Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

KEEP HER SAFE, KEEP HER CLOSE, KEEP HER MINE

CAL

Izzy’s tucked against me. Her breathing is even, peaceful—until the softest little snore escapes, and I have to bite back a grin.

She's out. Completely passed out.

And fuck, I love that.

That she trusts me enough to sleep like this. Not just sleep—deep sleep. The kind she hasn't been getting enough of.

Her cheek is pressed to my chest, her hand resting against my stomach, her body tucked so closely to mine that there's not an inch of space between us.

And I⁠—

I feel like the luckiest bastard on the fucking planet.

This is what I want. Her wrapped around me, trusting me with her calm, her safety, her stillness. Letting me be the one who makes her feel like she can finally breathe.

I could lay here forever. Just watching her sleep, feeling her heart beat steady against me, listening to the soft, almost-adorable snores she'd absolutely deny making.

My chest tightens, because even with all of this—this perfect moment, this perfect night—I know it's not perfect.

Because I haven't told her.

Because I'm lying to her.

Because every time she texts Caleb, she's texting me.

My arm tightens around her as if that could somehow fix it. I need to come clean. I need to tell her. But now isn’t the right time, because right now, what she needs is stability. Right now, she needs me. And if keeping this up a little longer means keeping her steady, keeping her feeling safe, then I'll do it.

Even if it eats me alive. Even if every time she calls me Caleb, I feel like the worst kind of bastard. Even if I know that when the truth finally comes out, she might not take it well.

Because it's not going to be as simple as her laughing it off. It's not going to be as simple as her shrugging and saying, “Oh well, that's funny, guess I've been sexting my real-life boyfriend this whole time.”

Because Izzy has never had someone who didn't manipulate her.

And what the fuck am I doing if not manipulating her?

I let out a tight breath, feeling her body against mine, the trust in the way she's curled into me.

She trusts me.

And when I finally tell her the truth, I just have to pray to whatever god is out there that she still will.

I should be asleep.

But I'm wired. Completely, utterly fucking wired. Because all I can think about is her. The way she dropped to her knees in front of me, eyes locked on mine, fingers wrapping around me. The way she dragged her fingers through my release, brought them to her lips, licked me clean like she was savoring me. Like she wanted to watch me come undone. Like she wanted me to fucking ruin her.

And I did. But not enough. Not nearly fucking enough. I shift carefully, reaching for my phone. I flick through my messages, scrolling absently, looking for nothing and everything at the same time.

And then a notification pops up.

An encrypted message. I instantly sit up, careful not to jostle Izzy, my pulse ticking faster. Right on time. I'd made a call a few days ago to someone who could actually help. Someone who owed me a favor.

Ryan Mercer. He’s an old Army buddy that went to work for the NSA after discharge. He's crazy good with computers. Better than me, which was saying something. He also doesn't really like the government, which is funny, considering his career choices. So, he's always been a little wiggly on crossing ethical boundaries.

Which is good for me in this instance. Because what I wanted to know about Evan? Ryan could find.

I pop open the email. A password prompt flashes on the screen. I enter the last four digits of my Social and the screen unlocks. I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head.

I never told him my fucking Social. But before I can read the full contents, another alert pulls my attention away.

A notification, but it’s not from my inbox, it’s from Izzy’s phone, appearing on my screen.

It’s Evan. Calling again.

Rage curls deep inside of me as I watch it ring. Watch it go to voicemail. It takes a moment and then the transcript loads, and what I see makes my vision go black with rage.

You think you're fucking safe now? You think you can just walk away from me? I gave you years, Izzy. You owe me. You're mine. And if you think some fucking guy is going to protect you from me, you're wrong. He won't always be watching you, sweetheart. He won't always be there. And when he's not, I will.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My grip on the phone tightens, white-knuckled.

This motherfucker. This walking corpse.

Because that's what Evan is now. He just doesn't know it yet.

It takes every single ounce of control I have not to get up, grab my keys, and drive straight to his apartment. Because men like him only understand one language: violence. Pain. A lesson taught in blood.

And normally? Normally, I'd be more measured. I'd be calculated, strategic, restrained.

But this? Izzy? She's not normal to me. She's everything. And for her, I'm willing to become someone else entirely.

