Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

I want that too.

More than I can put into words.

But not yet.

I press one last kiss to her inner thigh, feeling her tremble beneath me. "Not tonight."

She whines, frustrated, needy. "Why not?"

I crawl back up her body, settling beside her, pressing my lips against hers, swallowing the whimper she lets out when she feels me still hard against her.

"Because I want to savor this, Izzy." I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb along her flushed jaw, tilting her chin up just enough to make her look at me. "I want to stretch this out, keep you on the edge, make you desperate for it."

Her lips part on a shallow breath, eyes darkening with want.

"We have time, pretty girl." I lean in, dragging my teeth along her bottom lip, feeling her shiver. "And when I finally take you, it's going to ruin us both."

She whimpers.

Soft, needy, already unraveling. She licks her lips, eyes lowering with a kind of hesitant hunger⁠—

and then she surprises me.

"Then can I at least take care of you?"

Fuck.

I grunt, my hands fisting in the couch cushions, trying to stay in control.

"Izzy—"

She doesn't give me a chance to protest. She reaches for me, wrapping her fingers around the thick outline of my cock through my pants, and I curse, hips jerking into her touch.

She's so fucking eager.

So willing.

Like she wants to make up for all the times she was denied this.

Like she wants to worship me the way I just worshiped her.

I groan, my head tipping back, but she doesn't let up.

She tightens her grip, stroking me through the fabric, watching me like she's memorizing every reaction, every little twitch of my body.

"Please?" she whispers, voice breathy, teasing and wicked.

Fuck.

I nod, because there's no way in hell I can say no to her right now.

"Yeah. But I'm close. A few strokes, and I'm done."

Her eyes glint.

And she surprises me again.

"I want to taste you."

I suck in a breath.

Jesus Christ, she's going to kill me.

I grab her wrist, stopping her from reaching for my waistband.

"Soon." My voice is rough, strained, barely hanging on. "But not this time. Not when I can't properly enjoy it."

She pouts, but I love that look on her.

So fucking much.

"Come here."

She shifts, settling on her knees in front of me.

I barely have time to brace myself before she releases my cock and takes me in her hand, slow, teasing, too fucking perfect. I hiss through my teeth, watching her, watching her beautiful, delicate fingers wrap around me.

It's too much.

Her skin is still flushed from my mouth on her.

The taste of her release still lingers on my tongue, hot and sweet and addictive.

And now, she’s on her knees, bare and breathtaking, eyes dark with heat, her mouth soft and waiting, my cock in her hand, stroking me slow.

How the fuck am I supposed to last through that?

It's two strokes.

Maybe three.

And I'm done.

I groan, head tipping back, my fingers tightening in her hair, my entire body locking up as pleasure crashes through me.

She doesn't stop.

Her fingers keep stroking, like she's memorizing the way I feel in her palm. My cock jerks in her grip, spilling over her perfect fucking tits, painting her skin in thick, hot ropes of my release.

I thought that would be enough.

I thought that would be the thing to finally wreck me, to leave me breathless and spent and unable to think straight.

I was wrong.

Because then⁠—

She does it.

She drags her fingers through it.

Slow. Unbothered.

Like it's natural.

Like she was meant to be covered in me.

She lifts them to her lips, and tastes me. My jaw locks, my chest tightening, my entire body going so fucking tense I might snap in half. The room narrows, time slows, my vision focused solely on her.

Naked.

Kneeling before me.

Mine.

Her lips part slightly, tongue flicking out, swiping over the tip of her finger. Her eyes are big, her breathing unsteady, her mouth pink and swollen from kissing me, her tits still slick with my release.

She smirks.

Fucking smirks.

A tiny, self-satisfied, wicked little thing, her eyes glinting up at me, fully aware of the effect she has on me.

She knows how possessive I feel in this moment.

She understands the primal claim she's staked by accepting my mark on her skin.

She recognizes that my restraint is hanging by a thread—that if I wasn't committed to taking this slowly, I'd have her spread out beneath me again, licking my own come off her skin, kissing it back into her mouth, and making her take me deep and desperate.

I exhale, gritting my teeth, dragging my gaze over her, forcing my cock to stop twitching at the sight.

I don't blink.

I don't look away.

I just stare her down.

I’m completely wrecked when I say, "Fuck, Izzy."

I swallow hard, my body still pulsing, my muscles still tight, my restraint hanging by a fucking thread. She tilts her head, her fingers still teasing her lips.

