Page 46 of The Callahan Effect

"I can do that."

I slipped my phone onto the bedside table and took his hand again.

You're worth having difficult conversations for.

Emotion flickered across his face before he drew me back into his arms.

"And so are you."

Mason backed toward the bed, never breaking contact. The backs of his knees touched the mattress, and he sat with me between his legs. His hands moved over my sides, slow enough for me to stop him, warm enough to make stopping impossible.

When he lifted the hem of my shirt, he paused. I raised my arms and he slid off my shirt, tossing it across the room. Cool air passed over my skin, followed by Mason's gaze. He studied the faint scar near my ribs, the one I usually hid beneath layers, and his fingers hovered above it.

"Can I touch you there?"

I placed his hand to the scar.

His fingertips traced the scar with reverence, not curiosity. He didn't ask how it had happened, he would likely wait until later when I used my phone. I felt my throat tighten around a sound that couldn't come. Mason leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the mark and the tenderness undid me.

I bent over him, gripping his shoulders, and he wrapped both arms around my waist. His face rested against my stomach for one breath, then two. The position made me feel held in a way I had never known how to request.

I threaded my fingers through his hair.

"You're sure?"

I answered by pulling him to his feet and dragging his shirt over his head.

His body was marked by hockey: bruises fading along his ribs, a thin cut near his collarbone, muscle built from endless drills and collisions. I touched each place slowly including the raw welt caused by his helmet. Mason reacted to my hands by trembling. It was as if they were speaking.

When I pressed my mouth to his shoulder, he exhaled sharply.

Mason spun me around until the bed caught the backs of my legs. He lowered me onto it, then followed, bracing his weight on one arm. He kissed me until the fear in my chest became heat, need. His palm slid beneath the waistband of my pants and stopped.

I urged him to continue and within seconds we were both naked.

He moved carefully, watching my face and wrapped a calloused fist around both our dicks and dragged back and forth.. Every time the sensation grew too intense, I caught his wrist, and he slowed. Every time I wanted more, I drew him closer. Our communication became a language of pressure and breath, of his mouth returning to mine whenever doubt threatened to separate us.

Mason kissed the corner of my mouth. "You're beautiful."

I ran a finger softly across his full lips and thought, You make me feel seen.

My eyes fixed on his as we crossed the distance between wanting and giving, until his forehead rested against mine.

The room blurred. I was lost to his breath at my neck, the roughness of his palm, and the clean scent of soap and sweat. The bed shifted beneath us. I held on to his shoulders and let myself feel everything I'd kept locked behind silence. Mason whispered my name. Each time, it sounded less like a question and more like a vow he was afraid to make too loudly.

Every cell in my body tingled as his fist tightened around our dicks and he faltered ever so slightly.

I pulled at his hair, trying to convey my feeling of need. Minutes later, we erupted together and warm cum painted both our chests and stomachs. My head spun and stars danced behind my eyes. I'd never come so hard in my life.

When it was over, we stayed tangled together beneath the thin dorm blanket.

Mason's head rested against my shoulder. His fingers moved lazily over mine, tracing the spaces between them. My body felt tender and loose, but the deeper ache had eased. I had crossed the distance and he'd met me there.

After a while, he lifted his head.

"This changes things," he warned.

I reached for my phone, but Mason caught my hand.