lights. camera. caleb
synopsis: Modeling isn’t supposed to end in mirror sex. But then again, Caleb was never just your coworker. Not when his hands linger too long on set. Not when his smile means trouble. Not when his voice turns soft and dangerous and says, “Strip for me, baby.” He says it’s just a quickie. But he always lies.
pairing: caleb x mc
wc: ~4.9k
tags: mirror sex, bratting, brat taming, inappropriate use of evol, dom/sub, dominant caleb, creampie, sexual overstimulation, possessive behavior, jealousy, dirty talk, teasing, model, oral fixation, sex in dressing room, quickies, quickies but they are not quickies, caleb's a big meanie, established relationship, porn with feelings, plot what plot/porn without plot, stripping
notes: i am horny again so hii! this is supposed to be a 1k drabble that turned out to be a 4.8k fanfic. so here ya go! i hope u enjoy that <3 lmk your thoughts if you want. every liked/reblogs and comments mean a lot to me.
Lights. Camera. Action.
That’s your rhythm. Your world. Your name on the cover and your body under the lens.
You’ve done shoots before, but never with him beside you, Caleb, your lover, your partner in crime, the man who made desire feel like breathing. His presence is magnetic. Heat rolling off his body like a second spotlight, lips parted just enough to tempt, jaw tilted just enough to command.
Your hands rest on your waist. Chin up. Chest out. The Calvin Klein tank hugs your curves like it was made for your skin alone. Beside you, he mirrors your stance, tank clinging to those sculpted pecs, baggy ripped jeans hanging low. Too low.
His boxers peek out just enough to be obscene. Just enough to remind the world who they’re looking at.
And God, the camera devours it.
The flash fades. The shoot ends. Voices melt into background static.
You turn first, chin high, heels clicking with practiced rhythm as his gaze scorches your back. Bratty and mean is your go-to today, and after the way he smiled at that photographer? After the little touches between him and your editor?
Yeah. There’s no way you’re letting him get away with that.
You throw open the dressing room door with a sharp swing, ignoring the stares from crew and staff alike. It closes behind you with a snap. But it doesn’t stay closed for long.
A soft click.
He enters like a storm sealed in designer cologne, quiet, devastating, radiating that dangerous stillness he wears too well. Before you can breathe, he’s on you, pinning your back to the door with one hand cradling your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.
“You didn’t even look at me, Pips,” he murmurs, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. “What’s up with you today?”
As if he’s innocent. As if he doesn’t know. As if he didn’t smile like that to everyone but you. He’s an angel, but the kind that fell just for you. And today, he’s been acting like heaven’s for everyone.
You scoff, turning your head aside, refusing to answer. But his body follows. His thigh presses between yours, knee slotting firm under your heat, the grain of his jeans grazing too close. His forearm braces beside your face, caging you in with zero intention of letting you out.
“Nothing, Gege. Find out yourself.”
You push him aside, but he lets you slip away too easily. You make it to the mirror, hands trembling just enough to betray you. When you reach for your brush, his hand slides over yours, slow, possessive.
He leans in behind you, eyes locked on your reflection.
“You’re jealous,” he says, almost in awe. “Aren’t you, baby?”
Gods. Of course you are.
You roll your eyes, trying to shake him, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers return to your jaw, guiding your face back to his, unrelenting, steady.
His lips trail from the inside of your wrist, up the soft underside of your arm, worshipful and maddening. Each kiss burns hotter than the last. And he never breaks eye contact in the mirror.
Fuck. You’re supposed to be angry. Not melting. Not moaning.
But then—
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, all mock repentance, his mouth curved into a smug little smile. “What did I do wrong today, honey?”
Oh, he looks so pathetic. This is fun. Way too fun. Definitely worth sacrificing your lunch break for.
“You think you’re so sly, huh?” you purr, turning to face him fully. Your fingers slide to his waist, grazing the edge of his jeans—loose, low, and criminally tempting. “I saw the way you glanced at them, Caleb. Don’t you have the faintest idea how obsessed they are with you?”
You lift your index finger beneath his jaw, tilting it upwards until his lashes flutter. The stubble beneath your fingertip is rough. His skin is warm—no, hot—like he’s burning under your touch, like he’s holding back something feral.
But then, he strikes.
