The Night I Learned to Take

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from The Plumber

The Night I Learned to Take

Mac’s POV — After Chapter 8

She was finally asleep.

I watched her in the candlelight, this woman who had somehow become the center of my world in two weeks. Her hair was still damp from the bath, spread across the pillow like dark silk. Her lips were parted, her breathing slow and even, and she looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like she’d finally stopped bracing for impact.

I’d spent so long teaching her to receive. To let go. To accept pleasure without calculating what she owed in return.

I hadn’t expected to learn something myself.

She stirred, murmured something unintelligible, and her hand found mine in the darkness. Even in sleep, she reached for me. That small gesture—unconscious, instinctive—cracked something open in my chest.

I love her.

The thought wasn’t new. I’d said the words, meant them. But lying here in the aftermath of everything we’d shared, the reality of it hit differently. Heavier. More terrifying.

I loved her. And she loved me back. And somehow, impossibly, that wasn’t the end of anything—it was just the beginning.

Callie’s eyes fluttered open.

“You’re staring,” she mumbled.

“You’re worth staring at.”

She smiled, sleepy and satisfied, and rolled toward me. Her body pressed against mine—warm, soft, fitting perfectly into the curve of my arm like she was made for it.

“What time is it?”

“Late. Or early. Depending on your perspective.”

“Helpful.” She traced a pattern on my chest, her fingers leaving trails of heat. “Can’t sleep?”

“Don’t want to.” I caught her hand, brought it to my lips. “Don’t want to miss any of this.”

Her eyes softened. “Mac…”

“I know. I’m being sentimental.” I kissed her palm, her wrist, the inside of her elbow. “It’s the post-sex hormones. I’ll be gruff and manly again in the morning.”

“You’ve never been gruff a day in your life.”

“Lies. I’m extremely gruff. Ask anyone.”

She laughed—that bright, unguarded sound I’d come to live for—and pulled me down for a kiss. Soft at first. Then deeper. Her tongue traced the seam of my lips and I opened for her, letting her lead, letting her take.

When she pulled back, her eyes were dark.

“Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“I want—” She hesitated, and I saw it—the old instinct to hold back, to calculate, to make sure she wasn’t asking for too much. Then she squared her shoulders and looked me dead in the eyes. “I want to take care of you this time.”

My heart stuttered. “Callie, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, and the sheet slipped, revealing the curve of her breast. “I want to. There’s a difference.”

My own words, thrown back at me.

“You’ve spent two weeks worshipping me,” she continued. “Making me feel beautiful. Making me receive. And I love it—I love every second of it.” Her hand slid down my chest, my stomach, stopping just above the sheet pooled at my waist. “But receiving isn’t the only thing I want to learn.”

“What else?”

“Giving.” Her hand slipped lower, and I sucked in a breath. “Not because I owe you. Not because I’m trying to balance some cosmic ledger. But because touching you—” Her fingers found me, hard and aching, and wrapped around my length. “—watching you fall apart—that’s a gift too. For both of us.”

“Callie—”

“Let me.” She stroked, slow and deliberate, and my hips jerked without permission. “Let me worship you for once. Let me make you feel what you’ve made me feel.”

I should have argued. Should have insisted this wasn’t about me, that I was fine, that I didn’t need—

But her hand was moving, and her eyes were blazing, and I realized with sudden clarity that this was exactly what she needed. To give. To show me. To prove that she understood everything I’d been trying to teach her.

Receiving was sacred. But so was giving—when you did it freely, without obligation, without keeping score.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. I’m yours.”

Her smile was triumphant.

She pushed me onto my back and straddled me, and for a moment she just looked. Studied me with the same intensity I’d used on her so many times.

“You’re beautiful,” she said.

I laughed—couldn’t help it. “I’m a middle-aged plumber with a dad bod and a divorce under my belt.”

“You’re beautiful,” she repeated, firmer this time. Her hands spread across my chest, tracing the shape of me. “Right here—” She pressed over my heart. “This is the most beautiful part of you. The way you love. The way you care. The way you make everyone around you feel like they matter.”

