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The first time he ever dropped to his knees for you, he didn’t hesitate.
Not for air. Not for pride.
Like gravity pulled him there.
Like your body was the center of his orbit—and surrender was just a natural law.
And now—he’s here again.
Kneeling between your thighs on the edge of the couch, broad shoulders bracketed by your knees, shirt rucked up over his ribs, his body taut with restraint. His mouth hovers just shy of where you want him. His breath fans hot against your skin, and his fingers grip the tops of your thighs like he’s bracing for impact.
You’re still mostly dressed—mostly. Just your shirt unbuttoned and pushed off your shoulders, bra straps fallen down your arms, shorts shimmied off and left bunched somewhere on the rug. You’ve let him take his time with you. His hands have roamed. His lips have trailed fire. But he hasn’t had permission to go further—not yet.
Because you wanted this.
You wanted him like this.
Desperate. Breathless. Needing direction.
He’s got that look.
The one he wears just before he breaks. The one that strips him down to something raw and real—eyes blown, jaw slack, sweat beading at his temples despite how still he’s holding himself.
You reach for him—your fingers threading through his hair, right at the top where it’s soft and thick and warm from the heat of his skin. He leans into it on instinct, that one place where he drops all pretense, lets you in deeper.
And then—firm. Deliberate.
You pull.
His breath stutters. A low sound escapes him, lips brushing your inner thigh where he falters. The tension in his neck spikes, jaw flexing, but he doesn’t move away.
He loves this.
You feel it in the way his hands tighten around your legs. In the way his whole body reacts to your grip—barely restrained, already trembling with anticipation.
“Caleb.” Your voice is quiet, but unyielding. A thread of silk drawn tight. “Look at me.”
He obeys like it’s a command he’s waited his whole life to hear.
Slowly, his head tips back—guided by your hand, neck exposed. The muscles in his throat work around a swallow, and his lips part on a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding.
His eyes drag up your body first, drinking you in like you’re something sacred. And then they find yours.
And oh, God.
There’s nothing in the universe more obedient than Caleb, on his knees, staring up at you with that look.
Desperate. Devoted. Unraveled.
The tension between your thighs throbs. You don’t let go of his hair.
“Eyes on me,” you murmur, and his breath catches.
“Please,” he says, low and wrecked, barely there.
“You can keep going,” you tell him, smoothing your thumb over the edge of his hairline. “But only if you look at me while you do.”
That’s what shatters him.
A low, broken sound escapes his chest. The flush creeping down his neck deepens, blooming across his chest like heatstroke. His lips are slick already—kiss-bitten, swollen from earlier teasing—and he licks them unconsciously as his gaze stays locked to yours.
He nods.
Once.
Slow.
Because he’ll say yes to anything right now.
And then he carefully lowers his head, mouth descending between your thighs, never once breaking eye contact. You feel his breath, then the first kiss—then the first lick.
Your fingers tighten in his hair instantly.
His mouth moves like he was made for this. Each stroke of his tongue is measured, not rushed. He’s not chasing anything. He’s building it. Drawing you open with heat and patience, until your breath is catching on every exhale and your thighs are trembling around his head.
But it’s the way he’s looking at you that unravels you.
Eyes dark and unblinking, locked to yours like he's daring you to look away first. He watches every twitch of your body. Every time your hips roll up to meet him, every tiny gasp you try to swallow—he drinks it all in like it feeds him.
Your fingers are tangled in his hair, not to control him—you couldn’t—but to stay anchored. Still, he lets you guide him, lean into him, and when your grip tightens, his shoulders flex between your thighs like he’s bracing himself for the next wave of you.
His shirt is shoved high across his chest, sweat glistening on his collarbone, caught in the dip of his throat. He’s flushed, breathing rough through his nose, but doesn’t falter—not even for a second.
You whisper, voice tight and thin, “Don’t stop.”
He answers with a sound—low, guttural, vibrating straight through your core—and fuck, the way that hum spreads through you, you almost come apart then and there.
Your legs start to shake. That tight coil inside you is cinching fast, sharp, rising. And still, he watches. Like he wants to memorize the exact second you fall apart. Like he needs to.
“Just like that,” you breathe, nearly inaudible. “Don’t—don’t look away.”
His voice is hoarse when he answers, lips brushing your skin: “Couldn’t if I tried.”
And when you break, you shatter.
It tears out of you like a cry you didn’t mean to give him—too raw, too real. Your back arches. Your body locks tight around his shoulders, and your hand fists in his hair as the pleasure hits in waves, crashing and crashing and crashing.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t flinch.
He stays with you through all of it, mouth relentless, hands strong at your hips to hold you steady when your strength slips.
Only when your fingers touch his forehead—soft, trembling—does he lift his mouth from you. Slowly. Reluctantly. His lips are wet, parted as he breathes hard through the aftermath, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are glassy, reverent, ruined.