His arms coil around your body and yank you in, your chest colliding with his in one fluid motion. The thud of your heartbeat echoes in your ears as your breath stutters, stolen right from your lungs. His tank top is thin, worn soft with wear, and through it you can feel everything. The press of his pecs. The heat of his skin. The teasing roll of his abs as he exhales against your cheek.
“So,” he murmurs, lips barely brushing your temple, “you are jealous of them.”
He catches your hand, cradles it like it’s breakable. And then, kisses. From the base of your knuckles, trailing up, one by one, lips warm and maddeningly slow.
“But why, my love?” he breathes. “Haven’t I already let you have all of me?”
His mouth curls into a smirk against your skin.
And God. You hate how it makes you melt.
You turn your head, trying to fight back the warmth creeping up your cheeks. Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, humming in your ears like static.
“Hmph.” You cross your arms, chin high. “You know they stock your new magazines at home? Hoarding them like they’re... limited edition.” You pause. Swallow. Your throat suddenly dry. “Well. They are limited edition. But one is enough, don’t you think?”
He stills behind you.
Then, he laughs, rich, boyish, infuriating.
His hand clamps on his stomach as he doubles over, the other bracing on your shoulder for balance. His laughter shakes through your spine, vibrating against your back where his chest clings to you.
“Caleb!” you snap, cheeks burning. “Stop laughing! I’m serious!”
“Oh, are you?” he gasps, catching his breath.
He grabs your wrist, turns you back toward the mirror, this time with no hesitation. Your breath catches. He cages you from behind, arms around your waist, hips flush to yours.
His hands trace over your body, palms wide and claiming. One finger slips beneath the strap of your bra and drags it down, slow, deliberate, exposing the elegant slope of your shoulder and the vulnerable curve of your collarbone.
He leans in, his voice a whisper dripped in heat.
“You hoarded my very first tabloid, remember?” His lips ghost over your skin. “Hundreds of copies. Under your bed. I counted, Pipsqueak.”
His gaze catches yours in the mirror, sharp. Gleaming.
His hands don't stop roaming. They map out your waist, your ribs, your hips, like he’s learning the story of your body all over again.
“So tell me, baby,” he murmurs, words dragging warm across your neck. “Are you really mad about them, or are you just pissed someone else is playing your game?”
“Caleb!” you shout, voice pitching higher than you meant, full of shock and outrage and something far more dangerous curling beneath your skin. The audacity of him. You want to slap that smug grin off his face, maybe ride him until it fades, but you’re already trapped. Your body betrays you, melting right into his grip like wax against flame.
“Why don’t I show you,” he drawls, “just how much I own you? Just like how much you own me, Pipsqueak?”
Oh, you like that. Your stomach flips, your thighs tense, your pussy clenches around nothing at the possessiveness in his tone.
But no. No. You’ve been a brat all morning. You’ve got a reputation to protect, a crown to keep on. You still have dignity, goddammit, not that he’s ever respected it.
“Gege, we’re in the middle of a shoot—” you try, weakly.
He brushes the excuse off with a kiss to your cheek, featherlight. Dangerous.
“Just a quickie,” he hums. “Been a long time since I fucked you right here.”
And then, God help you, he lowers his jeans, rough and fast, revealing the soft white boxers you’ve been fantasizing about since the campaign started. They cling to his hips like a sin wrapped in cotton. The bulge pressing against the fabric is barely contained. Your breath catches. Your mouth goes dry.
He knows you’re staring.
“Let Gege do all the work,” he purrs. “Just strip for me, love?”
His voice dips lower. Dangerously close to your ear. His breath fans against your neck, and your knees nearly buckle. “Let me show you how much love I hold for you,” he whispers, words molten and cruel. “And just you. Deal?”
Gods. Your panties are damp. Your thighs pressed too tight. Your chest rising too fast. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.
You want to play it cool. Want to say no. Want to call him annoying. But your fingers are twitching at the hem of your shirt. Your eyes won’t leave his boxers. Your mouth is watering.
You’re so fucked.
Caught between shame and need, your eyes lock onto his through the mirror as he watches you unravel. Caleb’s gaze is deep velvet, glowing with something dangerous, like moonlight wrapped in flame. The studio lights glare overhead, sterile and bright, but they don’t matter. Not when he looks at you like that. Not when his stare is enough to peel your skin open and set your nerves alight.
