Page 42 of Caden & Theo
His fingers are cautious at first, slick and slow, tracing circles like he’s learning me by touch alone, memorizing every small shift in my breath. When I tense at the first brush around my opening, he goes still, patient, his eyes on mine as if he’s asking without words. I force myself to exhale, nodding, and only then does he ease forward, pushing one finger inside.
The stretch burns, a raw pressure I didn’t expect, sharp enough to make me wince. My chest tightens, but his voice is there immediately, soft and steady, grounding me when he says, “You’re so good. I’ve got you. Just breathe, Theo.” He strokes his thumb along the back of my hand, holding it tight enough to anchor me but gentle enough to let me pull away if I need to.
It hurts, yes, but beneath the pain, there’s something I’ve wanted for longer than I can admit. The ache is almost holy—proof of what it means to open myself to him, to let him in. It isn’t about enduring; it’s about surrender. Trusting him to walk me through it, step by step, until the pain blurs into something I can hold.
“Don’t stop, Cade,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, trembling with more than just nerves. “Please don’t.”
His answer isn’t just words—it’s a kiss, soft against the inside of my knee, then another pressed to my hip bone. His breath is warm on my skin. His hand never leaves mine.
My body is flushed, damp with sweat, every nerve sharp and electric. I feel exposed, raw, but not alone. Every movement, every touch says the same thing:I’ve got you. I’ve got you.And I believe him.
He watches me the whole time—not with ego or assumption, but with a kind of reverence that makes my chest twist. Like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he can’t believeI’mhappening.
When he finally removes his fingers and slides over me, breath shaky, body trembling with restraint, our eyes meet. “You sure?” he asks again, voice wrecked.
I nod once, throat tight. “Yeah. I want this. I wantyou.” I pass him a condom with shaky hands.
And when he enters me, slow, careful, my hands curl tight into the sheets. The stretch is sharp, and I bite my lip hard to keep from crying out.
He freezes instantly. “Do you want me to stop?” His voice breaks on the last word.
“No,” I manage, eyes squeezed shut. “Just… give me a second.”
He doesn’t move. His forehead rests against mine. His breath is shallow. We stay this way—caught in the space between discomfort and something incredible—until my body adjusts, until the fire dulls to heat.
And then something shifts. I breathe. Let go. And suddenly it feels like falling into a rhythm I didn’t know my body was waiting for.
When I open my eyes, Caden’s staring down at me. And his face—Jesus—it’s undone. Full of awe, like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I nod, and he moves again—slowly and carefully at first. Each thrust is deliberate, like he’s committing to memory how I feel around him, how I gasp when he hits just right.
We move together, hips and hands and mouths in a kind of silent sync. There’s nothing frantic about it. It’s tender and intimate, the kind of closeness that makes me want to cry.
His hand cups the side of my face. His thumb strokes just beneath my eye. “I missed you so much,” he whispers.
“I missed you too,” I breathe, my hands curling around his shoulders, holding on like I might fall apart otherwise.
He kisses me again, and this time, it’s more than heat. It’s love, even if we haven’t said the words yet. It’s all there—in the pressure of his mouth, in the way his hips move against mine, in the way he looks at me like I’m something precious.
I feel it building, low and hot, coiling tighter with every push and pull, every brush that makes my body jolt. My legs lock around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper. Our skin is slick, every movement a slide of heat against heat, and our breath tangles, broken, desperate.
“I’m close,” he gasps, his voice raw.
“Me too,” I manage, though my throat feels tight with the force of it, the inevitability.
The pressure crests, unbearable, and then it breaks—my whole body tightening, trembling, giving in. His voice fractures into mine, the sound of both of us unraveling together, and in that instant, it isn’t just release. It’s everything we’ve poured into this—the trust, the longing, the love we’ve been carrying in silence until now.
When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays there, heavy and warm, his forehead pressed to mine. His fingers trace slow lines down my arm, trembling like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I hope that was okay,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.
I tilt my head, pressing my lips to his damp temple. “Cade,” I whisper, “it was more than okay. It was everything.”
He kisses me with a lingering slide of his lips, then gently begins to ease out. I wince, a sharp ache blooming low in my spine, and he pauses immediately. “Sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s okay,” I breathe. “I’m okay.”
Carefully, he detaches, then shifts and removes the condom, tying it off and reaching for a tissue from the nightstand. I watch him in the dim light—his skin still flushed, hair mussed, movements quiet and thoughtful.
