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rhythm

noun. a strong, regular, repeated pattern of movement or sound.

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NO-ONE KISSES ME LIKE Callum kisses me.

Somehow he's made me both slip out of my mind—my consciousness hovering somewhere in his bedroom, watching us make out against the door—and retreat even deeper into it, letting all the sensations of him wash over me and drag me under like a riptide.

He has one hand cupping my jaw, half the fingers splayed across the side of my neck, and the other curled around my waist. There's no space for breathing without the other feeling the inhale, the exhale, the catches of air and silent gasps.

I unfurl for him, my lips parting, tongue softening, seeking. He surges even closer with a low moan, pushing me hard against the door. I can feel every plane, every bone and muscle of his body, every hard ridge and soft fold of mine lying flush together.

The hand at my jaw snakes into my hair, and I wrap my arms around his neck to draw him in closer. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, and then over the contours of my mouth. When he sucks on me a rush of arousal slides down my chest, my navel, and pools between my legs.

We both pull apart at the same time.

Callum wrenches himself two steps back, knuckles pressed to his mouth. The look on his face is akin to panic mixed with lust.

He lowers his hand from his face, balling up the fabric of his pants in his fist. "Why are we doing this? Are we doing this?" His words are jagged, hoarse.

"I don't know." I'm breathing unevenly through my mouth. My mind couldn't pull away from him if my life depended on it.

"Is this going to fuck everything up?"

Probably. Yes. Totally.

There are several pressing reasons we should not continue, and write this off as a drunken hookup like the last time.

One, I went on a whole tirade against bandcest not one month ago. We are section leaders together. We've only just recently managed to settle into some type of productive equilibrium with each other, our different personalities and leadership styles complementing rather than contaminating the drumline. Hooking up is going to shatter this fragile peace.

Two, I never hookup with people in my immediate social networks. There is no such thing as no-strings-attached in a college town where everybody has mutual friends, which is why I usually pick my bedmates from strangers. Callum is the complete opposite of a stranger. He's one of the Halston student body I've known longest.

Three, most importantly, we fucking hate each other.

I blurt, "Flip a coin."

He chuckles weakly. I know he always carries cash. Callum pulls his wallet from his pants and a dime from the wallet. He flips the coin, catches it, and keeps it hidden in his palm. He nods at me. "Call it."

"Heads we keep going," I decide. "Tails we stop."

Callum overturns the coin onto the back of his hand and reveals it.

Tails.

"Okay," he says hollowly. He exhales in a long breath.

"Okay," I echo lightly, flattening my palms against the door.

We'll stop.

Crisis averted.

He's staring at the coin on his hand like it's burning a hole through his skin. His sun-bleached hair is wild and tousled from when I ran my hands through it, hands that tingle at the memory.

Lifting his head slowly, I see the exact moment something snaps between us.

"Fuck it," Callum decides, flinging the coin to the floor.

He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me up to meet his mouth. I slide my hands up his chest, around his shoulders, his neck. His kiss is harder, hotter this time, more insistent and assured.

Stumbling, mouths and hands refusing to leave other, we blindly make our way toward the bed. On the way I buck off my shoes and socks and Callum removes his shirt, the shirt he just pulled on after spilling something on his other.

Callum leans a knee on the mattress as I fall onto my back, his hand gripping my hip. He shifts lower, bending his tall frame to get at my neck. The temperature of his mouth on my exposed skin is hotter than anything I've ever experienced. A shiver rolls through me. His kisses burn their way from my jugular (day-old stubble lightly scraping my skin) down the column of my windpipe, over my collarbone, until he hits the black imitation silk of my dress.

He lays his forehead on my shoulder, then lays a kiss there. When his nose starts tracing circles on my skin, hyper aware of each locus of contact, I tell him, "Take my dress off."

I'm trembling before I'm even naked, electric anticipation running through my veins. I can't believe this is happening. Callum's expression clouds with desire as he reaches for the knotted ties holding the dress together at the waist. His hands—fuck, those hands—loosen the bow and peel both panels off my chest, exposing me to the cool air. I'm not wearing a bra, and his jaw goes slack.

"You are torturing me," he whispers.

"Unintentional," I whisper back. "This time."

Smirking, Callum climbs onto the bed, wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into his bare torso. He kisses me again, and it's hot and wet and full of friction. He sucks on whatever he bites—lips, tongue, neck—and I slide my hands into his hair, around his ribs, digging my nails in lightly.

"Tell me how to touch you," he whispers against me. "What do you want?"

"Anything you want."

He lifts far enough away to furrow his brows at me. "What?"

"Anything you want," I repeat.

The confusion remains in his eyes, swirling around with the dark desire and a curved golden reflection from the soft lamplight. "But specifically, what do you like? Like, to get off."

Ah. An awkward chuckle rips from my throat. "Minor problem," I say. "I, um, generally don't."

"What?"