You try to move. Try to anchor your gaze to something else. Anything else. A hanger. A chair. The ceiling tiles above. Trying to gaslight yourself into thinking there’s a choice. That this isn’t happening. That you don’t want it with every fiber of your body.
But he’s already there, on you like gravity.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist with the ease of someone who knows your movements by heart. “Look at me.”
You do. Slowly. Stupidly. Your eyes find his again in the mirror. His stare is molten, drinking you in. He hasn’t even touched your bare skin yet, not really, but he looks at you like he already owns it. And somehow, you know he will. His eyes darken when they meet yours, glowing with the kind of hunger that never fully goes away. His fingers tremble, not from hesitation but from want, from the thrill of undressing you like it’s sacred again. Like he’s about to worship your body the way he did the first time, and the second, and the hundredth. Always like it’s new. Always like it’s everything.
His fingers trace yours, slow and coaxing, pulling your hand toward the hem of your tank.
“Here,” he murmurs, voice low and sinful. “Start with this.”
Your breath catches. Your body stills. You’re not sure if you’re ready, but he’s already guiding, lifting.
Your hands move, hesitantly at first, curling under the hem. The fabric brushes your skin as it rides up, soft and worn. Your stomach is the first to show, then the line of your ribs, and finally the edge of your bra, showing the swell of your breasts. The air in the room bites at your skin, cool and sterile, your nipples hardening through the lace. Your breathing grows uneven.
Behind you, Caleb hums. A sound so low it vibrates through your spine. He helps you lift the shirt all the way off, pulling it past your arms and letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter.
“Good girl,” he whispers, lips ghosting against your shoulder. “So obedient for someone who was shouting my name five minutes ago.”
Your cheeks burn. Your thighs press together instinctively, fighting the slick that’s seeping between them. Heat licks up your stomach. Your whole body pulses with it. How did you get here again? Where did all your bratty bravado go?
You hate how easily he breaks you down.
But he knows. Of course he knows. He always does.
His fingers drag lower, slow and deliberate. They brush your waistband, teasing, tracing the sensitive skin just above your hips. His other hand lifts your chin again, guiding your gaze back to the mirror.
“Need help with this part too?” he asks, and you swear he’s smirking without even moving his mouth.
You nod before you can stop yourself. Your breath stutters. Your brain empties.
His laugh is quiet, amused.
“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs, voice firm, grounding. “Gege’s asking you a question.”
You hesitate for half a second. Then your voice spills out, raw and small.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Help me, Gege.”
His smile deepens, pleased and possessive.
“That’s better.”
His hands move to your hips again, thumbs slipping under the waistband of your jeans. He drags them down slowly, kissing your skin with every inch revealed. The denim catches slightly on your thighs before falling, leaving you exposed in nothing but your panties. Soft. Damp. Stained. And he sees it.
His breath hitches.
He leans in just a little, eyes locked to the mirror, his voice barely above a groan.
“Oh, Gods, Pipsqueak.”
He’s not even touching you there yet, and you’re already throbbing. His moan hits your ears like lightning, sending a full-body shiver through you. You lean back into him, desperate, pliant. And then you feel it, hot and heavy, pressed against the curve of your lower back.
His cock, thick and aching, freed from his jeans.
He doesn’t give you time to process it. His hands grip your waist, rough and possessive, and then he lifts you easily, his body slotting behind you, pressing your stomach gently against the mirror. Your breath fogs the glass. Your heart is thudding too loud.
You can’t think. Can’t breathe.
You’re too far gone.
“Caleb,” you gasp, voice cracking, “please–”
He kisses your neck, then speaks, lips brushing skin.
“Just a quickie, baby. I promise you.”
Then he thrusts in. Deep. All the way. Perfectly, with no resistance, like your body was made to take him. And maybe it was. You cry out, barely catching the sound in your throat as your head falls back against his shoulder, your body shaking.
Your mouth falls open. Your legs tremble.
He groans, rough and wrecked against your ear.
“So tight, baby… fuck.”
And then he starts to move.
