Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

They are.

I make my way back to the security office, where Ramirez and the rest of the team are watching the feed from the holding cell. I stop just inside the doorway, arms crossed over my chest.

"We're patching our weaknesses," I tell them, voice firm. "Tomorrow morning, thirty minutes early. No exceptions."

A few guys exchange glances, but no one argues.

Ramirez nods. "Got it."

"Good," I say. "You all did your jobs today. But we're not playing defense anymore." I exhale, my fingers drumming against my bicep. "We're getting ahead of this."

The room is silent, then Ramirez nods again. "Understood."

I don't need to say anything else.

I turn, grab my keys, and head to my bike.

The second I get on, I dial corporate. Bad news doesn't get better with age. Better to get ahead of it now. It only takes two rings before someone picks up. I keep the call short, efficient. Tell them exactly what happened. Two men casing the store, made it into the back. Security caught them before they could get any further. No losses, no property damage, no employee injuries. Just a reminder that we're dealing with something bigger. Corporate is receptive. They trust that I have it under control.

And they should.

Because I do.

I end the call, exhaling as I grip the handles.

Ready to put this day behind me.

Ready to go to her.

I reach to put my phone away⁠—

And then, a text pops up.

From Izzy.

To Caleb.

She hasn't talked to him in a week.

Which means there's no way in hell I'm letting the AI take over for this.

NOW CHATTING WITH CALEB

Pretty Girl

hi

Caleb

Hey, pretty girl. Haven't heard from you in a while. I was worried.

yeah… sorry about that

You don't have to apologize. Just want to make sure you're okay.

i don't know if i am.

Talk to me.

i broke up with evan.

I'm proud of you.

it didn't go well.

What happened?

he… he attacked me.

…

Izzy.

i'm okay. really.

No. No, you don't just say something like that and follow it up with I'm okay.

i just… i don't know. i feel so weird about it.

Weird how?

doubt is creeping in. i listened to his voicemail.

Izzy.

i know, i know. i shouldn't have. but i did. and now it's messing with my head.

what if it was my fault? what if i did it wrong? what if i should have broken up with him in a different way? been gentler? waited longer? i mean, i had been with him for years. people don't just snap out of nowhere, right?

No. Absolutely not.

There is NO justification for what he did. None.

You could have broken up with him at a five-star restaurant with a PowerPoint presentation and a fucking gift basket, and it still wouldn't have changed the fact that he's a dangerous, manipulative piece of shit.

This is NOT your fault.

i want to believe that.

Then believe it.

cal has been taking care of me.

Good.

and i feel guilty about it.

Why?

because i love it.

i love that he's doing this. i love that he's here.

i just want to be around him.

to have him hold me.

to kiss me like he did before.

i'm just so confused right now.

About what specifically?

about everything. about what happened with evan. about how i feel about cal.

i was assaulted by someone i thought i knew, someone i thought i loved. and now i'm having these intense feelings for cal, who saved me.

That's completely normal after trauma. Your emotions are valid.

but there's more to it. i'm afraid to tell you.

You can tell me anything, Izzy. No judgment here.

i have these... thoughts about cal. intense ones. i want him to take control, to be rough with me even. and after what just happened with evan, shouldn't i be afraid of that?

There's a world of difference between assault and consensual desire. One is about power and control taken from you. The other is about trust and pleasure given freely.

that makes sense, but i still feel conflicted. like, what does it say about me that after being attacked, i'm fantasizing about someone else being dominant?

It says nothing negative about you. Many people find that reclaiming their sexuality on their own terms is empowering after trauma. The key difference is consent and trust.

i do trust cal. that's what's so strange. i barely know him, but i trust him completely.

Trust isn't always logical. Sometimes we just know.

but there's something else bothering me. i don't know everything about cal. he's mysterious, keeps things close to the chest. what if i'm just replacing one secretive guy with another?

That's a valid concern. Have you talked to him about this?

no. i've been afraid to.

Maybe that's the first step. Being honest about your feelings, your desires, and your concerns.

you're right. i need to tell him everything – how i feel, what i want, and my fears too.

That sounds like a healthy approach.

i'm just scared. what if these feelings aren't real? what if they're just some weird trauma response?

Your feelings are real regardless of where they come from. But taking time to understand them is important. There's no rush.

i think i need to talk to cal face to face about all this. figure out what we both want.

