Off Limits

The late-night quiet of Callum's penthouse wraps around me like a second skin—the kind of silence that makes every breath sound loud, every shift of fabric a confession. I'm supposed to be asleep. I've been supposed to be asleep for two hours now, staring at the ceiling, counting the beats of my own restless heart.

It's useless.

My hand drifts down my stomach, fingers tracing the hem of my silk robe where it's ridden up my thigh. The fabric is cool against my overheated skin, and I bite my lip, hard, trying to think about anything else. The game tomorrow. The flight home next week. What I want for breakfast. Anything except the way Caleb's voice sounded earlier tonight, low and rough, laughing at something Callum said as they walked past my door.

It doesn't work.

Nothing ever works.

I roll onto my back, letting the robe fall open, the air hitting my bare thighs, my stomach, the damp heat between my legs. I'm not even wearing anything underneath—I never do, not when I'm staying here, not when I know he's just down the hall. It's stupid. It's pathetic. It's the only thing that makes me feel less like I'm going to crawl out of my own skin.

My fingers find the waistband of nothing, because there's nothing to push aside, and I spread my legs without thinking, without deciding, just letting my body do what it's been dying to do all night. My middle finger traces the slick heat of myself, circling slow, and the sound I make is barely a whisper—a soft, shaking exhale that I smother against my own wrist.

His name is on my tongue. I don't say it. I never do.

But I think it. God, I think it so hard it feels like a prayer.

Caleb.

His shoulders, broad enough to block out the sun. His hands, those big, rough hands that I've watched wrap around a football, around a beer bottle, around the waist of some girl at a party. His eyes, blue and sharp and always, always finding mine in a crowded room, like he's checking to see if I'm watching.

I am. I'm always watching.

My fingers move faster, the wet sound obscene in the quiet, and I press my head back into the pillow, my back arching off the mattress. The coil inside me winds tight, tighter, and I let myself imagine—just for tonight, just for this moment—that it's his hand between my thighs. That it's his mouth on my neck. That the low, rough sound I hear is his voice, telling me exactly what he'd do to me if he had the chance.

The coil snaps. My body tenses, my mouth falling open on a silent cry, and I ride it out, my hips grinding against my own palm, my thighs squeezing my hand like I'm trying to keep something precious inside.

And then I hear it.

A footstep. Heavy. Deliberate.

My heart stops. My hand freezes between my legs, still slick, still shaking, and I stare at the ceiling like it might tell me I imagined it. I didn't. There's another footstep, closer now, and then the soft creak of the floorboard right outside my door.

I should move. I should pull my robe closed, roll over, pretend I'm asleep. I should do any of the sensible things a person does when they realize they've been caught doing the one thing no one is supposed to see.

I don't move.

The door opens.

Caleb fills the frame—all six-foot-four of him, backlit by the dim light from the hallway, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his blue eyes fixed on me like he's just found something he's been looking for his whole life. He's wearing gray sweats and nothing else, and I can see the hard line of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the way his hand is already at the waistband of his sweats, fingers curling into the fabric like he's holding himself back.

I don't stop.

My hand starts moving again, slow and deliberate, my eyes locked on his. I watch his jaw tighten. I watch his chest rise and fall, his breathing going shallow. I watch his hand drop lower, palm pressing against the front of his sweats, and the sound he makes—a low, rough groan—is the hottest thing I've ever heard.

My fingers slide through my wetness, gathering it, spreading it, and I draw small circles around my clit, my hips tilting up to meet my own touch. I'm putting on a show. I know I am. And he's watching like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"Fuck, Bella." His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, and the sound of my name in his mouth—the short version, the one only my brother uses—makes my thighs clench, a fresh wave of heat flooding through me.

I don't answer. I can't. My throat is too tight, my heart too loud, and there's a second coil building inside me, faster and harder than the first, because he's here, he's watching, and I can see exactly what it's doing to him.

The bulge in his sweats is impossible to miss—thick and hard and straining against the fabric, and his hand wraps around himself through the material, gripping, stroking, his eyes never leaving mine. I watch his mouth fall open, his head tipping back for just a second before he forces himself to look at me again, and the need in his gaze is raw, desperate, hungry.

I'm close. So close. My fingers are working faster now, my breathing ragged, and I keep my eyes on his, letting him see exactly what he does to me. My back arches, my thighs fall open wider, and I let the sound escape—a broken, breathless moan that fills the room as my body shatters, as I come apart under his gaze, my hips grinding against my own hand, my whole body trembling through it.