You feel it—God, you feel it—how his cock fills you just right, stroking deep, dragging against every sensitive part of you with ruthless precision. Every thrust hits with purpose, your slick sounds echoing softly in the cramped room. The stretch is perfect, the friction overwhelming. And yet, his hands stay firm on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to bruise, not enough to hurt.
He holds you like something sacred, something wild. He won’t let you fall. He’d never let you break without him catching you.
“Ah, Gege, too fast, please—” you gasp, breath hitching, trying to scramble for something solid, anything to ground yourself. Your palms press against the mirror, desperate and messy, smearing fog and sweat across the glass. It’s cool under your fingertips, but your body is nothing but fire. You spread your fingers wider, grip the edges of the vanity just below, your arms trembling with every hard push of his hips.
Behind you, Caleb grits his teeth.
Then he breaks.
He bites.
His mouth crashes onto your neck with unrestrained hunger, teeth grazing your skin before he sinks them in with a growl. It’s not gentle. Not this time. It’s feverish, raw, like he’s starving. Like you’re his prey, and he’s marking you as his kill.
Purple blooms under your skin, a constellation of hickeys along your throat. Your lips part in a silent gasp, moaning without care. Your cunt clenches around him harder. It’s too much, not enough. He’s wrecking you and you’re helping him do it.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice dark against your ear. “You like that? Showing up to the next shoot dripping with my marks?”
You whimper, pressing your body harder against him, back arching instinctively.
You are his. Forever his. Fuck the shoot. Let the stylist deal with the hickeys. You’d rather have every photo drenched in proof that you belong to him.
The thought lights you up.
Your legs tighten around his hips, trying to move with him, to grind up and down on his cock in search of more, faster, harder. Your slick coats him with every bounce, every squelch of wetness between your thighs loud and obscene in the quiet room.
Then, suddenly, his grip shifts.
You feel it first in the drop of your stomach. The lack of pressure on your feet. The way your weight changes.
“Caleb—what are you—”
You’re cut off by the way your body lifts.
Your back leaves the mirror. Your hands flail for a second before one of his arms wraps around your waist, the other under your thighs, steady. Anchoring. The air shifts around you, faintly vibrating. Your hair floats weightless. Your breath catches.
He’s using it. Gravity. He’s using his Evol against you.
You’re fucking hovering in the middle of the room, dripping and stuffed full of him, his cock buried inside you like a weapon forged for your ruin. His body moves fluid, effortless, like he was built to take you apart midair.
He growls into your shoulder, deep and low, holding you up like you weigh nothing.
“Told you, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. “Let Gege do all the work.”
Your legs dangle uselessly, trembling with every sharp thrust. Your body no longer moves on its own—you cling to him for dear life, gasping his name into his collarbone, your nails carving desperate little arcs into the cotton stretched over his chest. One hand clutches his shirt, fingers twisted tight. The other claws at his shoulder, your grip slipping every time his cock punches deep into you.
Nothing feels real. Not the air. Not the floating weightlessness. Not even your own voice, ruined and breathless.
Just Caleb.
Just the way he fucks you like he’s molding you around him, like your body is something he’s building with each slow, ruthless thrust.
His hands roam like he’s mapping out new territory, revisiting every dip and curve as if he’s rediscovering you all over again. His palm cradles your neck, a light tug tilting your head back for him. His other hand trails down to your belly, pressing firmly over the outline of his cock, watching as it disappears into your soaked folds. The pressure makes your breath hitch. You can feel him from the outside. Thick. Throbbing. So deep.
His other hand slides higher, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples between rough fingertips. The sharp sting only drives you higher.
“Aww, look at you, baby,” he coos, fingers guiding your jaw to face the mirror again. His mouth hovers by your ear, breath hot, voice low and lethal. “What a sight. Your folds sucking me in like you’re starving. Slick dripping onto the vanity. Do you see that, baby?”
You glance down, dizzy, wrecked. Your own arousal stains the edge of the vanity in a glistening puddle.
Your cheeks flush with shame and heat. You want to slap the smugness off his face, but you know if you even try, he’ll turn that bratty little challenge into another round.
“Look at your nipples. So hard. So sensitive. And that pretty little pussy, flushed pink and drooling. You’re Gege’s, aren’t you?”
You can’t speak. Can’t think. Every word is stripped from you, scattered like petals at your feet. All you can do is moan, eyes fluttering half-closed, mouth open and helpless.