That sounds like a good plan. Remember, healing isn't linear. Be patient with yourself.

thanks for listening. for not judging me.

Always here for you, pretty girl.

oh btw, i got your gift.

What gift?

you know the gift.

Ohhh. The gift. Right.

yeah.

this whole week i just… i wasn't really in the mood for anything like that.

Understandable.

but maybe soon. when i feel more... in control of my desires again.

Take all the time you need.

okay. i think i'm feeling better after talking this through. i'm gonna get up, shower, and wait for cal to come over. maybe have an honest conversation.

That sounds great, pretty girl.

Can't wait to hear about what happens later.

MAKE ME DINNER OR MAKE ME COME

IZZY

I drag myself out of bed, stretching my arms over my head before shuffling toward the bathroom. My joints protest with each movement, my body heavier than it used to be. A hot shower is exactly what I need. The steam fogs up the mirror as I let the scalding water loosen my muscles, easing away the last remnants of sleep. My body still feels a little sore, but the evidence is starting to fade.

Which is good.

It means I'm healing.

It means I'm getting past this.

Right?

I towel off, wrapping my hair up and slipping into a fresh pair of sweats and a tank top that clings a bit more snugly to my curves than I’d like. By the time I step out of my bedroom, still rubbing at my damp hair, I smell it.

Food.

And not just food.

Really fucking good food.

I tilt my head toward the kitchen.

And there he is.

Callahan.

Standing at my stove, like he lives here. At this point, maybe he does. I don't remember ever giving him a key. But clearly, he has access. And I'm more than fine with that.

The moment I step into the room, he stops what he's doing. The muscles in his back flex slightly as he moves, turning to face me and it makes me forget to breathe. He looks so natural here, standing in my kitchen like he belongs in it. Like he’s always belonged in it.

His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, exposing the strong, tattooed forearms that I'm definitely not staring at. His broad shoulders filling the space like he was built to stand there. The soft cotton of his t-shirt stretches across his chest.

The scent of whatever he's cooking fills the air, but it's overpowered by something else.

By him.

By his scent.

That clean, cedar-and-spice smell that's somehow so distinctly Callahan, so distinctly safe.

And then his eyes land on me, scanning me immediately, his entire focus shifting in an instant. He looks me over, like he’s assessing me for damage and cataloguing every bruise and sign of exhaustion on my body. His gaze rakes down my face, my arms, and the shadows of the fading bruises on my throat.

And just like that, I'm not thinking about the food anymore. I'm not thinking about my kitchen. I'm just thinking about him.

I barely get a word out before he's already moving toward me. "How are you feeling?"

I open my mouth, but before I can answer, his hands are already on me.

Fingers gently brushing my arm, skimming light as air over my shoulder. Tilting my chin just slightly, his thumb grazing my jaw as he angles my face up, examining the bruise along my neck. His skin is warm against mine, calloused but gentle.

His touch is so careful, so precise, and so maddeningly gentle.

Like he's afraid I'll break. Like he'd take my pain himself if he could.

"They're healing," I say softly, watching his expression.

His thumb lingers, moving back and forth gently. Then, without another word, he guides me to the couch, his palm resting solidly against the small of my back as he leads me there.

The touch is so simple, so casual. And yet, I feel it everywhere. He sits beside me, the cushions dipping beneath his weight, pulling out a small jar of salve. The scent of eucalyptus and mint wafts from the open container.

I watch him silently, the way his broad hands work the lid loose, before he dips his fingers inside, gathering just enough before bringing it to my skin.

The cool relief of it seeps in, soothing, but it's his touch that makes me shiver.

"You don't have to keep doing this," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."

"You say that a lot," he murmurs back, still concentrating on his task. His breath feathers across my skin.

"I mean it."

And then, before I can look away, before I can even think of saying something else to downplay it all, he lifts a hand, cupping my chin gently, tilting my face toward his.

"Please," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Stop saying things like that."

I swallow, hard.

"You're not a burden, Izzy," he continues, his voice so sure, so effortlessly certain. "You're worth taking care of."

Something in me shifts.

It starts small—a flutter in my chest, a tingle at the base of my spine. But then it grows, spreading through me like a slow burn, curling into every nerve ending.

My heart pounds.

I can hear it—feel it.