Like she's waiting for me to break.

I almost do.

Instead, I narrow my eyes, watching her. And then, voice gravel-rough, utterly fucking ruined, I ask⁠—

"What are you trying to do to me?"

I LICKED HIM. ZERO REGRETS.

IZZY

Cal is still looking at me, eyes intense like I just did something unholy. There’s a raw hunger in his stare, so palpable I can almost hear the argument in his head—whether to drop to his knees and worship me or flip me over and devour me whole.

His chest rises and falls steadily, controlled, broad and solid and covered in ink. My eyes trace every muscle, every ridge of his body that I've wanted to run my tongue over since the moment I saw them peeking out from his button-down. His stomach remains tight, every carved-out inch of him tense.

I feel it—heat crawling over my skin, settling low and deep, flooding my veins until I’m buzzing with need. Every nerve is awake, my whole body aching for what’s coming.

Then he moves. Fast.

Before I even process what's happening, he's on me, hands gripping the backs of my thighs, lifting me clean off the ground like I weigh absolutely fucking nothing. I let out a surprised squeak at the sensation of suddenly being airborne. My arms fly around his neck on instinct, clutching onto him as he carries me like I belong to him. Like I always have. Like I always will.

I barely get a breath in before he speaks, voice laced with amusement. "You good?"

I scowl against his shoulder, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his body, the feel of his arms wrapped around me, strong and sure. "You could warn a girl before doing shit like that."

His chest rumbles with a chuckle, the vibration sinking into my skin. "Noted."

I don't tell him that I liked it—the ease of it, the control of it, the sheer strength of it. I don't mention how much I enjoyed the firm grip of his hands on me, like there is no way in hell he'd ever let me fall, or the way he moves, confident and unbothered, like he could carry me across the city without breaking a sweat.

Instead, I let him take me. Let him care for me. Let him do what I'm still learning how to accept.

He brings me into my bathroom and puts me down gently. My feet touch the cold tile and I wiggle my toes at the sensation as he turns on the shower. The pipes in my old apartment building groan to life. I shake my head as I watch him. He's so unreasonably large, taking up so much of the space, making my standard-sized bathroom feel miniature.

The first hit of warm water cascades down my back as he leads me inside, relaxing muscles I didn't even realize were tense. The pressure is perfect, needles of heat easing away the day's strain. Steam rises, thick and soft, wrapping around us, fogging the mirror, muffling the world outside.

And then Cal steps in behind me. His presence is immediate, overwhelming, suffocating in the best possible way. His chest is inches from my back, his body so close I can feel him, but he doesn't touch me. Not yet. Instead, he lets the water do its work, warming us both, washing clean the mess we made together.

Then his hands find me—slow and careful. His fingers glide over my skin, reverent, focused, spreading body wash over my arms, my stomach, my thighs. The soap creates a slick path, bubbles forming against my dampened skin.

It's not sexual. But it's intimate. More intimate than anything I've ever known. He's thorough, methodical, his touch firm but gentle, like he's memorizing every inch of me, mapping me out, soaking me in. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of him moving over me, his palms smoothing up my back, fingers spreading across my shoulders before sliding down my spine. The water drums against us, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

I feel his breath against the back of my neck and the light scrape of his stubble against my damp skin. Then he tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him—he looks wrecked. His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth slack with need, dark hair damp and curling at the ends, water droplets clinging to his lashes. One slides down the sharp cut of his jaw, trails over his throat, and disappears down his chest. I watch its path, spellbound.

His thumb brushes my bottom lip with a soft, slow, teasing stroke. When he speaks, his voice is warm. "You were amazing."

I don't know how to take compliments when they're real, and when they come from a man who actually means them. So I duck my head, let him finish cleaning me off, and don't argue. Which, if I'm being honest, might be a first for me.

By the time we step out of the bathroom, my skin is still warm, my hair damp and clinging to my shoulders, the soft cotton of my tank top cool against my freshly showered skin. The fabric stretches across my fuller curves. But now that doesn’t seem to bother me. I feel relaxed, clean, lighter than I've felt in days.

And then I turn and forget how to function, because Cal is standing there in nothing but boxer briefs. Somehow, this is more unfair than when he was completely naked, because now there's just enough left to torment me, to tease and taunt, making my brain short-circuit as I drink him in, all broad muscle and tight definition. His thick thighs flex slightly as he moves, the deep V of his hips disappearing beneath black fabric, his stomach so fucking sculpted it's almost indecent.

