Engaged Caleb (with other woman) x Fem reader (Appearance won't be mentioned) ♡
Masterlist • professor Caleb edition
Warning/tag; Infidelity/cheating, OOC Caleb, pussy eating, hate-fucking, significant age gap (19/25), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, bruises marking, no happy ending, degradation & praise kink, dubious consent elements, angst & moral ambiguity
A/N: I don't condone infidelity this is purely fiction and treat it as one, this is just for fun don't read if one or more warning listed makes you triggered. Take care of yourself, love y'all (´∩｡• ᵕ •｡∩`)
The city is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. You’re nineteen, home from your first year of university for the summer, crashing in the same cramped apartment you grew up in. Your parents are overseas again (some endless diplomatic posting), so it’s just you, the humming fridge, and the ghost of childhood memories in every corner.
Then the doorbell rings at 12:47 a.m.
You know who it is before you open it.
Caleb stands in the hallway light, charcoal shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled high, the faint red smudge of someone else’s lipstick still on his collarbone. Twenty-five, engaged to the diplomat’s daughter everyone calls “perfect,” and looking at you like the world just narrowed to the space between your bodies.
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he says. No greeting. No apology.
“I was asleep.”
“You weren’t.”
He steps inside and locks the door behind him with a soft, final click. He’s been doing this for weeks (appearing without warning, crowding you in the dark, pretending the ring on his finger doesn’t exist). Tonight the air is different. Thicker. Dangerous.
“You wore the red dress,” he says, voice low and scraped raw. “To that bar.”
“I can wear what I want.”
He laughs once, bitter. “You think I didn’t see every hand that tried to touch you? You think I didn’t want to break them?” Two strides and he’s on you, backing you into the hallway wall. His palms slam flat on either side of your head, caging you. Whiskey and another woman’s perfume cling to his skin.
“You’re not mine,” he says against your mouth, like the words are poison he has to spit out. “You can’t ever be mine.”
“But you want me to be.”
His forehead drops to yours. He’s shaking.
“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say I want you so I can pretend I still get to choose.”
You curl your fingers into his hair and pull until he groans. “You stopped having a choice the night you kissed me in your car,” you tell him. “The night you said you’d burn everything down if it meant keeping me.”
His mouth crashes into yours (teeth, tongue, six years of starvation finally set loose). He lifts you without effort, hands under your thighs, carrying you to the couch. Your back hits the cushions and he follows, kneeling between your legs, tearing your oversized sleep shirt up and off like it insulted him.
“This is wrong,” he growls, biting down on your throat hard enough to bruise. “I’m getting married in four months.”
“Then marry her,” you taunt, arching into him. “Marry her and pretend you don’t think of me every time you touch her.”
A broken sound rips out of him. He drops to his knees on the floor, dragging you to the edge of the couch.
And then he stops.
His hands settle on your bare knees (slow, reverent). The tremor in his fingers is impossible to hide. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice shredded. “One word and I leave forever.”
You answer by parting your thighs wider.
He exhales like a man who just lost a war.
His palms glide upward, torturously slow, thumbs tracing the soft skin of your inner thighs. Every inch makes him shake harder. When he reaches your underwear he pauses, forehead pressing to your stomach, breathing you in like it hurts. “I hate you for this,” he whispers into your skin.
“No,” you breathe, sliding your fingers through his hair. “You hate yourself.”
He hooks his fingers into the fabric and drags it down your legs (slow, deliberate, eyes locked on every new inch revealed). When it’s gone he just stares, lips parted, like he’s looking at something holy and obscene at once.
“Fuck,” he says, barely a sound. “Look at you.”
His first touch is only breath (warm, trembling, ghosting over your clit until your hips jerk). Then the flat of his tongue, one long, slow drag from your entrance to the top that tears a broken moan from your throat. He groans into you, filthy and grateful, and does it again. Slower. Licking you open like he’s been starving for years and finally gets to feast.
When he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, your thighs clamp around his head. He pulls back just enough to speak, lips slick and swollen.
“Stay still,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Let me have this.”
You try. You really do. But he’s merciless (long, lazy strokes that melt into soft, sucking kisses, then one finger sliding in, then two, curling slow and deep while his mouth never leaves you). Every time you get close he eases off, licking softly around the edges until you’re writhing, begging in fractured whispers.
Only then does he give you what you need.
He seals his mouth over your clit and sucks (steady, perfect pressure) while his fingers thrust slow and deep. The orgasm rolls through you like a tide, building and building until it finally breaks, leaving you shaking, gasping his name like it’s the only word left in the world.
He doesn’t stop.
He gentles you through every aftershock, tongue soft now, lapping lazily like he’s addicted to the taste of you coming undone. When you’re too sensitive and try to push him away, he pins both your wrists to the couch with one hand and keeps going (softer, slower, drawing it out until tears leak from the corners of your eyes).
Only when you’re limp and trembling does he finally crawl up your body.
His mouth is wet, eyes pitch-black. He kisses you deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Still think I have a choice?” he whispers against your lips.
You answer by reaching for his belt.
He lets you undress him this time (shaking hands unbuckling, unzipping, pushing fabric away until he’s bare and aching above you). When he braces himself on his forearms, cock heavy against your thigh, he forces you to meet his eyes.
“Look at me.”
You do.
He slides in (one slow, endless push that has you both groaning), until he’s buried completely and trembling with the effort of holding still. His forehead drops to yours. “I’m going to ruin everything for this,” he breathes.
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper. “then ruin it slow,” you whisper.
And he does.
Every thrust is deliberate, dragging almost all the way out before sinking back in, watching your face like he’s memorizing the way you fall apart. He keeps that torturous rhythm until you’re clawing at his back, begging for faster, harder (anything).
Only then does he let go.
He fucks you like a confession (deep, punishing strokes that hit every perfect spot while he growls filthy praise and broken apologies into your neck). When you come again, clenching around him, he follows with a choked groan, spilling inside you and shaking like the world just ended.
Hours later, you’re tangled together, sweat cooling on skin. He’s half on top of you, face buried in your neck, breathing like he ran a marathon.
“I can’t leave her,” he says quietly. “Not without destroying everything.”
You stroke his hair, gentle now.
“Then don’t.”
He lifts his head, eyes wild.
You smile slowly “Keep the perfect life. Keep pretending you’re good.”
Your fingers trace the ring on his left hand, then slide down to wrap around his wrist.
“But every time you touch her, you’ll taste me. Every time you say her name, you’ll hear mine. You’ll come crawling back here, Caleb. Again and again.”
You lean in, lips brushing his ear.
“And I’ll let you.”
He shudders, hard, and kisses you like surrender.
Outside, the city pretends it’s still quiet. Inside, something dark and ravenous finally gets fed.