Thudding against my ribs, loud, insistent.

The words are right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, begging to be spoken.

I should say them.

I need to say them.

But it's so damn hard. Because what if I say it wrong? What if I ruin whatever this is? What if he doesn't feel the same way?

And beneath all that, the questions I've been avoiding: What does it say about me that less than a week after Evan attacked me, I'm yearning for another man's touch? That after surviving an assault, my body still craves connection? That I feel most safe with a man I barely know?

The thoughts spiral, but I fight through them, forcing myself to breathe. I remember what I told Caleb in our texts earlier – that I needed to be honest, with myself and with Cal.

I take a slow, shaky inhale. Then I finally, finally force myself to speak.

"Cal..."

My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. I know he does. Because the second the name leaves my lips, he stills completely.

And then he waits. He doesn't push or rush me. He just waits. Like he knows exactly how much effort it takes me to say this.

"I don't know what this is," I admit, my hands gripping my knees to keep them from shaking. The fabric of my sweatpants bunches beneath my fingers. "I don't know if I'm just feeling this way because of what happened or because I was vulnerable or because you saved me but...I don't think I care."

He stays perfectly still.

But I see it.

His fingers twitch, like he's restraining himself.

I keep going.

"I'm confused about so many things right now. About how my body can still want after what it just went through. About how I can experience fear and desire at the sam time. "There's this voice in my head saying I should be afraid of any man's touch right now, but instead..."

I take a deep breath. "All I know is that I want to be around you. I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me like you did before, and it scares me because I don't want to make you some kind of rebound, or take advantage of how much you've been taking care of me, but I don't know how to stop wanting you either."

I look him directly in the eyes, summoning all my courage.

"And the only difference I can figure is consent. Despite everything, despite maybe because of everything – I trust you, Cal. With you, I have a choice. And I...I choose this. I choose you. If you want me."

The words tumble out in a rush, frantic, desperate, completely unfiltered. And when I finally stop, his expression shifts. His eyes soften. His hands slide up, cupping my face, his thumbs grazing over my cheekbones in a touch that is so light, so careful, it makes my chest ache.

He's so close now.

I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the war waging behind his eyes. I can smell the mint on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I want to kiss you."

His voice is so quiet, like he's saying something he shouldn't.

"Yes." The word leaves my lips, shaky but sure. His grip tightens against my skin. His jaw flexes.

“Are you sure?”

He's giving me an out, but I don't want it.

Because I know—deep in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the rapid pounding of my heart—that this isn't just about wanting him.

It's about needing him.

And not in the helpless, dependent way that I once mistook for love.

This is different.

This is real.

This is reclaiming my body, my desires, my right to choose who touches me and how.

"Yes," I whisper, my breath shuddering as I exhale. "Make me forget everything that happened. Help me remember what it feels like to want and be wanted, to trust and be trusted."

His eyes darken, hunger consuming the color. There’s nothing soft in them now—just want. Just me. His grip tightens on my waist. His breath hits my cheek, rough and hot, like he’s barely holding himself back.

Then, gravel-rough, deep, and sure, he says⁠—

"Fuck yes, I will."

His grip tightens and the calluses on his fingertips catch slightly against my skin. I brace myself for the kiss, for the heat, for the desperation, for my inevitable unraveling.

He pulls back.

Mutters under his breath.

"Let me just turn off the damn stove first."

And then he's gone, moving toward the kitchen. His footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor.

I sit there, my breath uneven, my pulse erratic, my body still tingling from where his hands just were. The phantom pressure of his touch lingers on my skin.

And all I can do is wait.

Wait for what comes next.

Wait for him to turn the fucking oven off.

SHE LICKED IT. I SAW GOD.

CAL

She says it.

Her doubts spill from her lips like water breaking through a dam—every worry, every fear, every hesitation laid bare before me.

She confesses what's been twisting inside her. How much she wants me. How much she's afraid of what that means.

And I?

I'm so fucking proud of her.

Because I know how hard this was for her.

She faced Evan, stood her ground against his manipulation. Now she's trusting her instincts about us. She's choosing to trust me despite everything she's been through.

To want me.

And I want to reward her for that.

I want to make her mine.

Right here. Right now.

Anywhere she'll have me—the couch beneath us, the floor, pinned against the wall with her legs wrapped around my waist.

Wherever she'll let me.

