Page 85 of Fallacies

I spring up to my elbows, reaching for the hem of his shirt, but he’s pulling it off before I can push at the fabric. I’m certain that I’ll never get used to the sight of him as he tosses it to the floor. For a moment, I’m so distracted by the Sol Marks inked over his ribs and the harsh definition of each muscle that I forget where I am.

But my surroundings slam back into me when Callan nudges my legs apart with his thighs and plunges both fingers back inside me. He finds a ruthless rhythm, dragging me right up to that euphoric precipice in a matter of seconds. Seconds.

It’s embarrassing, really, but I can’t find a single drop of shame in the violent surge of heat rushing through my body. My hips buck, a poor attempt to take him deeper, and Callan curses, sliding a hand against my back when I arch off the table.

“Callan,” I grit out, teetering on the edge of release.

“Not yet,” he growls back.

Not yet, is criminally insane.

Static pricks the air, and my own magic rushes out to meet it, the only lantern in the room extinguishing with a hiss. Callan relights it instantly.

I hear the soft clink of his belt, groaning in frustration at how slowly he undoes the buckle.

His wicked fingers continue, applying enough pressure to keep me on the edge of release, but not enough to tip me over the side. My body is burning for it.

Pulling down his zipper, Callan frees himself from his jeans with one hand, a rush of anticipation rippling through me when the head of his erection nudges my inner thigh.

He captures my attention, the black of his pupils stark against the ring of silver around them. “Yes?” he asks.

“Yes.” The please is silent. “Yes,” I say again, convinced he didn’t hear me when he only picks up the pace of his fingers. “Callan.”

He pulls his hand away, lines himself up, and pushes every inch inside me.

All my coiled tension snaps, the sudden pressure shoving me straight over the edge.

Callan curses, his forehead pressed into mine as my body contracts, pleasure sweeping through every muscle. It rolls through my limbs and down to my toes, my magic pulsing with it.

Static pricks my skin, heightening the tip of my climax, and for a moment, I think I’ll never come back down.

“That’s it,” Callan hisses, dragging me back into my body with the hand he digs into my hip. He moves in slow, languid thrusts, wringing out every last wave of pleasure, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I feel the burn of impending tears. “Talk to me, Chaos.”

I reply with the first true statement I can think of, “I can’t feel my legs.”

My brain is mush, reduced to messy desire, and it only gets worse each time he pushes into me, an addictive rush of pleasure racing up my spine. It’s so potent I can taste it on my tongue.

Callan’s laugh is light against my throat, as his hands shift to the back of my thighs, holding them up so I don’t have to.

I wrap my arm around his neck, and Callan shudders when my other hand slides through his hair. The edge of the desk digs into my skin, but I don’t have the capacity to care. There’s no place I’d rather be—trapped in his hold, pressure building each time he pulls out and pushes back in, the silver in his eyes molten as he stares back at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Callan lifts my legs higher, shifting my hips, and the new angle steals my breath.

“Another,” he grits out, and I’m about to deny the demand when his hand slides up to palm my breast.

And on his next thrust, the bastard drops his head and drags his teeth across my nipple. I practically jolt off the table, more of that heavy pleasure building, and it only gets worse when I look down.

My blurry gaze falls to the grip he has on my legs, the calloused fingers digging into my thighs, the veins bulging in his arms…

“Another, Chaos.”

His tongue darting out over my nipple.

I wind tighter at his words and at the sight, heat rising beneath my skin, and Callan’s muscles tense in response to it.

The light from the lantern flickers, but I’m too mesmerized to care, my attention drifting to the space between us.

I watch as he moves in and out, enraptured by the flex of his ribbed torso and the way it makes his beautiful tattoo ripple. He fits so perfectly that I wonder if he was made for me. Maybe I was made for him.