My throat tightened.

“But this—” Her hands moved lower, over my stomach, the part I’d always been self-conscious about. “This is beautiful too. Soft. Real. Warm.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to my belly, and I felt it like a brand. “You take up space, Mac. And you should. You deserve to take up space.”

“Callie—”

“Shh.” She kissed lower. “Let me finish.”

She kissed down my stomach, across my hip, down the inside of my thigh. Everywhere except where I needed her. Teasing. Deliberate. Giving me a taste of my own medicine.

“You’re killing me,” I groaned.

“Good.” She looked up at me, eyes bright with mischief. “Now you know how it feels.”

Then her mouth was on me, and I forgot how to think.

She took her time. Explored. Learned what made me gasp, what made me moan, what made my hands fist in the sheets. She used her tongue, her lips, her hands—all of it focused on one goal: taking me apart.

“Look at me,” she said, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want you to watch.”

I looked. Watched her take me into her mouth again, watched her cheeks hollow, watched her eyes stay locked on mine as she worked me with a dedication that stole my breath.

“Callie—” My voice was wrecked. “I’m close—if you don’t stop—”

She didn’t stop.

She took me deeper, faster, her hand working in rhythm with her mouth, and I felt it building—that unstoppable wave cresting higher and higher.

“Callie—”

I tried to warn her. Tried to pull back. But she grabbed my hips and held me there, and when I shattered, she took everything I gave her.

Every. Single. Drop.

The orgasm ripped through me with a force I hadn’t expected—white-hot and endless, pulling sounds from my chest I didn’t recognize. My whole body shook with it, and she stayed with me through every aftershock, gentling me down with soft kisses and softer touches.

When I could finally see straight, she was curled against my side, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Good?” she asked.

“Good doesn’t—” I laughed, breathless. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Good.” She pressed a kiss to my chest. “Now you know.”

“Know what?”

“That giving is just as sacred as receiving.” She propped her chin on my chest, looking up at me. “That watching someone you love fall apart in your hands is its own kind of worship.”

My heart turned over.

“When did you get so wise?”

“I had a good teacher.” She kissed my jaw. “A very good teacher who brought me breakfast casseroles and washed my hair and made me believe I was worth taking care of.”

“You were always worth it,” I said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

“And you—” She poked my chest. “You were always worth receiving. You just forgot how to let someone give.”

She wasn’t wrong. Somewhere along the way—the divorce, the single parenting, the years of being the one everyone leaned on—I’d stopped letting anyone hold me up. I’d convinced myself I didn’t need it. Didn’t deserve it.

Callie was teaching me different.

“Come here,” I said, pulling her up my body. “I want to hold you.”

“You’re already holding me.”

“Not close enough.”

I arranged us so we were face to face, legs tangled, her head tucked under my chin. My hand traced lazy patterns on her back while her breath warmed my chest.

“Mac?” she murmured after a long silence.

“Yeah?”

“I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To meet your girls.” She looked up at me, eyes soft but certain. “If the offer still stands.”

My heart stopped. Started again, harder than before.

“The offer always stands,” I managed. “But are you sure? It’s a big step.”

“I know.” She traced my jaw with one finger. “I also know that they’re part of you. The most important part. And I want to know all of you, Mac. Not just the parts that are easy.”

“They’ll love you.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can.” I kissed her forehead. “Because I know them. And I know you. And I know that people who love freely always recognize each other.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

We fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other, the house settling into silence around us. And for the first time in years, I let myself imagine a future that included everything I’d thought I’d lost.

A partner. A family. A love that expanded instead of contracted.

Maybe the heart really did have room for more.

Maybe I just had to let someone in to prove it.

Want more of Mac and Callie’s story? The Plumber is available now—and their journey is just beginning.

Book Six: The Electrician introduces Ellis Thorne, a man of precision and control who’s about to show Callie that some sparks are worth the risk…

The Renovation Project: Eight men. One woman. One house that changed everything.

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