Page 3 of Saddle and Scent
“Do you want help?”
I could say no.Should.Every cell is screaming for autonomy, for an out.
But I’m on fire.
I’m shaking…leaking…and the idea of anyone touching me is mortifying right up until I realize it’s so much worse to not be touched at all.
I nod, just once.
The world tilts.
“Fine. Help.”
His relief is audible, even if he doesn’t show it. He shifts closer, just enough to be in reach if I change my mind.
“Lie back. You’re overheating.”
I do, and the world spins around me.
The weight of vulnerability presses down as Callum's gaze falls upon me, tangible and intense, as if his eyes themselves have hands that reach out, tracing the contours of my form beneath the flimsy fabric that's doing a poor job of covering anything at all. The tank top is like a second skin now, adhering to every ridge and curve as if synchronized with my heartbeat—a viscerally intimate rhythm that betrays my discomposure. Meanwhile, the shorts cling on for dear life at my hips, riding up in ways that amplify rather than conceal the slick mess pooling beneath me.
It’s a torturous awareness, every shift of my body against the soaked sheets igniting sparks across nerve endings already raw from heat. Each subtle movement threatens to pull a sound from deep within—a moan or whimper bubbling just below the surface—yet I suppress it, swallowing any noise that might expose more than I’m willing to let slip.
His eyes remain steady—no judgement or leering to be found there—more like an ocean, vast and unfathomable but not unkind. The room seems to contract around us, drawing tighter like the atmosphere before a summer storm, every sound muted except for the ragged symphony of our shared breaths intermingling in this cloistered space.
There's something unspoken in his manner, an acknowledgment perhaps of this delicate intimacy that neither of us expected to find ourselves navigating. His presence is a constant reminder that I'm not alone in this moment of raw exposure—a paradoxical comfort and discomfort existing side by side.
A part of me contemplates the absurdity of it all—this involuntary performance played out under his quiet observation; yet another part registers a sense of strange liberation in being stripped down to nothing but need and want. It's not beauty exactly, but there's an authenticity here that's compelling beyond mere physicality.
Nevertheless, pride battles with surrender inside me; and though I’m tempted to let go—to yield completely into his care—I tighten my resolve instead. My decision should be mine alone, free from pity or obligation—even if he’s offered neither outright. The war plays out in micro expressions across my face:brows furrowing, lips pressed thin against any escape of voice or sound.
In this silence charged with unsaid words and unacknowledged truths, I feel like I’m balancing on a precipice—one breath away from tumbling over into unknown depths where he waits with open arms or indifferent detachment —I can’t tell which.But that leap isn’t entirely mine yet; not until I choose it fully.
So instead of succumbing to whatever lies beyond that edge—I clamp down hard on impulse and indulgence both—I bite the inside of my cheek instead.
He notices, because of course he does.
“It’s just a flare,” he says, “but you have to let yourself have it.”
Let myself have it.
Like I’ve been holding back on purpose.
But I get what he means:surrender.Stop fighting.My hands clutch the mattress so tight my fingers go numb, but I force them to relax.
He watches my every move.
No judgment, no shame.
Just intense, steady focus.
He takes the sheet from my hands and peels it away, exposing the curve of my thigh, the sticky shine of sweat and slick that makes me want to vanish.
He doesn’t flinch. He just folds the sheet, lays it at the foot of the bed, and says, “It helps if you breathe.”
“Hard to breathe when my lungs are melting,” I say.
He almost smiles.