And he knows it. I know he fucking knows it. Because his lips curve ever so slightly as he steps forward and tucks me into bed. He's gentle, like I'm precious, like I'm what he intends to keep.

Then he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead that lingers. His lips are gentle, heat blooming where they touch.

"Stay," he murmurs, each word sinking into me. "I’ll be right back."

I nod, barely registering his words, still too distracted by the fact that I can literally see every single muscle flex as he turns away. The tattoos stretching across his back ripple with each movement. I watch as he walks toward the door.

And then he's gone, disappearing through the doorway. I have approximately thirty seconds to compose myself. I fail.

When he returns, it's with a serving tray balanced in his hands.

A fucking serving tray. My eyes narrow immediately. "Where the hell did you even get that?"

He looks smug as he sets the tray down on my lap, completely unfazed. The warmth seeps through the blanket onto my thighs. "Snuck it in while you were sleeping."

I gape at him. "You smuggled in cookware?"

He shrugs, handing me a glass of wine like this is the most normal evening in the world. The deep burgundy liquid catches the soft light from my bedside lamp. "I was planning ahead."

I sputter out a laugh, shaking my head. Unbelievable. He's been invading my life, my space, my apartment—and I didn't even notice. Or maybe I did. Maybe I just never wanted to stop him.

I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor filling my mouth, watching as he settles in beside me. The mattress shifts with his weight, automatically bringing me closer to him as the surface dips. He grabs his own plate, starts eating like this is our routine, like this is just what we do, like he belongs here. Maybe he does. Maybe this is just what my life looks like now.

I take a bite, and tears hit fast. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding—and then it’s just happening.

Hot, unstoppable, ugly crying. And even I don’t know where it came from.

Cal freezes, fork midair, his eyes widening slightly. "Jesus. Did I overcook it or something?"

I sniffle, letting out a choked laugh, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "No. Oh my god, no."

He still looks at me like I'm an alien as I shake my head, voice shaky, laughing through the tears. "Everything's just... perfect. And I guess that's why I'm crying."

His brow furrows. "You're crying because it's perfect?"

I laugh harder, half-sobbing, half-giggling, and he's still just sitting there, watching me like I've lost my goddamn mind. "Stop teasing me, you asshole."

His expression softens, his lips twitch, and then he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "I get it," he says, his voice completely sincere. "You don't have to explain it if you don't want to."

I breathe out, shaky, trying to pull myself together with another sip of wine and a deep inhale. And then I say it, because I need to, because I've never said it out loud before: "Everything was so wrong with Evan."

I stare down at my plate, pushing the food around with my fork. The tines scrape against the ceramic with a soft sound. "And I just... never even knew." I let out a soft laugh, sad and self-deprecating. "I was in that tunnel, you know? I didn't know there was an entire world outside of it, full of trees and sunlight."

Cal is quiet for a long moment before he finally responds, softly, knowingly, like he's been there himself: "Yeah. I know what you mean."

I sip my wine, stealing a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He looks so at ease, leaning against my headboard, broad shoulders relaxed, his hand idly twisting his fork as he chews, working through his food like there was never a time before him.

My fingers tap against my glass, the soft ping of my nail against the crystal creating a nervous rhythm. I hesitate before carefully venturing the question that's been sitting in the back of my mind all night: "Can I ask you something?"

He lifts his eyes to me, pausing mid-bite as I shift, swallowing. "How long did it take you to get over your ex?"

His expression shifts—barely—but it’s enough. I catch the hesitation, the way his eyes go distant like he’s sorting through something he wasn’t ready to revisit.

He doesn’t answer right away, and suddenly I regret asking. Maybe I crossed a line. Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.

"I think," he says finally, setting his fork down, his voice calm and even, "it took me a very short amount of time... and a very long amount of time."

I frown, blinking. "I don't get it."

He exhales, stretching his arm along the back of the headboard, turning slightly to face me. "The moment it happened," he explains, "I accepted it. I didn't cry about it. It didn't bother me when I thought about it." He pauses before adding, "But I also haven't been with another woman since. Not in any serious capacity."

"So maybe it didn't take me long to move on. But maybe it took me a long time to be ready to trust someone else again."

"Why me, though?"