You pet his hair with shaking fingers, smoothing it down like you’re trying to calm a storm. He leans into your touch, eyes closed in quiet satisfaction.
Then his head lowers, and he rests his cheek against your thigh. Still panting. Still flushed.
“Come here,” you whisper, tilting his chin up with two fingers.
When he meets your gaze, you smile—soft, warm, full of something that makes his throat work around the weight of it.
“That felt amazing."
He exhales sharply, like you just hit a pressure point. His hands clutch harder at your hips, grounding himself in your body.
“I’d stay here,” he says, voice raw, “if you asked me to. As long as you wanted.”
Your lips curl into a mischievous grin. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
Because now it’s your turn. And he’s going to feel what he just did to you.
⋯⋱⋯ ❖ ⋯⋰⋯
You ease him back onto the couch, pressing a hand to the center of his chest. The moment your palm meets his skin, his breath stutters—just a soft, involuntary sound—but it coils through you like a spark catching fire.
His body obeys yours without hesitation.
You follow him down, straddling his hips with slow purpose. The press of your weight draws a ragged sound from him, his hands instinctively lifting toward you—seeking skin, anchorage, you—but you catch his wrists before he can reach.
“Let me,” you murmur, voice low and liquid, eyes never leaving his. “I want you to feel good, too.”
The way he looks at you in that moment—it nearly ruins you. Pupils blown wide, violet irises reduced to rings of hunger. His chest rises and falls with uneven breath. You see it all: the tightness in his jaw, the flex of restraint in his arms, the barely-contained ache.
His pants are nearly off. The button’s undone, zipper half-lowered, fabric pulled taut over where he’s straining for you. You brush your hips over him, a teasing drag of heat and friction, and the way he groans through clenched teeth makes your whole body tighten in response.
“Please,” he breathes, voice cracking around the word. “Honey, I—”
You hush him with your mouth.
The kiss is deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and the soft, desperate sounds of two people who’ve lost their edges. He chases it even as you pull back, and your lips trail lower—down the line of his throat, the curve of his collarbone, the tight muscle of his stomach that jumps beneath your mouth.
You sink slowly to your knees.
Mirroring him. Worship in reverse.
His thighs spread, subtle but immediate. Permission and surrender.
You take your time. You make time.
You ease his pants down inch by inch, dragging the waistband over his hips, down those strong thighs, until he’s exposed to the cool air—and to your gaze.
His cock is flushed and hard, tip leaking, twitching when your breath ghosts over it. He’s so responsive already. So wrecked just from wanting.
You stroke him once—slow, fingers wrapping around his heat, thumb brushing the sensitive underside just to see him flinch. His thighs tense beneath your hands.
“Look at me,” you echo softly.
His head tilts up, lips parted, hair mussed from your earlier grip. His breathing’s ragged, eyes stormy with restraint, with need. And still—he listens. Watches as you lower your mouth to him.
When you take him in, the sound he makes—low, choked, helpless—is devastating.
His head tips back, neck long and vulnerable, the muscles of his chest jumping beneath a thin sheen of sweat. You feel the quiver in his thighs, the tremble in the hands hovering uselessly by his sides. He wants to touch you. He aches to. But he fights to hold back.
“Can I—” he chokes out, breath hitching as you swirl your tongue, “Can I hold you?”
You nod, and it’s all the permission he needs.
His hands come to your hair, gentle but desperate. Not to guide. Just to caress. To feel you there. His fingers are trembling. You take him deeper, lips sliding down his length until your nose brushes the heat of his skin, and his hips buck with a gasp he tries—and fails—to catch.
“Baby,” he pants. “I—fuck—I’m not gonna last if you keep…”
You pull off slowly, lips slick, meeting his eyes with calm, burning focus.
“You can come,” you whisper. “I want to see what kind of face you make when you do.”
Another curse under his breath.
Then he shatters.
You feel it all—the way his thighs snap tight around you, the sudden jerk of his hips, the way he tries to watch you through it even as his vision blanks out. His hands tighten in your hair, not hard, but to ground him to this moment of ecstasy—with you.
He comes with your name in a broken exhale, whole body arched, breath falling apart in pieces.
And you don’t look away.
You watch him fall.
When it’s over, when his thighs finally loosen and his chest stops heaving, you crawl back up to him, proudly licking your lips.
He grabs you the second you’re close. Pulls you into his lap like he needs to feel you to believe you’re real. His arms wrap around you, tight enough that it almost knocks the air from your lungs—but you let him. You anchor him now.
Both of you are still half-dressed. His pants pushed down. Your thighs bare. His shirt bunched. Your breath shaky against his cheek. There’s sweat and heat and something unspeakably tender in the mess of it all.
In the hush that follows, he presses his mouth to your temple and whispers, “I’m never getting on my knees for anyone but you.”
Your smile is slow. Not smug—just sure.
You tangle your fingers in his hair again, stroking the damp strands.
“I know.”