“Christ, Mikaela,” he breathes, and it’s half prayer, half curse.

His other hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with devastating tenderness. The gentleness is worse than if he’d been rough—it cracks something open inside me that I didn’t know existed.

“You deserve better than this,” he says, his voice rough velvet. “Better than a hotel room, better than—”

I silence him by pressing closer, my inexperience making the gesture more desperate than seductive.

I’m all awkward angles and pent-up need, probably about as smooth as a thirteen-year-old at their first dance.

“I deserve to choose,” I whisper against his jaw. “And I choose you.”

Something fundamental shifts in his expression—the last wall crumbling.

His lips leave fire trails across my skin, branding me with every kiss. First, my forehead, soft and reverent, then my temple, where his breath ghosts hot against my pulse.

Fuck, it’s like he’s worshipping me, mapping every inch like he’s committing me to memory.

His hands cradle my face, rough palms against my cheeks, and I can feel the trembling restraint in his touch.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. But I don’t.

I tilt my chin up, desperate, offering myself to him like a fucking prayer. His lips brush mine, feather-light, teasing—just a whisper of contact that sets my nerves on fire.

I whine, impatient, and he chuckles darkly before claiming my mouth in a kiss that steals the breath from my lungs.

His tongue slips between my lips, coaxing me open, teaching me a rhythm that makes my knees weak.

Fuck, it’s everything—wet heat and controlled hunger, his experience evident in the way he dominates my mouth, leaving me gasping.

My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against me, the sound dirty and low.

When we break apart, I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon, my chest heaving. His eyes are dark, predatory, watching me like I’m his next meal.

“Okay?” he rasps, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

“If you stop now, I’ll fucking die,” I choke out, and he smirks, a wicked curve of his lips that makes my stomach flip.

He undresses me like I’m something delicate, each piece of clothing peeled away with painstaking care.

My skin prickles under his gaze, exposed and vulnerable, but the way he looks at me—like I’m fucking priceless—makes me feel anything but weak. His hands skim over my newly revealed flesh, scorching hot, and I shiver under his touch.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice rough as gravel.

“Not scared,” I manage, though my voice quivers. “Just… overwhelmed.”

He kisses me again, tender and slow, and I melt into him.

“We go at your pace,” he says against my lips. “You’re in control here.”

Control. Fuck, I came here looking for it, and now he’s handing it to me when I’m barely holding it together.

His fingers trail down my body, exploring every curve, every dip, and I’m lost in the sensation. When he slips his hand between my thighs, I gasp, arching off the bed.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

“God, yes,” I breathe, my hips rocking instinctively against his hand.

His fingers find my slick heat, circling, teasing, until I’m writhing beneath him. His touch is electric, teasing my clit with rough circles that send shocks of pleasure through me.

I’m writhing, arching into his hand, begging for more already, and he doesn’t fucking stop. His fingers dip lower, plunging into my tight heat, fucking me shallowly while his thumb keeps working my swollen clit.

I’m gasping, clawing at the sheets, my hips jerking uncontrollably as he builds me up, higher and higher, until I’m practically sobbing for release.

He pulls his fingers out, leaving me empty and aching, and positions himself at my entrance.

His cock is thick, fucking throbbing against my folds, and I whimper as he presses the tip inside.

He’s slow, so fucking slow, as he pushes forward, stretching me open inch by inch. There’s a sharp sting, a moment of resistance, and then he’s breaking through, sinking deeper into me.

His grip tightens on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh like he’s holding himself back from breaking me completely. But his control’s slipping—there’s a growl in his throat, feral and raw, and his restraint is cracking at the edges.

“Fuck, Mikaela,” he pants against my throat, his voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven. So fucking tight—like you were made for me.”

He stills, his cock buried to the hilt, and I feel so full, so impossibly full, that I can’t help but moan.

I gasp as he continues to move—slow at first, deliberate, but it’s not enough. He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in with more force. The stretch drags a moan from my lips, my hands flying to his shoulders, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He kisses me hard, swallowing every sound I make, and when he pulls back, his eyes burn into mine. “You’re mine now,” he growls. “Every time you look at me, you’ll remember this. How I made you mine.”

And then he fucks me—really fucks me.

Not rough, but deep. Claiming. Every thrust punches a sound from me, my breath ragged, body shivering as he sets a punishing rhythm that somehow still feels reverent.

My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper, and he groans—low and filthy—as he buries his face in my neck. “Can’t get enough of you,” he growls. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

He shifts, angling his hips just right, and suddenly I see stars. My cry rips through the room, my body shaking beneath his.

“Caleb—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he pants, rocking into me, sweat dripping from his brow. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And I do.

I come screaming his name, as his rhythm stutters and he follows with a groan, buried deep, shaking with release.

He doesn’t pull away. He stays, breath ragged, lips on my forehead.

“My good girl,” he whispers. And I believe him.

Afterward, he holds me close, his heartbeat thundering against my chest. I feel raw, exposed, but safe—wrapped in his arms like nothing can touch me. Fuck, I’ve never felt like this before, and I don’t want it to end.

“You okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Better than okay,” I mumble, already drifting toward sleep. “Worth every penny.”

His chest rumbles with surprised laughter. “I think I’m supposed to be saying that to you.”

“Technically, you paid me,” I point out, fighting to keep my eyes open.

His arms tighten around me. “I paid to keep you safe,” he corrects. “This wasn’t part of the transaction.”

“Then what was it?” The question slips out before I can censor it, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to hide.

His hand stills in my hair. “Something I shouldn’t have done,” he admits. “But I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

I fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, more content than I’ve ever been.

Gray dawn light filters through hotel curtains when I wake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of Caleb’s arm across my waist. Reality crashes in like a tsunami—I’m naked, sore in unfamiliar places, and in bed with my father’s best friend.

But worse than the fear is the want.

I want to wake him with kisses, want to learn what he likes for breakfast, want things that have nothing to do with revenge or rebellion. The wanting terrifies me more than any consequence.

I watch him sleep—the vulnerability in his relaxed features, the way his hair falls across his forehead. Memorizing him. Then, moving like a ghost, I gather my clothes.

Each step away from the bed feels like tearing something essential. At the door, I pause, looking back at him one last time. He shifts in his sleep, reaching for where I was.

I flee before my resolve crumbles, the hallway air sharp against my flushed skin, my body still humming with his touch.