I hold my breath.

And then he says, quietly but with no room for doubt: “Because you see me. And I see you.”

Just that. Like it's the most obvious answer in the world, like that should be enough explanation on its own, like there's no one else it could have ever been.

I smile at his words—not because I totally understand them, but because I want to, because I want to believe I can be someone worth choosing.

Cal finishes his plate first, pushing the tray aside with an easy, effortless movement, his muscles shifting under inked skin as he stretches one arm back behind his head. He grabs the remote, flipping on the TV like he's done it a thousand times before, like he knows my streaming services as well as I do. The screen flickers to life. "Pick a show," he says, casually scrolling through the options.

“Seriously?”

"Something you've always wanted to watch." He turns his head, arching an eyebrow at me, like he already knows I'm not going to argue, like he already knows I want this as much as he does. "We're watching it together," he continues, tone casual but firm, like it's already decided. "Episode by episode. Over dinner. In bed."

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head, settling back into the pillows. I reach for the remote, my fingers brushing against his as I take it from his grip. The brief contact sends a spark up my arm. "You better not fall asleep mid-episode, Callahan."

His lips twitch, amusement slipping into something darker. "Guess you’ll just have to keep me entertained."

We finished eating. We watched an episode of Bridgerton—because if I was going to force Callahan to sit through a show, it was going to be over-the-top, ridiculous, pure romance.

And now I'm full, warm, and perfectly content. The wine has settled in my system, making me feel soft, with a pleasant buzz humming just beneath my skin. Cal insisted on cleaning up while I finished my drink, gathering the plates, stacking the tray, moving through my kitchen like he's been here for years instead of days.

And I let him. Because, for once, I liked letting someone take care of me.

Now he's back, standing at the edge of my bed, looking down at me. The shadows play across his face, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones. And then he does the unexpected—he leans down, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, and murmurs, "Goodnight, pretty girl." Then he stands and heads for the door.

No. No, that's not right.

My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, holding him firm. "No!"

He stops immediately, turning back, brows furrowed, expression cautious. I don't let go. I tighten my grip, and then I force myself to say it: "I want you here."

His eyes darken, but his expression stays carefully unreadable. Doubt creeps in—did I read this entire night wrong? Why doesn't he want to sleep next to me?

"Izzy..." His voice is careful. "It's not that I don't want to."

He sits back down beside me, his weight dipping the mattress, his presence overwhelming. And then he tells me that he doesn't really sleep well. That sometimes—not always, but sometimes—he has night terrors from the war, from the atrocities he's seen. And he doesn't want to disturb me.

"Plus, I haven't slept in anything bigger than a twin bed in a decade."

"I don't care." He looks at me as I swallow, tightening my hold on his hand. "I'll stay up with you, if you want."

He shakes his head immediately. "No, you need your sleep."

I press my lips together before saying softly, "Please. I want you here. Let me take care of you for once."

His fingers flex against mine, his lips part like he's about to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in and kisses me deeply, fully, like he's forgetting himself, like he's forgetting the whole damn world. His body shifts, pressing against mine, pushing me back into the pillows. The soft mattress cradles my curves as his weight settles against me. And by the time he pulls away, I'm turned on all over again.

And he? He's in my bed. Callahan Knight is very much in my bed.

He settles in beside me and we lie in silence for a while. His arm rests across my chest, anchoring me in place. I know he’s awake; his breathing is uneven, his muscles still holding tension. But he’s comfortable enough to keep me close, to hold me like I’m his even in the quiet. And I like it. I like the pressure of him, the strength in his body, the way his forearm drapes over me.

My fingers drift along his skin, tracing the lines of ink stretched over muscle. The tattoos feel slightly raised beneath my fingertips, the texture different from his smooth skin. I can feel his skin react, tiny shivers rippling through him. It makes him tingle, makes him relax, so I don't stop. Instead, I trace every line, every angle and intricate design, wondering what each of them means.

As my fingers explore, they brush against something cool and metallic at his throat—his dog tags. They've been there all along, resting against his chest. I pause, fingertips hovering over them, suddenly aware that I'm touching a piece of his identity. "Sorry," I murmur, pulling my hand back.

Cal catches my wrist gently, guiding my fingers back to the tags. "Don't be."

"Tell me about them?" I ask, curiosity winning over hesitation.

A low sound rumbles through his chest, like he wasn't expecting the question. "Hmm?"