I've taken lives before. Each one weighs on me differently. Some of them I still see in my sleep. Some of them I regret. Some of them I don't. But this? This is the first time I'm certain⁠—

If I put a bullet in Evan's head, I wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over it. But that's not my choice to make. Not yet. I can't do something that would haunt her forever. Because if it were up to me, he'd already be rotting.

I inhale, exhale. Forcing myself to breathe. Forcing myself to be calm.

I click off the phone when Izzy stirs. Her body shifts, pressing closer to me, her breath warm against my skin. She blinks up at me, still soft with sleep, hair a mess, eyes hazy.

She smiles, and fuck me, I'd give anything to wake up to her for the rest of my life.

"What time is it?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

I glance at the clock. "Almost six."

She stretches, sighing against me. "Did you sleep?"

I brush my fingers down her back. "A little."

The truth. Because even with my mind spinning, my body wired, the ghost of Evan's actions making my blood run hot, I still managed to sleep a little. Because of her. Because she’s tucked against me, soft and steady, exactly where she’s meant to be. She tilts her head back, peering up at me.

"What do you want to do today?"

I know exactly what I want to do. Stay in bed with her. Make her come until she forgets her own name. Keep her here, wrapped around me, locked in this bubble where the outside world doesn't exist.

But instead, I sigh. Because that's not an option.

"I have to go to the store for a meeting," I say, voice edged with regret.

Her nose scrunches slightly. "On a Saturday?"

I nod. "Gotta patch a security hole."

Because when I'm not here, when I'm not watching her, I need to make damn sure the place she spends most of her time is fucking locked down. And until I figure out what the hell Evan's been up to, where his money is coming from, and why the fuck he's still trying to keep his grip on Izzy when he clearly has women on the side—I need to be prepared. For anything.

Izzy nods, her fingers lightly tracing patterns over my chest, small and absentminded but enough to make my skin tingle.

"I should go visit Amanda," she murmurs. "She's been really worried."

I pull her closer, my arm firm around her waist, keeping her right where I want her for just a few more minutes.

"That's a good idea," I tell her.

She tilts her head up at me, brows knitting together.

"What?" I ask, confused at the look on her face.

She hesitates, then lets out a soft laugh, almost self-conscious. "I guess I'm just not used to a guy being supportive of me going out and spending time with my friends."

That's a fucking problem. I slide my hand down her back, a silent reassurance—I'm here. I'm not them. You’re safe.

"Get used to it, pretty girl," I murmur. "Because I like the idea of you having friends. And even though Amanda is a little disturbed⁠—"

She snorts, laughing against my chest. "Completely deranged," she agrees.

"Total menace to society," I add.

"She really is."

We both chuckle, shaking our heads.

But then I sober, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'm glad she's in your life, though," I say honestly.

She inhales deeply. Then, quietly, she says, "Thank you."

I can tell she means it. Every single letter of it. She shifts a little in my arms, stretching, her fingers still drawing those lazy patterns against my skin.

"Usually, when I see Amanda, I just stay over at her place," she says. "We drink a lot, and it's just easier that way."

That makes sense. But still.

"That's fine," I tell her. "But I can come sleep outside her door there too."

She bursts out laughing, head tipping back against the pillow. I watch her, soaking in the way she looks so fucking beautiful when she's carefree like this. Her laughter fades just slightly, and she nestles deeper into my arms, like she's trying to disappear.

"No," she mutters.

I raise a brow. "No?"

She shifts again, ducking her head a little, voice quieter than before.

"I don't wanna give Amanda access to you when she's drunk."

That makes me pause. I tilt my head, watching her, reading her. It's not jealousy. Not exactly. It's insecurity. A tiny, nagging voice in her head telling her she's not enough. That Amanda would be more appealing. That Amanda is the type of girl men choose.

I don't fucking like that.

I reach down, gripping the curve of her thigh, squeezing firm enough to steal her breath. My hand trails upward, feeling every inch of it before I tip her chin up to face me.

"Izzy, listen to me," I say, my voice steady. "Even if Amanda threw herself at me, I wouldn't go for her over you."

She stays quiet, eyes searching mine.

"You wanna know why?" I ask.

She nods, barely there. I grip her thigh again, fingers digging in slightly.

"This is what I like," I tell her. "A body with curves to grip." I trail my hand higher, up her waist, along her ribs, until I cradle her face in my palm. "A beautiful mind, a beautiful person, to go with a beautiful fucking body," I say. "Amanda is not my type. Never will be."

I watch her eyes widen slightly, her breath catching.

