Page 86 of Fallacies

We’re fucked up in our own ways, due mostly to reasons that are out of our control. Out of my control. But we found a place to meet in the middle. We found common ground to stand on.

And more than that, we found love—the kind that consumes. That burns and fills and completes.

“Look at you.” I hadn’t realized he, too, was staring between us, captivated just as I am. Callan shakes his head, thrusting so deep there’s a spark of pain at the edge of the pleasure.

“Another,” he growls, and my body concedes the order.

The lantern bursts, my orgasm hitting me so violently that I’m unable to draw in a proper breath. Callan curses, working me through every last wave of it with his chest pressed to mine, feverish skin fused.

My body falls limp in his arms, entirely spent as he thrusts forward again, going as deep as he’s able before pulling out and finishing all over my lower stomach.

It’s only after what feels like a full minute that I’m able to catch my breath, and with my legs still bracketed in his arms, Callan drags in a few ragged inhales of his own. His muscles are taut, his lips swollen, and his pupils still consume most of the silver in his eyes.

I stare back at him, dumbfounded. Convinced I’ve gone stupid.

My gaze falls to the mess he made on my stomach, but before I can move to sit up, Callan stops me with a firm hand against my ribcage.

He bends down, wordlessly picks up his discarded shirt, and gently cleans me up. Fisting the fabric at his side, he drags his stare up my body, stopping when he gets to my eyes. “Okay?”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Sore?” His voice is clipped, as if he’s restraining himself from something.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Good.”

Callan bends down, and I yelp when he gathers me to his chest, crossing the room in two long strides. I manage to wrap my legs around his waist in the quickness of the movement, the fresh air of the hallway cool against my heated skin.

A second later, we’re in the bedroom, and all the air rushes out of my lungs when Callan all but throws me onto the mattress.

“Again,” he says simply, kicking the door shut behind him.

21

Lucina

The first of the sun bleeds through the crack in the curtains, spilling grey light over the mess of sheets and blankets we’re wrapped in.

Callan’s skin is warm against my hand as I lightly trace the ink along his torso. His muscles contract, flexing beneath the path my finger takes, and I watch it all with rapt fascination.

I vaguely remember falling asleep, but each time I stirred, he was there, pulling me tighter against him. His soft exhales against my ear lulled me right back into a blissful unconsciousness. I don’t remember the last time I felt so safe.

When I look up from his chest, Callan’s gazing back at me. His hair is a bit out of sorts, dark brown locks made into a perfect mess. His eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a shallow crease between his brows that deepens the longer I stare back at him.

“What is it?” I ask, laying my arm flat across his chest and propping my chin against it.

Callan reaches up to brush back my hair, his chest sinking as he exhales. “Have you…trained it?”

It takes me a second to place what he’s referring to. I look down at my hands, then back up at him. “The magic?”

Callan nods, his fingers stilling in my hair.

“Yeah.” I fist my hands, tucking them further beneath me. “I mean, sort of. I’ve been exploring it in small quantities.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence grows thick between us. Panic pricks the back of my throat. “Do you want me to…help you?” Callan asks.

I can tell that it makes him uncomfortable, talking about this, but at least he’s trying. I can tell that he’s trying.