Page 43 of Saddle and Scent
"You should go," I say finally. "Storm's letting up."
But instead of the shuffle of boots toward the door, instead of mumbled goodbyes and the merciful relief of solitude, Callum's growl cuts through the rain-dampened quiet like a blade through silk.
"No."
The word hangs in the air, heavy with years of unspoken everything.
He rises from the couch in one fluid motion, all coiled muscle and barely leashed control.
His eyes are pure gold fire, the careful distance he's been maintaining since he walked in evaporating like morning mist.
"This is stupid," he continues, voice dropping to that register that makes my insides liquify. "All of it. The pretending, the distance, acting like we don't know every inch of each other's souls. I'm tired of running from this madness."
My back hits the wall before I realize I've been backing up.
"Callum—"
But he's already there, crowding into my space with the inevitability of a storm surge.
His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my throat—not tight, not threatening, just enough pressure to still me, to make me focus on nothing but him.
"No more talking," he rasps, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like the fumbling experiments of our youth. This is a claiming, pure and simple. His lips move against mine with devastating precision, no hesitation, no uncertainty.
I expect—what? Awkwardness?Or the hesitant nostalgia of two people dancing around half-remembered mistakes.
Instead, Callum all but consumes me. There's no trial-and-error, no cautious recon; he knows what he wants and he takes it, my lips parting on instinct, my hands scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders and finding nothing but hard muscle and the faintest tremor of restraint.
His mouth is hot, relentless, and I feel the intention behind every movement—the way his teeth scrape just barely over my lower lip, the way his tongue traces the seam before demanding entrance, the subtle tilt of his head so noses and breath and desperation align like gears in a clockwork. It's not gentle. It shouldn't be, not after all this. He kisses the way he does everything else: thoroughly, with zero wasted motion and enough force to leave bruises if I let him.
My brain shorts out, all the stubbornly rational parts of me reduced to static. The sound I make is embarrassing, a muffled high-pitched thing, but Callum swallows it greedily, his free hand fisting in the back of my shirt like he can't stand the idea of even a molecule of space between us. The wall at my back is cold and rough, the only anchor point in a world that's suddenly nothing but him—his hands, his scent, the taste of rainwater and whiskey and the familiar heat that always made me reckless.
I fight at first, just to prove I can, but it’s perfunctory.
Every atom in my body recognizes him, wants him, remembers exactly how this used to feel and how it was never enough. The realization is a sucker punch: I never moved on, not really. All my clever plans for boundaries and independence fizzle out like sidewalk chalk in a thunderstorm.
When I try to turn my head, to maintain some thread of resistance, his grip tightens just enough to keep me exactly where he wants me.
His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, demanding entry, and my traitorous body opens for him without consulting my brain. The taste of him floods my senses—coffee and rain and something wild, untamed. He kisses like he's trying to consume me, like he's been starving for a decade and I'm the only sustenance that matters.
A moan escapes me, swallowed by his mouth, and I feel him smile against my lips.Smug bastard. But God, the difference between then and now is staggering.
Teen Callum kissed like he was afraid I might break.
Adult Callum kisses like he knows exactly how to take me apart and is planning to do it piece by piece.
My hands find his chest without permission, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of his shirt. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. He angles my head with the hand at my throat, deepening the kiss until I'm drowning in him, lungs burning for air I'm not sure I want.
I can’t help but push him forward a little moving away from the wall, as if its not my stability blanket in this wild chase of lust and reunion.
When he finally breaks away, we're both gasping.
My lips feel swollen, sensitized, and the look in his eyes promises this is just the beginning.
"My turn."
Wes's voice comes from my left, honey-smooth and amused.
