by Zoe Dawson
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Later they fed the dogs, but left them in Owen’s loft. Ordered dinner in and ate and laughed and made love again.
Her hair fell forward as he brought her mouth to his. “Owen, I want to feel your weight on me.”
It caught his heart the way she said his name. It was deep and intimate. Callie was so true to herself, so open and sweet. She couldn’t be anything else, and he wouldn’t want it any other way. He shifted them both to their sides, paused there for a moment, kissed her, then moved the rest of the way, sinking deeply into her as she lifted up and wrapped her legs around his hips.
And he held her gaze in between long, slow kisses, moving inside of her, feeling her match his steady rhythm as easily as if they’d done this for centuries. He finally slid his arm beneath her, tilted her hips up that extra bit, so he could sink a tiny bit deeper, reach that spot he already knew was there, the one that made her gasp and tighten around him convulsively. The one he knew would take them both over the edge, as he looked into her eyes. “Callie…”
And those green windows to her soul grew shuttered then, at that one hoarsely uttered whisper. And it didn’t scare him so much as hurt him. Because it felt like she was his, dammit, and it made him sick to think he might do something, say something to hurt her, and the look in her eyes confirmed it. Even though they both knew the reality of what they were doing to each other. Even as she pushed him over the edge. And where it would leave them.
