Page 104 of The Callahan Effect

This one felt peaceful.

Comfortable.

Shared.

Every now and then I glanced sideways at him, and each time he caught me looking he shook his head with quiet amusement before tightening his fingers around mine. I realized I wasn't actually watching him. I was listening. Every small sound he made—the quiet breath that escaped him, the soft chuckle when a gust of wind scattered leaves across the sidewalk in front of us, the unconscious hum beneath his breath that he probably didn't even realize he was making—still felt miraculous to me.

"I keep looking at you," I admitted as we crossed the final stretch of campus.

"I noticed."

"I'm staring because every time you speak, I remember what tonight means."

Emotion softened his features.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to thank Caroline enough."

"You can by living the life she helped give back to you."

He was quiet for several steps before answering.

"I intend to."

By the time we reached my residence hall, the last of the evening traffic had disappeared from the pathways. I held the front door open for Jack before following him inside, and together we rode the elevator to my floor without encountering another soul. The hallway beyond lay completely deserted, the quiet broken only by the distant hum of the heating system as Jack unlocked the door and stepped into the room we'd been sharing ever since I left the hospital.

He turned to face me as I closed the door behind us.

We didn’t speak. The evening had already given us more words than either of us would ever forget.

I crossed the room until I stood in front of him and lifted a hand to his cheek.

He whispered my name and his voice was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

He didn’t move toward me. He simply waited, his back against the door he’d just closed, giving me the control my healing body demanded. My hip ached with a familiar, dull throb from the walk, a reminder of its limits. But there was another ache, deeper and more urgent, that had nothing to do with the injury.

I took a step, then another, my movements deliberately slow. When I was close enough to feel the heat from his body, I stopped, lifted a hand, and pressed my palm flat against his chest, over the steady, accelerating beat of his heart. Then I kissed him.

His breath hitched. "Mase," he whispered, a plea and a caution wrapped in one.

"I know my limits," I murmured back, my own voice rough.

That was all the permission he needed. His hands, so practiced at supporting my weight, lifted to cradle my face. His kiss was not the tentative brush of a caretaker, but the deep, claiming pressure of a lover starved. I melted into him as his arms wound around my back, careful to avoid my almost healed side.

We moved toward the bed in a slow, shuffling dance. He guided me backward until my knees hit the mattress, then his hands were on my waist, lowering me with infinite gentleness. The concern in his eyes was a language I’d become fluent in. "Your hip?" he asked, his voice thick.

"It’s fine," I breathed, pulling him down to me. "It’s forgotten."

He stretched out beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand roaming over my shirt. Every touch was measured, mindful of the landscape of my body he knew so well—the ridges of scar tissue, the places that were still healing. He peeled the fabric away, his mouth following the path his hands had charted, learning me all over again. There was no rush, no frantic grappling. This was reclamation.

When it was my turn, I pushed at his shirt until he shrugged it off. My fingers traced the tense line of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, relearning the feel of him. His skin was warm and real beneath my hands.

He helped me with my pants, his movements achingly slow, his eyes never leaving mine, checking for any sign of discomfort. He would have found only want. When we were both bare, he settled over me, but not on me. He kept his weight on his forearms, his knees carefully positioned outside of mine, creating a cage of safety around my injured side.

The connection, when it came, was a slow, profound joining. A sigh escaped me, part pleasure, part relief. This was not just sex; it was a homecoming. His rhythm was a deep, rolling wave I could move with, not a pounding that would jar my bones. Every thrust was a promise, every gasp a reassurance. His forehead rested against mine, our breath mingling, and in the half-light, I could see the sheen of sweat on his skin and the fierce, protective love in his eyes.

The world narrowed to the points where we were joined: the press of his body, the grip of his hand twined with mine against the sheets, the solid beat of our hearts syncing. The climb was gradual, a slow burn that coiled tighter and tighter in my core, a heat that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the man moving inside me, with me, for me.

When the orgasm broke, it washed over me in a warm, quiet tide, pulling a soft, ragged sound from my throat. He followed moments after, his own release a shudder against me, a whispered name lost against my neck in a voice I would never tire of hearing.