I sigh and move to sit up. Callum moves backward, resting on his knees and listening intently. "I can make myself come but when I fuck other people, I can't come," I explain. "You know how women hate being told it's psychological when it comes to their reproductive systems? Yeah, in my case, I'm pretty sure it's psychological. I... just can't get out of my head."

Callum's face has frozen in an unblinking gape.

"I'm not joking," I add.

"Yeah, I got that. I'm just processing," he murmurs. His gaze trails down my bare body and lingers where one thigh crosses over the other, almost burning me with attention. In quiet breath, he says, "Show me."

I shift on the bed, not understanding.

Callum's weight rocks forward until he's right in front of my face, hands pulling the dress straps down my shoulders and tossing the garment away. He takes my face and kisses my cheekbone, pausing to whisper, "Show me how you make yourself come."

Ha. What?

"What, are you shy or something?"

My response to a barb is instant: "No."

"Good," he says, before kissing me breathless one more time.

When I open my eyes, my upper half is propped against Callum's pillows and headboard, and my lower half is splayed open on either side of his hips. Callum hooks his thumbs under my panties. A slow, torturous tug, the fabric sliding against down my legs almost teasing me with its understated friction. He takes a kneeling position at the foot of the bed. In the cool open air, I can feel my wetness already gathering.

My eyes fall shut, the inky darkness soothing to my overstimulated senses. I put my left forefinger on my clit and apply a whisker of pressure, sweeping from side to side in diagonal strokes. My core twitches in anticipation. My breasts feel heavy with blood; I close my right hand over my nipple in the best imitation of Callum's tongue, breath steady but increasingly labored knowing that he's watching me.

I release my breast and move one finger to trace my center, slipping over the soaked flesh between my legs. My left hand keeps up the gentle strokes across my clit. All I have to think of is how Callum's tongue felt in my mouth and I'm ready. I push my fingers inside and fuck myself for what feels like just a minute before I feel Callum's breath between my legs.

My eyes flutter open and he gives me a sultry smile. "I think I got it."

And before I even register, he's gently removed my hand and closed his mouth on my wet fingers, that soft skin on the inside of his lips wet and satiny and erotic as hell. He sucks me clean and then traces my core, one finger dipping into my pussy, just to the first knuckle, before going back to tracing. My eyelids flutter shut—

Callum bites the inside of my thigh, the sensitive skin stinging in echoes of pain. "Look at me. The whole time."

"I always close my eyes."

"Yeah, so you can turn sex from a reality into a fantasy," he says, so cuttingly observant that my lips part in surprise. "But this isn't happening inside your head, Bay. Look at me when I eat you out."

Holy shit. "Okay."

I inhale slowly, Callum sinks two fingers into me, thinking I'm so restrained for keeping quiet—then he licks my clit with his tongue and I nearly scream. Instead, a garbled moan emerges as he wraps his free arm around my thigh, keeping me spread open and pinned to his mattress. His fingers fuck me in a perfect unerring rhythm, sliding past my G-spot with pinpoint accuracy. God, I could die right now.

His mouth is hot to the touch, the warmth seeping into me like a shot of Fireball. My throat tightens up, and still I keep looking at him. I watch his brown eyes closely enough to see them soften on me, I watch my own hand slide into his hair like I've been possessed by another spirit. I watch where my brown thighs hang over his tanned shoulders, his finger tracing a spiral on my hip.

Callum sucks harder on my clit and the tide starts cresting.

My back arches, and my free hand finds his, fingers tangling. "Oh, fuck. Callum."

His fingers keep stroking through the pulses in my pussy, lightning bursts of pleasure radiating out with each one. My eyebrows pinch, but I hold on for him. Spark after spark race each other to my brain—which has momentarily stopped processing sight and sound—then euphoria bursts over my body.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tip my head back against the pillows, moaning louder when Callum's fingers vanish and his tongue dives inside me, tasting the gush of my wetness as I come. He lets my entire body stop twitching and clenching before he pulls his face away, letting my thigh fall sideways back to the bed. The wetness on his lips mocks the evidence of my crime.

I glare. "You look pleased with yourself."

Callum can't even be sly; he's just grinning, radiating triumph. "How can I not be? Apparently I have the sole honor of seeing you come like a flash flood— ow!" (I tugged his hair in punishment.)

"Shut up and come here."

Callum climbs on top of me, kissing me until I want to moan his name again, and then slipping the fingers he fucked me with into my mouth. I lick him clean like he did for me, relishing the haze that fills his expression and the shudder that rolls through his body when I slide my lips to the knuckle and empty all the air from my mouth. I taste myself, acerbic and heady like wine, and reach frantically to unbuckle his jeans. Callum helps me, bucking off his pants. I want him. I want him to wipe me out.

He leaves the bed to get a condom from the bottom drawer in his dresser, dropping his underwear on the way. He has an ass like a Greek statue. Of course he does. When he turns around, gloved and stroking himself, I clamp down on my surprise. I thought he'd be a middle of the bell curve guy, relying on efficient use rather than aggregate size, but he's... not. He's both longer and thicker than I expected. Almost intimidatingly so, if he hadn't gotten me so dripping I think I would let him take me however he wanted.