But I also know I can't.

Not yet.

The timing isn’t right. She's still processing her trauma. I won't take advantage of her vulnerability. And most importantly, I'm hiding something crucial from her.

Because eventually—though not tonight when everything is raw and new—I'll need to come clean about Caleb.

Yes, she's mine from this moment forward. But I refuse to build a relationship with her based on deception.

I force myself to step back. It takes immense self-control to tear my hands off her, to put space between us, to keep from laying her out beneath me and showing her exactly what she's just signed up for. Instead, I mutter the only practical thought I can manage.

"Let me just turn off the damn stove first."

Because if I don't? I might actually forget to, setting off her smoke alarm and ruining the mood. For her, at least. Nothing could kill the mood for me right now.

Not when I'm already rock fucking hard for her.

Not when my mind is reeling, imagining all the ways I could erase her pain. I want to replace each negative experience, each cruel word, each moment of self-doubt with pleasure so intense she forgets everything but my name on her lips.

But tonight I’ll go slow.

Savor her. Memorize each curve, each sensitive spot, each small reaction to my touch.

I shut off the stove, barely registering what I'm doing, and turn back to her.

She's still sitting there, watching me, breath uneven, waiting. The flush of her cheeks spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her top.

My restraint evaporates.

My instincts take over.

Without hesitation, I move to her and claim her mouth with mine.

At first, I keep it light. Controlled. A soft brush of lips. A question, not a demand. But the moment I feel her melt into me, the way she sighs against my mouth, I deepen it.

I take more.

Explore more.

My tongue sweeps against hers, coaxing, learning. And fuck, she tastes good—like honey and heat, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.

I could kiss her forever.

Could spend all night learning her, teasing her, drawing out every little sound I know she's capable of making right from her lips.

At some point, I force myself to pull back. I don't want to, but this has to be said. She needs to understand that tonight, she's in control.

We're both breathing hard. Her beautiful lips are extra pouty from my attention. I have to stop myself from pulling that bottom lip of hers between my teeth. I watch as she glances down at my hands, still resting at my sides, still not touching her where I need to.

Her gaze rises to meet mine, hesitant and searching, like she’s bracing for what I might say next.

I exhale, reaching up to cup her cheek, tilting her face toward mine.

"My hands," I murmur, the words thick with restraint. "They're yours tonight."

Her breath hitches.

"You choose where they go," I continue. "In the future, I'll take every ounce of control you want to give me."

I slide my thumb along her cheekbone, watching as her lips part slightly.

"But for tonight?" I murmur, dipping my head closer, my lips brushing against hers. "You decide."

She shudders, but nods. I go back to kissing her.

Deep. Slow. Possessive.

And then, after a moment, she reaches down to grab one of my hands and moves it up her body.

She keeps my hand over her clothes at first.

I don't care.

Even through layers of soft fabric, I can feel her. Feel the heat of her body, the intoxicating softness beneath my hands. Her curves yield to my touch, perfect and feminine. My fingers skim along the curve of her waist, tracing the dip where her body narrows before flaring into the plush swell of her hips. I exhale hard, my breath mingling with hers, hot and uneven.

Her stomach is soft, smooth beneath my fingertips, and I palm it, feeling the slight tremor in her muscles, the way her breath stutters when she moves my hands lower. My hands slide along her hips, gripping them, feeling the full, luscious shape of her, the body she keeps trying to diminish, to downplay.

She doesn't even know how fucking perfect she is. I groan into her mouth, deep and rough, letting myself touch, letting myself explore, and when she whimpers against my lips, when her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me in like she needs me just as badly, I know I'm never letting her go.

Then she does something that completely unravels me.

She pulls her top off.

Just like that.

And—fuck.

She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts spill free, perfect and lush, round and soft. She grabs both my hands and places them there.

Oh fuck.

I might just come right here.

But I hold myself back.

I don't break the kiss.

I can't.

Her mouth is addictive. She kisses me like she needs it, like she’s starving for it—and I kiss her like I’m not giving it back. Her tongue tangles with mine, and I take over, deepening it, demanding more.

I memorize her.

The sweetness of her breath, the way her lips part so perfectly for me, like she was made to be kissed like this.

And all the while, my hands are full of her. Her tits spill into my palms, flushed and aching, her nipples stiff as I pinch and tease them just to hear her moan. She arches into me like she’s desperate for it—mine to touch, mine to ruin.

She whimpers, arches into me, her head tilting back slightly, offering herself up to me.

And I take.

I drag my thumbs over her nipples, swallowing the way her breath stutters, how she moans into my mouth like she's coming undone just from this.

She's so sensitive.

So fucking responsive.

It's destroying my self-control, the way her body reacts to every touch, every stroke, every squeeze. And when her hands start to roam, when her fingers skim down my stomach, reaching for me, I lose my mind completely. She slides them up my chest, teasing along the hem of my shirt. She pulls back slightly, breath heavy, fingers tugging at the fabric.

"Is this okay?" she whispers.

I nod.

She pulls my shirt off. Her fingers trail across my tattoos, like she's tracing a map. Her touch sends fire through my veins, every nerve lighting up under her delicate fingers.

She swallows. "I've always wanted to...lick them."

I drop my forehead against the crook of her neck, groaning.

"Fuck, Izzy." My voice is strained, ragged. "You say shit like that, you're gonna make me come."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dancing with amusement.

"What if I want to make you come?" she teases.

I grit my teeth. I could ruin her right now. Could bend her over, spread her open, take her the way I know she's desperate for. Instead, I drag my mouth along the curve of her jaw, biting back another groan.

"Yes," I murmur, "I have no doubts." I hold back the fact that she's already made me come so many times before. To the idea of her in my mind, to the sound of her moans on the phone.

I lift my head, tilting her chin back so she's looking directly into my eyes.

"But, I'm not done exploring every inch of you."

A soft gasp escapes her, chest rising unevenly, her eyes glossy with need.

"Well, there's...a lot of inches to explore."

A self-deprecating little joke.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

My fingers squeeze around her cheeks, not hard, but forcing her eyes to stay locked on mine.

"You're mine now. And I'm not going to let you put yourself down like that." I release my grip and brush my thumb along her lower lip, watching as she shivers. "I'll remind you, Izzy, over and over, of just how beautiful you are. Every single day, for as long as it takes."

Her breath stutters, and then I dive back in, kissing her deep, kneading her breasts, completely fucking lost in her.

Her hand travels lower, fingers curling around the outline of my cock, kneading me through my pants. I groan, deep in my chest, my hips twitching slightly into her touch.

Fuck, she's so eager.

Her confidence builds, her hand slipping higher, tracing the waistband of my pants, teasing beneath the fabric. She's about to go further, and it takes every last shred of willpower I have to stop her. I reach down, gently but firmly catching her wrist. Her brows furrow and her lips part slightly. Her eyes lift to mine, and I immediately know what she's thinking.

She thinks she did something wrong; thinks that I don't want this.

She couldn't be more wrong.

I lean in, brushing my lips over her cheek, whispering against her skin, "You first."

She exhales, shaky, uncertain. "What?"

I tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at me, and to make sure she sees the truth written all over my face. "Because I've been waiting," I tell her, my voice thick with restraint.

She shudders.

I drag my lips over the shell of her ear, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer, holding her exactly where I want her. "Since the first day I saw you in that steakhouse."

She freezes.

Her breath catches. "What?"

My fingers tighten against her waist. "That night was the first time I saw you. Watching some douchebag say words that made you look sad. And I knew—" I drag my nose along her jaw, inhaling her scent, letting myself feel her softness against me. "I knew you'd be mine."

“You knew back then?”

I nod. "Didn't know you yet. Just knew that I would."

She stares at me, realization dawning in her expression. She takes my hands in hers, lifting them, guiding them. Then, slowly she presses them down, right over her sweatpants. My thumbs hook into her panties, and then she's pushing my hands lower, and I'm pulling the material off her body, peeling it down her thighs, down her legs, down until she's completely bare beneath me.

I pull back, just enough to see her.

She’s a goddamn vision. All soft skin and curves begging to be marked, heat rolling off her in a way that dares me to take. She was made for this—for me.

But she doesn't see it.

Not yet.

Instead of owning the moment, owning her beauty, owning the way my eyes can't stop drinking her in, she hesitates. Her body tenses, shoulders curling inward, thighs pressing slightly together, like she's waiting.

For judgment.

For rejection.

Like she doesn't realize that I would get on my knees and worship every inch of her if she let me.