Your orgasm is so close it’s humiliating. You haven’t even touched your clit. It’s just his cock. The brutal, perfect drag of him inside you, every angle angled like a blade, cutting away your control.
And then—he does touch you.
His fingers trail down, find your clit, and begin to rub. Messy, deliberate, fast. Every motion is filthy and uncoordinated and perfect, switching between teasing circles and quick, cruel little pinches. Your hips buck in the air, but you can’t move far—his Evol holds you suspended, at his mercy.
You sob. You scream his name. Your thighs clamp around his waist, but it’s no use.
“Pipsqueak,” he breathes, dragging his lips along your jaw, voice rough and tender all at once. “Look at you. Trembling for me. Dripping all over me. So fucking tight. I can feel you breaking.”
You whimper into his neck. Your cunt clenches around him so hard it aches.
But he stops. Just for a moment. He slows the thrusts. Keeps his cock buried to the hilt. And when you whine—gutted and needy—he tightens his grip on your hips and presses your chest against his again, holding you so close you can barely move.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
Your eyes flutter, lashes wet with sweat and tears. You blink up at him, dazed.
“What—?”
His voice sharpens.
“Say you’re mine.”
Your whole body shivers. Your thighs twitch. Your breath catches and sticks in your throat. Still, you hesitate. You can’t find your voice.
He spanks your ass, sharp and hot.
“Say it, baby. Or you don’t get to come.”
“I… I’m yours, Gege,” you whisper, so soft it could shatter.
He stills. His cock throbs inside you. Your pulse pounds between your legs.
“Say it like you mean it.”
You sob, broken and wet and so close you feel like you’ll explode just from saying it again.
“I’m yours,” you cry. “I’m yours, I’m yours—I’ve always been yours—”
He kisses you hard, biting, possessive. Your teeth clash. Your lungs burn. He growls into your mouth and fucks you harder now, his pace brutal and merciful. Your moans turn into sobs, every sound cracked open with pleasure.
“That’s right,” he grits out. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to fill.”
You scream his name. Your body locks. The orgasm builds so violently it splits you in half.
“Then come for me,” he whispers. “Now. Soak me, baby.”
And you do.
Your release hits like lightning, raw and brutal and bright. Your body seizes in his arms, spine arching, head thrown back with a strangled cry. Your walls clench hard around him, pulsing in desperate waves, slick gushing from your cunt in warm, wet ribbons. You feel it drip down your thighs, hot and messy. Feel the tension in your limbs snap one by one as pleasure wracks through you like a storm that will not pass.
Your voice breaks. Your breath breaks. And through it all, Caleb holds you like something precious.
You are coming apart in his arms, but you are not falling.
He groans, low and wrecked against your throat, hips snapping forward one last time. He presses in deep, cock throbbing thick inside your fluttering heat. His breath stutters against your skin, a shiver chasing through his frame, and then you feel it.
His cum floods into you in hot, pulsing spurts. Thick. Warm. Unrelenting.
His arms tighten around your waist as he spills inside, as if trying to lock the feeling in, as if you might forget how it feels to be filled by him. Your bodies tremble together, muscles twitching, lungs heaving in tandem. The air between you is slick with sweat and the scent of sex, sharp and warm and unmistakably yours.
His forehead presses to your shoulder. His mouth finds your collarbone, soft and reverent now. He does not move, not yet. He stays buried deep, still throbbing, hard. Like his body refuses to stop touching yours, even after release.
Your limbs feel boneless. Your thoughts scatter. All you know is heat and breath and him. The sting of his grip on your thighs, the press of his lips against your skin, the soothing warmth of his cum leaking slowly out of you.
You are filled. You are claimed.
But more than that, you are held.
Your chest is rising and falling fast. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, erratic and wild. One of his hands gently moves up to cup the back of your head, cradling you close, grounding you. His touch is gentler now, thumb brushing slow circles on your lower back.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, barely above a whisper.
“You did so well for me.”
You blink, lashes damp, forehead resting against his. Your body aches. Your throat is raw. But deep in your chest, there is only one feeling left.
Safety.
This is what it feels like to be ruined by someone who loves you. To be undone completely and be pieced back together in the same breath. To be used, worshipped, filled, and treasured all at once.