"Your tattoos," I clarify, fingers still moving over the ink. "Can you tell me what the designs are? What they mean to you?" I hesitate. "If that's not too personal."

He turns slightly, looking down at me. And then he says words that make my heart clench: "Nothing's too personal with you, Izzy."

I swallow hard, my fingers pausing on his skin. "I won't ever keep secrets from you," he continues, his hand flexing slightly where it rests against me. "Anything you want to know, just ask."

I nod, tucking my head against his shoulder, letting my fingers resume their path. He lifts his arm, angling it so I can see, so I can map the designs with my eyes as well as my touch.

"This one," he starts, tapping a section of ink that stretches from his wrist to his elbow, "is for my unit. The insignia, the coordinates of where we were stationed. A couple of guys got it before deployment, a couple after. Some of them never got the chance." His voice dips slightly at that last part, and I don't press.

Instead, I let my fingers move further up, tracing another pattern. "And this?"

He exhales, the tension in his chest loosening as he follows my touch. "That one's for my mom."

His hand covers mine, pressing it flat against the ink. "She used to hum this song when I was little," he says. "When I was sick, when I couldn't sleep. I don't remember the lyrics, but I remember the melody." He tilts his forearm toward me. "The notes are here. I had someone translate them onto a staff." A pause. "It's not perfect, but it's close enough."

I try and fight the tears threatening to well in my eyes. That's... God. That's the most beautiful fucking tribute I've ever heard. I let my fingers glide over the ink, pressing my palm against it like I'm holding a sacred memory.

My hand drifts back to his dog tags, gently running over the embossed letters. The metal is cool and smooth beneath my touch. "And these?" I ask softly. "Do you always wear them?"

Cal is quiet for a long moment, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm. I can feel his heartbeat quicken slightly. "Since the day I enlisted," he finally says. "Never took them off."

I notice a shift in his expression, a decision being made. He sits up slightly, his movements slow as he reaches behind his neck. The chain makes a soft metallic sound as he unclasps it. "Until now," he says, voice rough with emotion.

My breath catches as he takes my hand, placing the metal against my palm, closing my fingers around it. The tags are still warm from his body, the metal smooth where it's been worn by years of constant contact with his skin. "Cal..." I start, not sure what to say or what this means.

"I've been carrying these for a decade," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "And with them, who I was, what I've done, what I've seen." His fingers brush my cheek, tender in a way that makes my chest ache. "These tags were a reminder that I couldn't move forward because I couldn't put the past behind me."

He swallows hard. "But I don't need to put it behind me anymore. I just need to put it somewhere safe." His fingers tighten gently around mine. "With someone I trust."

I stare at him, at the way his eyes hold mine like they mean it, at the quiet openness written across his face. "You sure about this?" I whisper, understanding the enormity of what he's offering.

His lips curve slightly, certainty radiating from him. "More sure than I've been about anything in a long time." He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. "Keep them safe for me, pretty girl."

With shaking hands, I slip the chain over my head, feeling them settle against my chest. They're heavier than I expected, both physically and in what they represent. My fingers close around them, feeling the impression of his name, his blood type, his identity pressed into metal. "I will," I promise, knowing I'm promising so much more than just safeguarding a piece of metal.

His eyes darken as he looks at me, at his tags resting against my skin. Possessiveness and tenderness flash across his face. "Looks better on you anyway," he murmurs.

My fingers start absently tracing another of his tattoos, and then he chuckles. "I've got a lot of ink, Izzy." His lips curve slightly, teasing. "It'll take some time to go through them all."

I flash a grin, the reckless kind of idea already buzzing through me. I lift his forearm to my mouth and lick it.

His entire body goes rigid—eyes wide, muscles locking, breath catching hard in his chest.

I shrug, all fake innocence. "I meant what I said."

My fingers drift lower, trailing down his stomach, tracing another section of ink. "Although, looks like I've got a lot more to explore myself."

His fingers tighten against my side. And I start to wonder if maybe I broke him. Then he exhales, shaking his head, gripping me tight, and flips me onto my side. He tucks me into him, wrapping me up in his arms, pressing his lips to my temple. His body curves around mine, his larger frame enveloping my softer curves, creating a cocoon of warmth and security.

And then he mutters, "Go to sleep before I lose all control and fuck you to sleep instead."

I smile into his chest. And I fall asleep feeling safe.