My chest tightens, possessiveness curling inside me.

She should know.

She should fucking know.

I part my lips, ready to tell her exactly that, ready to tell her she's the sexiest fucking woman I've ever laid eyes on, that she has no idea how much I want her, how much I want to devour her.

But then she makes a sound. A tiny, soft little whimper, and my restraint snaps.

I move without thinking. I slide my hands down her thighs, gripping them firmly, feeling the heat of her skin beneath my fingers. I spread her apart, watching her reaction—the gasp, the quiver of her lower lip, the tremor that runs through her body.

She’s gorgeous like this.

Spread out.

Exposed.

Mine.

She looks up at me. Her pupils are wide, chest rising and falling rapidly, hands gripping the couch cushions. I exhale slowly, my fingers tightening against her thighs, keeping her still. "Lie back for me, pretty girl."

Her breath shudders, but she listens. She lets me move her, lets me guide her, lets me position her exactly how I want her.

I dive in. The first swipe of my tongue against her slick heat has her hips jerking up, thighs trembling in my grip. Her breath stutters and I feel the tremor of it all the way through her. I growl against her skin, my hands tightening around her soft, curvy thighs. She's writhing beneath me, and I’m going to give her exactly what she wants.

She's mine to devour.

And fuck, she tastes like heaven.

I lap at her like I'm starved for it, because I am.

Her clit pulses against my tongue, hot and swollen, and I wrap my lips around it, sucking just enough to feel her jolt beneath me. She cries out, her hands fisting in my hair, tugging, anchoring herself, pulling me in closer with her needy, desperate sounds.

I groan, lapping up every drop, drinking in every sound, every little gasp and whimper that spills from her lips. She's so sensitive, so fucking reactive. Every flick of my tongue, every slow, deliberate movement, has her tensing, tightening, breaking apart little by little. I drag my tongue through her folds, slowly, teasing, savoring her.

Because this?

This is what I've been waiting for.

Her taste, her sounds, the way she writhes beneath me, desperate, helpless, completely undone⁠—

It's everything I've fantasized about.

I grip her hips with one hand to keep her still as I push two fingers inside her, curling them deep.

She's so tight.

So fucking perfect.

She clenches around my fingers, and I can feel the way her body reacts to me, like it knows exactly who it belongs to. Her thighs twitch against my shoulders, her entire body shuddering.

"Cal—"

She gasps it, her voice breaking apart like she can't hold herself together anymore.

Hearing her say my name like that, it does something to me. Her fingers tighten against my scalp, tugging hard, like she needs something solid—someone—to keep her from unraveling. Her head tilts back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, body shaking beneath me.

And I feel it—the intense, possessive need curling in my gut, the raw, aching hunger to hear her say my name like that over and over again.

I want to pull it from her lips in every way possible.

Make my name the only name she ever thinks about when she comes.

I groan against her, lapping her up, fucking her with my fingers, dragging her higher, watching her unravel just for me.

Because that's what she is now.

Mine.

She's so close.

I flick my tongue over her again and again, dragging her closer, pulling her to the edge, making her feel nothing but this.

Her moans turn breathy, higher-pitched, frantic.

Her legs start to shake.

Her hips buck, her breath catches, and I don't stop.

I don't let up.

"Come for me, Izzy."

Her entire body locks up and then she shatters.

Her back arches, her breath erratic, and she falls apart beneath me, gasping my name like it's the only word she remembers.

I groan into her, licking her through it, prolonging it, making sure she feels every last second of her release.

She trembles, twitching, her thighs jerking against me as aftershocks ripple through her.

I don't stop until she's whimpering, too sensitive, too overwhelmed.

Only then do I pull back, pressing a slow, reverent kiss against the inside of her thigh.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her skin flushed down to her perfect, bare breasts, her body loose and spent.

I watch her, my hands still gripping her thighs, keeping her exactly where she is.

Then, low and rough, I murmur—"That's my good girl."

Her eyes flutter open, dazed, unfocused, still floating somewhere in the high I just gave her.

And then she looks at me.

Not just looks.

Locks onto me.

Like I'm the only person in the room. The only one who matters in her world.

"Please, Cal, I need⁠—"

I already fucking know.

She wants my cock.

Wants me to bury myself inside her, stretch her open, fuck her so deep and hard that she forgets everything but my name.