"If you fuck me in missionary, that's disappointingly vanilla."

"Everything is a performance to you," Callum smirks, reaching the bed. "But fine. A musician is nothing if not creative. Roll over. On your side."

I do as he says, hating myself for flinching when his warm palm lands on my ribcage and smooths down my waist. His nose traces my shoulder tenderly while he positions me, his front hot against my back, a rock hard bulge pressing into my lower spine.

"Are you sure about this?" Callum mutters against my ear. "You're going to have to face this the next time we meet."

I glance over my shoulder, craning my head to kiss him, so softly, light like a single raindrop, on the angular edge of his jawline. "I know."

I feel his cock nudging me and suck in an impatient breath. Then he wraps arm around my waist and works himself in, inch by torturous inch. His path is slicked by my last orgasm, and the burning pressure of his entry only makes me want him more. At the last moment, I arch my back even deeper and he bottoms out in one fluid push.

His ragged breath against my neck sends a shiver all the way down my spine and into my toes. "Fuck."

I agree. The sensation of him emanates into every fingertip, and I sigh blissfully as he withdraws and thrusts back in, paving an unfettered trajectory, one more thrust, splitting me open, another thrust, seating himself so deep that my pussy flexes around him, unbidden.

His strokes accelerate, and I lose myself to friction. His expert hand—rough skin, soft touch, and oh, so confident—snakes around and cups my breast, palming the flesh and tweaking the nipple. I twist to look backward, sealing my mouth over his in an appreciative kiss. His tongue tangles with mine, though when he fucks me harder it's impossible to keep our faces still enough to make out. I settle for moaning to the ceiling, while his nose digs into my shoulder, occasionally speckled with a hickey or a bite. Downstairs, a new 2000's dance hit starts pulsing through the house and the partygoers cheer in approval.

Holding me tightly, Callum rolls himself backward until I'm on top of him, legs spread apart on either side of his knees. I can barely see the curve of his cock before it disappears inside me, pumping heat into my body, but I see the possessive grip he has on my breast, his other hand snaking around to dust over my clit. My gasps deepen into repetitive moans, which seems to encourage him.

Callum's fingers trace my upper thigh, my hip, then back to my clit. Feather-light, his touch gets firmer and slower, until I'm squirming against his pelvis, dripping wetness down my center and probably onto his skin, trying to speed his rhythm up.

He whispers, "Use your words, Bay," in my ear before biting my earlobe.

I scowl. "Fuck me faster."

"As you wish."

His hips piston with brutal pressure now, jolting my pliant and willing body each time he thrusts forward. Callum releases my tits to hold my waist, necessary leverage as our bodies slam together hard, flesh slapping against flesh.

"Oh, God," I mutter, feeling my core start clenching and pulsing wetly. Again? I wonder, baffled. Again.

I wonder how I look to an observer, splayed on top of him, wrapped in his expert hands that are strumming me like a taut guitar string, a sweating, dripping mess as he fucks me to oblivion.

I turn my head to the side and whisper his name. Callum blinks slowly, his brown eyes, not even an inch from mine, blown wide open. I can see straight to the core of him. He's a good person; I'm not. "You're making me come again."

Hearing that, a choked moan leaves his mouth, sprouting goosebumps on every inch of my arms. His thrusts become arrhythmic and sloppy, hard and deep, and we're half kissing, half panting sacrilegious dirty nothings into each other's mouths as we let go. God, I'm going to die. You're taking it so good. Don't stop.

Callum's hands hug me to his chest, and I breathe deeply through the tremors that shake my legs. "Oh, my God. Yes," I hiss, my hips bucking wildly as my brain combusts.

The French say orgasm is death, la petite mort, but I read that orgasm is not death, it's forgetting—and I agree with the second interpretation. I feel more alive than ever, head spinning with ecstasy, and I don't remember any of the reasons I ever tried to avoid Callum, ever hated him. I feel like no part of me is safe, I feel like every part of me is safe. I just surrender my body to his and hope the reasons return to me in the morning.

His arm looped around my neck keeps our mouths together, kissing to invade, his tongue sweeping every contour of my mouth, wringing soft breaths from the back of my throat with feverish intensity.

Still inside me, he slurs, "Don't run off this time."

"What do you mean?" I meet his eyes and instantly want to look away. He's right. I hate the reality of him, of this. But I will face it.

"Last time you walked out in the morning without waking me," he said. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"I'm not in any mindset to argue. Just promise me." His cock flexes—on purpose, the bastard—and my offenses crumble as my body again spasms in pleasure. My brain goes rubbery and exhaustion falls over me like a blanket. I have no qualms about breaking promises if I want to. But do I want to?

"Fine. I promise," I say, unsure if I'm lying or not. "I'll be here in the morning."