Then, I press my lips to hers. Like I’m trying to kiss every single bad thought out of her head. Like I’m rewriting the way she sees herself, one brush of my mouth at a time.

When I pull back, her eyes are glassy. She just stares at me for a second, stunned. Then she tucks herself against my chest, curling back into me.

Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't understand what I did to deserve you."

My arms tighten around her. I press another kiss to her temple, lingering there for a beat, letting my breath fan against her skin. "You don't have to understand it, pretty girl," I murmur. "You just have to believe it."

"I want to get to know you more," she murmurs.

My movements are soft and easy against her skin. "What's there to know?"

She tilts her head up, narrowing her eyes. "Oh, come on, Callahan. There's plenty."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Like what?"

"Well, for one, we're obviously trauma bonded at this point—at least, I am."

I bark out a laugh. "That's healthy."

She snickers. "Super healthy. But seriously. I want to know the stupid stuff about you."

I arch a brow. "Stupid stuff?"

She nods, looking up at me. "Yeah. Like your favorite color, your first car, and—oh, I don't know—whether or not you think you could take a chimp in a fight."

I stare at her. She stares back. Then, I burst out laughing. "Okay, first of all, what kind of fucking question is that?"

She shrugs innocently. "A valid one. You're all big and muscly. You look like you could punch through a brick wall. I'm just saying—could you take a chimp?"

I rub a hand over my face. "Izzy, chimps are fucking terrifying. That's a death sentence."

She gasps, dramatically clutching her chest. "You mean to tell me that Callahan, big strong security man, could lose to a chimpanzee?"

"Absolutely. Those fuckers go for the face first. I'd be dead in five seconds."

She bursts into laughter, burying her face in my chest.

I love the sound of it, loving the way she relaxes against me.

"Okay, okay, next question," I say, playing along.

She lifts her head. "Favorite color?"

I tilt my head, thinking. "Green, I guess."

Her eyes sparkle. "Like your eyes?"

I chuckle. "Something like that."

She nods, satisfied. "Mine's blue."

I smirk. "Like my favorite pair of panties you own?"

Her mouth drops open, a scandalized gasp slipping out before she swats at my chest. "You are ridiculous."

I catch her wrist before she can smack me again. "You love it."

She huffs but doesn't argue.

"Alright, my turn," I say, settling in. "First car?"

"You go first."

I shrug. "'99 Jeep Cherokee. Piece of shit, but it ran. Barely."

She giggles. "I had a Volkswagen Jetta. It broke down every other week, and my dad had to keep fixing it."

I chuckle. "Yeah, sounds about right."

She tilts her head. "Do you like cats or dogs more?"

I snort. "Dogs, obviously. But I respect a cat that acts like a dog."

"Okay, respectable."

I lift a brow. "What about you?"

"Both. But if I had to pick? Cats. They match my vibe better."

My lips twitch. "Because they're stubborn and refuse to admit when they like someone?"

She gasp-laughs, smacking my chest again.

"Exactly," she deadpans but I can see the smile in her expression.

"Alright. What's your weirdest fear?"

She grimaces. "Escalators."

I stare.

She nods seriously. "The thought of getting my shoelace caught and getting sucked into the gears and becoming a cautionary tale haunts me daily."

I bite down a laugh. "You don’t even wear shoes with laces!”

“My emotions are valid!” she laughs.

“Okay, yes, that is true, but that is the most bizarrely specific fear I've ever heard."

"Yeah, well, what's yours?" she challenges.

I pause, thinking.

Then, I shudder.

"Clowns."

Her face lights up with pure delight. "No fucking way."

I shake my head. "They're unnatural. No one smiles that much. It's creepy as hell."

She bursts into laughter again, burying her face in my chest. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, letting myself soak in the sound of her happiness.

Suddenly, she gasps and sits up. "Oh! I almost forgot!"

She leans over to her nightstand, pulling open the drawer. I watch, curious, as she rummages around before pulling out something that catches the light—a rosary with deep blue glass beads.

"Here," she says, holding it out to me. "I got this for you."

I stare at it, surprised. "A rosary?"

She nods, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I asked my Nonna for another one. For you."

I take it carefully, feeling the smooth beads between my fingers. The blue is deep, almost the same shade as the night sky. "Izzy, I can't take this. It's⁠—"

"You're not taking it," she interrupts. "I'm giving it to you."

I run my thumb over the cross, oddly moved by the gesture. I'm not Catholic. Hell, I'm hardly religious at all. But the fact that she thought of me, that she wanted me to have something that matched hers⁠—

"Thank you," I say quietly.

She smiles, soft and genuine. "Keep it with you? For protection. Especially on the death machine?"

I nod, carefully placing it in my pocket. "Always."

It’s in that moment that I realize that I don't just want to protect her. I want to know her. All of her. Every stupid little thing. Every stupid little fear.

Because this? This feels like ours.

The warmth of her body against mine is damn near impossible to leave. Her fingers are still tracing mindless patterns on my skin, her breath soft and even against my chest.

We've been lying here for longer than I should allow. Longer than I have time for.

But fuck time. I'd give anything to stay right here.

A loud beep pierces the air. It's the alarm on my phone. I let out a slow exhale, reaching over to silence it. Izzy hums, stirring slightly, pressing herself closer to me. She doesn't want to get up.

That makes two of us.

I brush my lips against her forehead, reluctant as hell. "I gotta head to the store."

She makes a soft sound of protest, stretching her legs against mine. "Want me to come with you?"

I pause, looking down at her. She's blinking up at me, eyes still hazy with sleep, hair a mess, lips soft and kissable. And I know what she's doing. She doesn't want to be alone today. Not after the week she's had. And I don't want to leave her either.

But still⁠—

"I'd really rather you sleep."

She shakes her head, stubborn as ever. "No, it'd be good. I've taken an entire week off. I need to get ahead on things before Monday."

I frown slightly. "You sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. That way, I can just stay in the city after and meet Amanda later."

I study her for a long second, searching for any sign of hesitation. Then, finally, I tilt her chin up and press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.

"Okay, baby."

I feel the way she exhales against me, like the term of endearment settled deep into her bones.

I pull away, groaning as I stretch, dragging a hand through my hair. She yawns, rolling onto her side.

Neither of us move immediately. Neither of us want to. But I know—if I stay in this bed with her any longer, I'll never leave. So with one last lingering touch to her hip, I force myself up.

As I dress, I feel the rosary in my pocket and find myself oddly comforted by it.

AMANDA HAS ZERO FILTER

IZZY

Amanda's apartment is peak Amanda—a physical manifestation of her personality sprawled across fifteen hundred square feet of downtown real estate.

Trendy, modern, and obnoxiously extra in a way that should be annoying but somehow works because it's her. The exposed brick walls are covered in framed vintage posters of movies she's never actually seen but owns because "the aesthetic, Izzy, it's about the aesthetic." There are at least three neon signs scattered throughout the space that say absolutely nothing of value—one in the shape of lips, another spelling out "vibes" in cursive, the third just a lightning bolt that casts an electric blue glow over the kitchen island. The entire place smells like a combination of expensive candles with names like "Midnight in Paris" and "Cashmere Dreams" and whatever designer perfume she over-applied that morning before work.

The couch is pink velvet, obviously. Not a subtle blush pink, but a bold, in-your-face fuchsia that demands attention the moment you walk through the door. It's the centerpiece of the living room, a statement that says more about Amanda's personality than any resume ever could.

The throw pillows? Monogrammed with her initials in gold thread, because God forbid anyone forget whose space they're in.

The coffee table? A chaotic landscape cluttered with half-burned candles, an open laptop with at least fifteen browser tabs visible, a collection of fashion magazines fanned out in what she swears is "purposeful disarray," and a stack of coasters shaped like famous men's abs—Chris Hemsworth on top, naturally.

A testament to the beautiful chaos that is Amanda Bennett—loud, unapologetic, and completely incapable of being ignored.

And right now?

We're both sprawled out on that obnoxiously pink couch, drinking cheap wine from ridiculously expensive crystal glasses (a housewarming gift from her mother that Amanda only brings out when she wants to pretend she's sophisticated), waiting for our unreasonably large Chinese takeout order to arrive. The coffee table is now additionally littered with menus, our phones, and Amanda's collection of delivery app receipts that she insists on keeping "for tax purposes," though I'm fairly certain Postmates orders don't qualify as business expenses.

Amanda is mid-story, gesturing wildly with her free hand, her wine tipping precariously with each animated movement. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in what she calls a messy bun but looks far too perfect to be genuinely messy, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the alcohol and excitement of her own storytelling.

"—I swear to God, Izzy, when he carried you into my office that day? I genuinely thought he was going to commit a full-blown homicide. Like, I was mentally calculating which items on my desk I could use as weapons if necessary."

I snort, curling my legs beneath me on the couch, sinking deeper into the velvet cushions that somehow manage to be both ridiculous and surprisingly comfortable. "Yeah?"

Amanda nods, dramatic as ever, her eyes wide with emphasis. She's always been like this—incapable of telling a story without her entire body becoming involved in the performance.

"Oh, yeah. He looked completely unhinged. But like, in a hot way. You know, that 'I'll burn the world down for you, baby' kind of way." She sighs dreamily. "A man who will commit murder and cuddle after? Peak romance."

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "That's not a real thing, Amanda."

She gasps, scandalized, pressing a hand to her chest. "Excuse me? Have you read a romance novel? It's the only thing that matters. That 'I will destroy anything that threatens you' energy? Top tier. Elite. The pinnacle of romantic gestures."

I laugh, sipping my wine, the alcohol warm and pleasant as it slides down my throat. The buzz has settled into my system, making everything feel softer around the edges.

"Anyway," she continues, tucking her feet under her, leaning in conspiratorially, "so he storms in, all broody and protective, and at first, I think he's about to rip my face off just for existing. But then? He puts you on the couch, tucks a blanket around you, and suddenly? Murder gone. Soft eyes activated. Like watching a lion turn into a kitten in real time."

I smile against my glass, the rim cool against my lips as I try to hide my expression.

Yeah. That sounds like Cal.

The same man who could probably snap a neck with his bare hands but carries me to bed when I fall asleep on the couch, who looks like he should be breaking kneecaps in some back alley but spends twenty minutes trying to coax a stray cat to trust him, who terrifies grown men with a single look but speaks to me in soft, murmured praises like I'm something precious.

Amanda squints at me from across the couch, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"What?" I ask, pretending innocence, schooling my features into what I hope is casual indifference.

Her eyes narrow further, laser-focused on my face like she's trying to read my thoughts directly through my skull. "You're making a face."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, you definitely are. That's your 'I have secrets' face. I've known you for five years, Isabella Russo. I know all your faces."

I shake my head, sipping my wine casually, trying not to meet her eyes. "It's just my face. This is how my face looks."

"Bullshit." She leans in closer, her eyes bright with mischief, with the thrill of potential gossip. "You're hiding something. Spill. Now. Immediately. This second."

"Amanda—"

"No, no, no. Don't 'Amanda' me with that tone." She wags a finger at me, nearly spilling her wine in the process. "I know you said he was taking care of you this week and not to worry about you, but bitch—" She slaps her hand against the couch for emphasis, the velvet cushion making a dull thud under her palm. "I want all the juicy details. As juicy as you can possibly get them. Like, if this were a fruit, I want it to be a watermelon on a hot summer day."

I groan, covering my face with my hands, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks unrelated to the alcohol.

There is not enough wine in the world for this conversation. Not enough wine in this apartment, in this city, possibly on the entire eastern seaboard.

Amanda stares at me, eyes practically glowing with anticipation, her entire body vibrating with barely contained excitement. She's like a bloodhound that's caught the scent of something interesting, and I know from experience that she won't let this go until she gets what she wants.

I let out a tense breath, rolling my shoulders, bracing myself for the inevitable. There's no escaping this—not when Amanda has that look in her eyes, not when she's already picked up on whatever tells my face is giving away.

"Okay, fine," I say, taking a quick gulp of wine for courage, the alcohol burning slightly on its way down. "We hooked up."

The scream Amanda lets out is ear-shattering, high-pitched and prolonged like she's auditioning for a horror movie. It bounces off the brick walls, reverberates through the apartment, probably terrorizing her neighbors who are undoubtedly wondering if someone is being murdered.

I swear to God, my eardrums vibrate with the force of it.

"I KNEW IT!" she shrieks, shaking my arm, her excitement making her grip surprisingly strong. "I FUCKING KNEW IT!"

I flinch, watching as drops of red wine splash onto my shorts. "Jesus, Amanda, calm the fuck down. The neighbors are going to call the police."

"Do not tell me to calm down! This is not a calming moment!" Her eyes are wide with delight, her smile almost manic. "I want details. All of them. Every single one. What was it like? How do his muscles feel? Is he as strong as he looks? How big is his cock?"

The wine hits wrong, catching in my throat. I cough, eyes watering, and feel my cheeks blaze like I just confessed a crime.

"Oh my God." I cough again, covering my face with my hands, mortification washing over me in waves. "There is something severely wrong with you."

Amanda grins, completely unapologetic, not even attempting to deny it. She scoots closer on the couch, her knees bumping against mine.

"I'm serious, Izzy. I need to know everything. I have a vested interest in this relationship."

"A vested interest?" I deadpan, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

She nods vigorously, sending a few strands of blonde hair tumbling from her messy bun, which somehow only makes her look prettier. "You've suffered long enough, bestie. You spent three years with a human potato chip.”

I give her a confused look. “A human potato chip?”

She nods. “Tasteless, thin, and leaving you with nothing but disappointment and regret.”

I shake my head. “Honestly, where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to live through you now."

I groan, pressing the cool rim of my glass against my temple, trying to soothe the embarrassment that's heating my skin. "You're terrible."

"I'm honest. There's a difference."

I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. This is Amanda—filter-free, boundary-challenged, but fiercely loyal and genuinely invested in my happiness.

"Okay, well." I pause, debating how much to actually say, how much I want to share even with my best friend. Some things feel too new, too precious to expose to outside scrutiny. "I did have the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life, if that's what you're asking."

Amanda gasps like she's just won the lottery, clutching her chest dramatically. "You bitch."

I laugh, shaking my head at her reaction.

"No, seriously. You absolute bitch." She grabs a monogrammed throw pillow and smacks me with it, not hard enough to hurt but with enough force to make me lean back. "I can't believe you've been holding out on me!"

I swat at her, ducking out of the way of another pillow attack. "Why am I getting hit for this? I thought you'd be happy for me!"

"I am happy for you! I'm also insanely jealous and need more information immediately." She huffs, setting the pillow down but fixing me with an intense stare. "How does he fuck? Is he dominant? He looks dominant. Tell me he's dominant."

I let out a strangled laugh, hiding behind my wine glass like it might somehow shield me from this conversation.

She narrows her eyes, leaning closer. "Izzy."

I know that resistance is futile. Amanda with a mission is like a tsunami—unstoppable, relentless, and impossible to divert.

"We're taking it slow," I finally admit, swirling the remaining wine in my glass, watching the dark liquid create a small whirlpool.

Amanda recoils like I just told her I'm adopting a purely celibate lifestyle and moving to a convent in the mountains. Her face contorts into an expression of such profound disbelief that it would be comical if it weren't directed at me.

"Excuse me?"

I shrug, fighting a smile at her reaction, at the genuine bewilderment written across her features.

"Taking it... slow?" She repeats the words like they're in a foreign language she's struggling to translate. "You and the walking embodiment of masculine perfection are... taking it slow?"

I shrug.

"Why the hell would you take it slow with a man like that? That's like being handed the keys to a Ferrari and deciding to only drive it in parking lots!"

I set my glass down on the coffee table, curling my legs beneath me more comfortably. "It's not really my choice," I admit, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. "He said he wants to experience our firsts slowly. Savor them."

Amanda melts onto the couch, sliding down until she's practically horizontal, one hand thrown dramatically over her forehead. "Jesus fucking Christ."

I’m unable to contain my amusement at her theatrics.

"You're telling me."

She fans herself with her hand, as if the very thought of Cal's restraint is making her overheat. "Okay, but real talk? That's somehow hotter than if he'd just railed you against a wall. Like, the discipline? The control? The patience? That's some next-level shit."

I let out a laugh, shaking my head at her assessment. "You're actually insane. Genuinely, clinically unstable."

"No, I'm correct. I'm right and you know it." She leans in, eyes still practically sparkling with mischief, with fascination. "So... how long are you going to let him savor you before you demand he put that big dick to work? Because patience is a virtue, but girl, there's also such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment."

"You really have no shame, do you?"

She shrugs, the gesture careless and unrepentant. "None. Zero. Zilch. Shame is for people who aren't living their best lives, and I refuse to be one of them."

Honestly?

I have no idea.

I don't know how long I can stand the sweet torture of his restraint, how long I want to exist in this delicious anticipation before it becomes too much. Part of me wants to savor it, to enjoy the build-up, the tension, the way each touch feels more significant because we're denying ourselves the ultimate release. Another part of me just wants him, all of him, now, immediately, without any more waiting.