POV Caleb

I’ve imagined kissing Serena Lakin approximately ten thousand times, and not one of those fantasies prepared me for the reality of her mouth on mine. Tasting like mint gum and cherry lipgloss and every dream I’ve ever been too scared to name.

Years of wanting collapse into this single point of contact.

My hands know exactly where they always wanted to go. One hand tangles in her hair, angling her head back to deepen the kiss. The other slides down to her waist, pulling her against me until there’s no space left for Jesus or good judgment.

She kisses me back like she’s angry about wanting this. Like she hates me for making her feel it. Like she hates herself more for not stopping.

“Caleb,” she gasps against my mouth, and hearing my name like that—breathy and desperate instead of disgusted—nearly drops me to my knees. “This is insane.”

“I know.” I pull her closer until there’s no space left between us. “I don’t care.”

I walk her backward from the wall toward the counter, never breaking contact. She fits against me like she was designed for this exact moment, like every other girl was just practice for the real thing.

And they were. God, they were.

I’ve dreamed about this since I understood what wanting meant. Not the cruel fantasies I told myself for years—making her cry, breaking her down, watching her perfect composure shatter.

But this.

Her breath catching when I tilt her head back. The small sound she makes when my tongue finds hers. Her fingers digging into my bare shoulders like she needs an anchor.

This is where she belongs. In my hands. Under my mouth. Mine.

“If you want me to stop,” the words scraped out of me like a confession, “say it now.”

“I should want you to stop.” Her voice wavers. “I should hate this.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t just—” Her protest dies when I lift her onto the counter, settling between her thighs like I’ve finally found home. “Oh my God.”

The position puts us at the perfect height, her legs bracketing my hips, and when she shifts, she brushes against how hard I already am. We both freeze for a moment.

“Is that…” She swallows hard. “Because of me?”

Is she serious right now?

“Serena, I’ve been hard for you since I was fifteen years old.” The confession tears out of me. “You could read the phone book and I’d need a cold shower.”

She makes this sound—half laugh, half moan—and rocks her hips experimentally. The friction nearly kills me.

“Fuck,” I groan into her neck. “Don’t. Unless you want this to be over embarrassingly fast. You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Then show me.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Stop talking and show me.”

So I do.

I slide both hands under her top, palms flat against her stomach. She’s soft and warm and trembling. Her stomach contracts beneath my palm, muscles tensing at the contact.

She’s nervous. I can feel it in the tremor running through her, in the way her breath catches and holds. But when my thumbs brush the underwire of her bra, she arches into the touch.

I push her top up slowly, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. Instead, she raises her arms, helping me pull it off completely.

The bra is black lace. Simple. Devastating.

“Not strawberry underwear,” I murmur, trying for levity, but my voice comes out wrecked.

She actually smiles. “I have regular underwear too, asshole.”

“Thank God.”

I trace the lace edge with one finger, watching goosebumps rise across her skin. Her breathing has gone shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly. And when I finally cup her through the fabric, she makes this sound that I want to record and play on repeat forever.

“Sensitive?” I ask, thumb circling her nipple through the lace.

“I don’t—” She can’t finish the sentence because I’ve lowered my mouth to her other breast, tongue tracing patterns through the fabric.

But then I slow down.

Every instinct screams at me to take, to claim, to devour. Yet this is Serena. The girl I’ve destroyed for six years. And I will not be another thing that hurts her.

I’ve done this before. Hundreds of times. With girls whose names blurred together before morning light. But I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her.

And I’ve never been this terrified of getting it wrong.

I pull back to look at her, and the sight nearly kills me. Lips swollen from kissing. Skin flushed pink. Eyes dark with want. Hair completely wrecked from my hands.

My thumb traces circles against her hip bone while my mouth finds her throat this time.

She tilts her head back, offering more access, and the gesture of surrender nearly breaks me. Her pulse hammers against my tongue as I trace a path down to her collarbone.

Her fingers find my hair, tugging it and she knows what she’s doing now—not the virgin I tormented for years but someone who’s tasted pleasure and wants more.

With me. She wants it with me.

She arches into my touch, grinding against me with deliberate intent that makes me groan. The sound vibrates against her skin, and she does it again, harder. The friction nearly breaks me and I feel her smile against my shoulder.

Pride and wonder mixing in that small curve of lips.

She likes knowing she affects me.

Serena pulls me up for another kiss, and this one is different—deeper, hungrier. Her tongue slides against mine while her hips maintain that maddening rhythm against my cock.

She’s so responsive. So beautifully, heartbreakingly responsive.

Can she? CAN SHE? Is water wet? Is the sky blue? Am I completely fucked?

Fuck. FUCK.

The word ‘princess’ hangs between us like a blade, sharp with six years of history. Six years of using that word to hurt her. To belittle her. To make her feel small.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify