Chapter Eighteen
Callum
Callum stared up at the uneven wooden beams of the ceiling. Closing his eyes was pointless, he knew. Turning over again to try to find a more comfortable position was pointless. He had even tried the old cliche of counting sheep, and had gotten up to two hundred and five before giving up.
Sleep wasn’t going to happen. Not when his mind kept circling back to the memory of that kiss.
Things had been awkward between them for the rest of the day, even though Tom had clearly tried not to let it affect anything. It didn’t do any good for Tom to act like nothing had happened, not when every time Callum met Tom’s eyes for even a fraction of a second he got thrown all over again into a sense-memory of their bodies pressed together. And his body responded just as strongly every time. Tom had pretended not to notice, but there was no way he hadn’t known what was going on every time Callum had to hurriedly turn away or throw something over his lap. And then they had made dinner together—peanut butter and jelly this time—and Callum’s hand had accidentally brushed Tom’s, and even that brief touch had felt like a bolt of lightning running through him. He didn’t know how he was going to manage several more days—at least—of this.
Almost worse than the awkwardness was all the time he spent thinking about what might be going through Tom’s head. Even though Tom didn’t show it, he had to be frustrated with Callum. For running away like that just when things had been heating up. For not being able to just kiss someone he was attracted to without it turning into something complicated.
He wished it were as uncomplicated for him as it seemed to be for Tom.
Tom’s words had been running through his head all day. In Tom’s voice, it sounded so simple. The problem came when that inner voice transformed into his own, or his father’s.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known he was gay. Maybe he had never consciously said it to himself, but he didn’t think there was ever a time when he hadn’t known. Even during his failed experiments with women—or maybe especially then.
It all looked so effortless for Tom. Tom was the type of man who thought nothing of marching into that factory and drawing a pack of large and dangerous men with guns toward him, and could come away at the end of it without a scratch—and he was gay. Or bi, probably. In any case, there was no conflict for him, no sense of contradiction. He was just… Tom. And he was someone Callum’s father would never dream of calling weak, or worthless, or less than a man.
His father again. His father, always.
His father had said a lot of things. Were any of them true?
He had said Callum couldn’t be trusted not to make a mess out of his plans. But today Callum had done what Tom couldn’t, and saved the three of them without violence from someone who had intended to kill them.
He had called Callum more insulting names than Callum could count. Callum tried to imagine him saying those things to Tom. In that mental image, suddenly his father seemed a whole lot smaller.
His father was small. The thought came to Callum unbidden, but it was true. He was a small man trying to build himself up. He was a climber, his ambition embarrassingly plain for anyone to see. With Callum and Alec, he had liked to talk as if the entire Syndicate was his, but in reality he had gone as high as he could go in the organization. He would never be the person he was in his mind.
He would never, in reality, be the person Callum had seen him as all this time—the person he had let terrorize him for his entire life. That person didn’t exist.
And because of him, Callum was lying here staring at the ceiling, alone and miserable, when he could have been in Tom’s arms.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he threw off his blanket and stood. As quietly as he could, he padded down the hallway to Tom’s room, and pushed open the door.
Tom was lying in bed, outlined in moonlight, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, Callum considered closing the door again and walking away. At least one of them was sleeping soundly; wouldn’t it be better to just leave him in peace? But that was his cowardice talking, and he knew it. He closed the door behind him and took a step closer—then cringed as the floor creaked under his weight.
In the dark, Callum could only tell that Tom had opened his eyes because of the way the light of the moon reflected off his pupils. “Who’s there?” came Tom’s voice.
“It’s Callum,” he said softly. “I…” The words he wanted to say caught in his throat. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.” Tom pushed himself to a sitting position. They watched each other in the dark for a moment, the silence growing thicker between them. Panic rose in Callum’s chest. This had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have come.
But the thought of going back to his bed, and lying there alone trying to chase sleep, made him speak. “You said you’d be here when I was ready. I’m ready.”
For a few seconds, Tom said nothing, and Callum envisioned him coldly telling him to leave, or mocking him for thinking the offer had been serious. But when Tom finally spoke, all he said was, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” And oddly enough, he was. Even as afraid as he was, he knew he would never be more ready for this than he was in this moment.
But he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. He stood rooted in place, painfully aware all of a sudden of his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. He tried clasping his hands behind his back, but that didn’t feel right either. God, he was pathetic. If he couldn’t even handle standing here in the dark with Tom watching him, how would he manage… whatever came next?
Tom patted the bed next to him. “Come sit.”
Gratefully, Callum crossed the room and sat. The bed was still warm from Tom’s body, the sheets rumpled from restless sleep—or, Callum thought, remembering Tom’s words, from a sleepless night of tossing and turning. Callum realized he was staring down at the bed, and forced his gaze up.
It was Tom’s pajamas that caught his eye. He had imagined—while trying very hard not to imagine—Tom sleeping naked, or in his underwear. Instead he was wearing a full set of pajamas printed all over with… were those little cat faces? An unexpected laugh bubbled up from his throat. He clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to stop himself.
Tom looked down to where Callum’s gaze had landed. He smiled. “Leila picked them out.”
For that moment, everything felt natural between them again. Like they were just sitting outside talking, and not… whatever this was. And then the awareness of where they were and why he had come here hit Callum full force again, and he couldn’t even look at Tom anymore. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—
Slowly, gently, like he was trying not to spook a skittish wild animal, Tom leaned in and kissed him.
Tom’s lips barely brushed his. Even so, he felt himself responding. And then the familiar resistance started up in his head, reminding him of all the reasons he couldn’t let himself do this, couldn’t let himself feel this. Reminding him of what he would be if he admitted to himself that this was what he wanted.
But this time he turned and faced the resistance head-on. He saw the emptiness behind all the words and all the fears. He saw the shadow of a man who had controlled his life for far too long.
What would he be if he let this happen? He would be gay—that was all. Just like he had always been.
This is what I want, he told the inner voice. This is what I’ve always wanted.
When Tom started to draw back, Callum was the one who pulled him in closer. He was the one to deepen the kiss, to take it from gentle to insistent.
He let his hands explore everywhere they wanted. The soft skin at the nape of Tom’s neck, and the roughness of his jawline. Down to his chest, and down further to the hard curves of his abs. Tom’s body was a candy store, and after what felt like a lifetime of standing outside and yearning, he finally had free reign. Every part of Tom was a new kind of wonderful. Every part felt like him.
His touch drifted lower, and lower still. He went still for a moment, almost breaking their kiss, then slipped his hand under Tom’s waistband. Tom’s cock settled into his hand like it belonged there. It felt like steel under silk, and the heat there matched the fire building in him.
Tom gave a soft gasp. He arched forward, and his cock strained against his pants. Callum slipped them off to free it. He noticed, in the back of his mind, that Tom’s shirt was already off. When had that happened? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe this was all a wonderful dream, and all he had to do was abandon himself to it.
But Tom chose that moment to pull back.
Callum drew his hands away, heart sinking. “Is something wrong? Did I…”
“No! No. Not at all. I have a confession to make, that’s all.” Tom sounded strangely shy all of a sudden.
Heart in his throat, Callum waited.
“I’ve… never done this with a man before.”
“Is that all?” Callum smiled in sudden relief. “I think we can figure out… how it’s done,” he said, hearing the teasing tone in his own voice, surprised at his own boldness.
Tom gave him an answering smile. “Oh, I know how it’s done.” He ran his hands up Callum’s chest, and Callum shivered helplessly as Tom pulled his shirt over his head. His pants swiftly joined it on the floor. Just like that, Callum was naked under Tom’s hands, under his eyes. He fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself, to pull Tom’s blanket over himself and hide. He was too visible, too exposed. As Tom’s gaze ran slowly over his body, he felt like Tom could see all of him—all his faults, all his flaws.
Tom traced a single finger across his pale skin. Callum had never really noticed Tom’s hands before, but now he was suddenly mesmerized by every detail—the neatly trimmed nails, the calluses on his palms and fingertips. His own nails were bitten to the quick, his frame thin and unmuscled, his skin corpse-pale.
Tom’s finger trailed from Callum’s shoulder all the way down his thigh. Callum’s cock throbbed, desperate for attention, but Tom made no move in that direction. He paused, studying Callum as if he had never seen him before.
“What’s wrong?” Callum asked.
“You’re exactly how I imagined,” Tom breathed. “And so much more.”
And now his hand wrapped around Callum’s cock, and Callum gasped. If what he had felt when they kissed for the first time was a sparking wire, this was the whole power station going up in flames. He arched into Tom as the other man began to tease him with an expert touch that made his earlier confession seem impossible.
