Page 74 of Boiling Point
“Because you’re notdoinganything.”
He smiled against my skin. “I’m doing plenty.”
He slid a finger inside me, slow and deliberate, and I moaned—tipping my head back, my spine lifting off the floor. He added a second, pumping gently, curling just right, just enough.
Still working his fingers inside me, he sealed his mouth over my clit, tongue stroking in perfect sync—unrelenting, terrifyingly precise. He pinned me with one arm braced across my thigh, holding me steady as I writhed against him, unable to stay still.
“Cal,” I cried, broken and breathless.
He hummed against me, the sound vibrating through every nerve. My hands scrambled for purchase—his hair, a crate, the rug beneath us—anything to hold on to.
Every flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers, every low sound in his throat wound me tighter.
When I came, it was all at once—blinding and helpless, a full-body shudder that tore through me like a live wire. I cried out, legs trembling, breath ragged, but he didn’t stop. Not until I gasped his name again and pulled at his shoulders, needing him with me.
He kissed the inside of my thigh, then my hipbone, then dragged himself up my body, blanketing me in his warmth again.
“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine. “I could die right here and not regret a thing.”
His breath turned to a low groan against my mouth as I kissed him harder, hands everywhere.
I fumbled with his fly. He froze—just long enough for me to look up and meet his eyes.
“This is insane,” he murmured.
I brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stop me.”
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
The zipper gave, and I pushed his trousers open, slipping my hand just beneath the waistband. His face was flushed, breath ragged—but he was still holding back. Barely.
I paused. We hadn’t exactly…planned this.
“You didn’t, by any chance, bring anything…did you?”
I expected a no. Prayed for a maybe.
He paused. Just for a second. “Wallet. Back pocket.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He let out a breath. “It’s not what you think.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t sleep around, Gabrielle.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s just a precaution. I always keep protection on me—a habit ingrained from boyhood.”
I searched his face. He looked half-guilty, half-desperate—not for forgiveness, but for me to believe him.
I kissed him—slow, certain. “Well,” I said, reaching around to fish his wallet from his back pocket, “thank God for outdated male conditioning.”
He laughed—breathless, wrecked. “I swear it’s not expired.”
“Better not be,” I said, tearing open the foil. “I’m not going to hellandthe health clinic in one afternoon.”
I guided him down to the floor and straddled him, hands sure and steady as I rolled the condom on. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, hands fisting at his sides, like if he touched me now, he might break.
I didn’t give him the chance.
