me, and his fingers stilled on the strings. “I believe you’ve caught me.” His voice was laced with playful resignation.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, letting my eyes linger on his hands.
“Ah, but then who’ll make you coffee?” He set the guitar on its stand with exaggerated care.
“I can make coffee,” I said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him.
He stood and stretched, eyes glinting with mischief. “Single-serve pods don’t count.” He pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead and stroking my hair.
We drifted into the kitchen, where morning light spilled like honey over the countertops. His steps were loose and easy, an odd elegance in every movement.
“When did you learn to play the guitar?” I asked as he flipped on the electric kettle and reached for the French press.
He grinned. “Picked it up at Eton. One of the first steps on my road to delinquency.”
“Eton?”
“Sorry—boarding school.”
“Wait. Like, actually?”
Cal raised an eyebrow as he pulled a tin of coffee from the cabinet.
“I thought that was just aHarry Potterthing,” I said, deadpan.
He rolled his eyes and laughed—actually laughed—and the sound warmed the room faster than the kettle. “Oh, it’s real. Less magic, more Latin. Fewer house-elves, more smug prefects.”
“Wow. Next you’ll tell me there were house crests and Latin mottos,” I added, half-teasing.
He didn’t even glance up. “Floreat Etona.”
I blinked. “Wait—that’s real too?”