He knew he should be doing something for Tom, too, but all he could do was writhe under Tom’s touch. Just the simple touch of Tom’s hand would have been enough to leave him helpless, let alone everything Tom was doing now. He closed his eyes, letting the sensations overtake him—and then he felt a finger probing at his entrance, and jerked in surprise.
“It’s all right,” Tom reassured him quietly. “I’ll go slowly.” The finger circled his hole, playing with nerve endings Callum hadn’t even realized he possessed, then slowly began to work its way inside him. A sound he hadn’t even known he could make escaped his throat. Too late, he remembered they weren’t alone in the cabin, and bit his lip to keep from crying out again.
Tom studied his face, smiling softly. “If you could see yourself right now…” he whispered. “I didn’t think you could ever look this relaxed, or this content. If I had my way, you would look like this all the time.”
Callum tried to answer, but then Tom’s finger slid deeper inside him and hit a spot that made speaking impossible.
Tom’s expression changed as he watched Callum’s reaction. “You make it very hard not to lose control,” he breathed.
Watching Tom, Callum realized that the other man really was still holding himself under control. While Callum had long since abandoned himself to Tom’s touch, Tom looked almost as self-possessed as ever.
“Then maybe you should stop trying,” Callum whispered in response.
Tom’s breathing roughened. He brought his mouth to Callum’s again, this time hungrily, with an intensity that made Callum gasp.
“I want to be inside you,” Tom said against his ear, the vibrations of his voice making Callum shiver. Tom paused. “But… only if you’re ready.”
All Callum’s earlier doubts felt like part of another life. There was no room for his inner resistance anymore. There was only Tom, everywhere, overwhelming his senses. He wanted more. He wanted to feel Tom even deeper, in the core of him.
“I’m ready,” he answered.
“We need…” Tom pulled back. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” Callum had to fight to hold back a protest as Tom left the bed. Tom grabbed a bath towel that had been neatly folded across the back of a chair, and hurriedly wrapped himself in it. He left the room.
With Tom gone, reality began to intrude on the dreamlike haze that had settled over him. Had this night really happened? Had any of it been real? It all seemed too good to be true. With nothing but the aching in his unsatisfied cock to remind him of what had just happened between them, he could almost believe the whole thing had been a dream.
But then Tom returned, holding a long-forgotten bottle of cooking oil, unopened. “It’s not perfect,” he said ruefully, “but it will do.”
Callum almost asked what it was for—and then flushed red as he figured it out for himself.
Returning to the bed, Tom poured a little of the oil out on his hands, then slipped his finger into Callum again. It felt different this time, pleasantly slick. Tom massaged the oil into Callum’s hole until it almost felt like too much. It ran down his thighs onto the bed, and Callum had a distant thought about what a mess this would be to clean up. Especially with no electricity.
Worth it, he thought giddily. Completely worth it.
Tom positioned himself at Callum’s entrance. There, he paused. “Are you ready?” he asked again.
Callum nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Callum expected pain. But when Tom eased into him, he moved slowly, almost too slow. Callum felt his body opening for him, yielding to him. In moments, his fear became a distant memory. All he wanted was to feel Tom filling him completely. He dug his fingers into Tom’s back, trying to urge him deeper, but Tom kept up the maddeningly slow pace.
And then Tom was all the way inside him, stretching him, filling him. All this time, he had never realized what he had been missing, but now he understood. It was this. It was Tom. Tom’s hands found his cock again, and his fragmented thoughts dissolved into nothing. In this moment, Tom was his entire world; there was no room for anything else.
Tom began to move inside him, first slow and gentle, then less so. Callum started pushing back against his thrusts, and Tom made a strangled noise deep in his throat, only partially suppressed. It was only then that Callum realized he wasn’t the only one overwhelmed.
For the briefest moment, Callum wondered if he was doing this right. But it didn’t work like that, he was beginning to understand. There was no getting it right or wrong. There was only the two of them, and as long as they were together, everything was as it should be.
And then he couldn’t think anything anymore. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood as he came, hot milky fluid coating his chest and Tom’s. Tom followed a second later, his entire body tensing as he released his seed deep into Callum, then collapsing over Callum in a sticky mess.
Tom held himself up on his hands, running his eyes over Callum with something that looked like wonder. “I never knew it was like that,” Callum thought he said.
Callum tried to answer, but found that he no longer had the strength. With Tom draped over him, and Tom’s softening cock still inside him, he surrendered to his lassitude and the weight of Tom’s body, and slept.