Your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. You don’t say anything yet. You don’t have to.
He kisses your temple, soft and slow. He’s holding you like you’re fragile, even after all that. Maybe especially after.
And neither of you are ready to let go.
“Ah, Pips. You made a mess.”
You immediately shoot daggers at him from your very fucked-out, freshly-floated state. Your hair is a tangled halo of sweat and sex, your shirt somewhere on the floor, and your thighs dripping down to your knees. And this man dares to tease.
“Put me the fuck down, Gege. You are the one who made the mess, alright?” you snap, glaring at him like a furious mouse still trembling in the jaws of a very smug, very satisfied leopard.
He laughs. Not a snicker, not a huff, but a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking, sinful Caleb laugh that echoes through the dressing room like a celebration. You hate that it makes your chest flutter.
“Alright, alright, Pip-squeak. I didn’t mean to,” he says, tone syrupy with mischief. His voice should be illegal. God, it should be bottled and weaponized.
He finally lowers you, and the moment your toes touch the ground, your knees buckle beneath you like the world is too much. Your legs are jelly, your muscles wrung out and shaky. He catches you instantly, arms looping tight around your waist as you fall right back into his chest. Your back slots against his front like two puzzle pieces that forgot they were once one.
“Don’t play the innocent,” you grumble, catching yourself against the edge of the vanity with trembling fingers. “You definitely meant for this to happen, Caleb.”
You’re panting and leaking. The wood beneath your hands is sticky with your own slick and sweat. The smell of sex lingers heavy in the air, like a perfume only the two of you would wear.
“Well,” he drawls, shameless as ever, “who could resist your temptation, baby? You in that tank top? If it hadn’t been a shoot, I would’ve taken you right then and there—”
“Mmfh—shut it, Gege,” you growl, grabbing his stupid handsome face and kissing him to shut him up. Not out of love. Out of emergency. Any more of that sentence and you might combust. Or punch him. Maybe both.
He hums against your lips, clearly enjoying every second.
“But seriously,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead, “you looked so breathtaking. Like a goddess today. Calvin Klein is your brand, Pip-squeak. I’m just here as set dressing.”
You roll your eyes so hard you see stars.
You stagger toward your shirt, slipping it on with fumbling fingers, wincing at the soft fabric against your overly sensitive skin. You glance up at the dressing room clock.
You go still.
“…Fuck.”
Caleb blinks. “What–”
You whirl around, tank top halfway on, hair a mess, and slam your palm against his chest.
“Caleb. We are fifteen minutes late to the next shoot.”
“Babe–”
“I swear to God,” you hiss, eyes blazing, “I will chase you across planets. I will drag you by the waistband of your stupid boxers into your grave.”
The panic between you barely has time to settle before—
Knock. Knock.
A chill runs through you both.
Tara’s voice comes through the door. Clear. Cool. Exhausted beyond belief.
“Get dressed. Wash up. I don’t care what just happened in there,” she says, tone flat as a blade. “But next time, keep it in your pants, Caleb. And you, my love, do not taunt him again. You know he’s like a horny golden retriever with a modeling contract.”
Your soul leaves your body.
“You have fifteen minutes to get decent. And if you don’t show up, I will personally hand your clothes to the lighting crew.”
You hear the sound of her heels clicking away. The silence that follows is deafening.
Caleb blinks slowly. “…Did she just call me a dog?”
You wheeze, shoulders trembling, wiping at the mirror like it’ll erase your sins. A puddle of your own orgasm glistens on the table. You try not to look at it.
“You are a dog.”
“But like, a sexy one, right?”
“Caleb.”
“A dangerous wolf in heat—”
“Caleb, I will bite you.”
He grins, smug as hell, tugging his jeans up with zero shame.
“Well then,” he says, licking his lips and tossing you a clean towel, “maybe next shoot, we start with the quickie. Save everyone some time.”
You throw the towel at his face.
He catches it with one hand, cocky and unbothered.
You hate him. You love him. You’re already dreading what Tara will say to you after this.
But right now, all you can do is laugh. A real one, from the belly. The kind that makes you light-headed.
Caleb smiles at the sound.
“Fifteen minutes, baby,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist again, kissing your temple. “Plenty of time to kiss it better.”
