Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

ORGASMS: 3 SEX: 0 MATH ISN’T MATHING.

IZZY

I step out of the bedroom, the soft lace of the lingerie clinging to every curve of my body. My stocking feet move silent against the polished hardwood floor, each step sending a small thrill of nerves through me.

Cal is sitting on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back, the other holding his phone, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal those forearms I love to stare at. He looks completely at ease, utterly unaware of how the simple sight of him sitting there makes my heart race.

Because the moment his eyes lift, the moment they land on me, everything changes.

For me, for my nerves, for whatever hesitation I might have had about this. His entire body goes still, tense with sudden awareness, and his lips curve into a slow, devastating grin.

"Fuck me." His voice is rough, almost reverent. Not a request but an expression of pure, unfiltered appreciation.

I swallow hard, my skin burning under his stare. Heat spreads through me, starting where his eyes touch and radiating outward until I'm flushed from head to toe.

“Come here, pretty girl.”

Before I can overthink, second-guess myself, or worry—I move.

I straddle him with more confidence than I feel, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips, my hands resting on his shoulders. He's so big, so solid beneath me, all heat and strength and barely contained desire. I can feel the tension in his muscles. His hands immediately find my thighs, sliding up over the delicate stockings, spreading his fingers wide as he grips me.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes drinking me in like a man seeing water after days in the desert. His fingers flex against my skin, just shy of bruising, marking me as his. "Goddamn, pretty girl, you look like something I should get on my knees and pray for."

A shiver runs through me at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. No one has ever looked at me the way Cal does—like I'm extraordinary, like I'm something rare and precious.

"You like that?" His thumb brushes along the inside of my thigh, teasing, barely there, a ghost of a touch that makes me ache for more. His eyes never leave mine, watching every reaction, every minute change in my expression. "Like knowing how fucking insane you make me?"

I bite my lip, my hips shifting instinctively, pressing into him, seeking friction and relief from the growing tension. I can feel him hardening beneath me, his body responding to mine with an immediacy that's as flattering as it is empowering.

"That's it," he coaxes, his voice smooth and dark. "Move for me. Show me how much you like it."

I inhale shakily, my body obeying before my mind catches up, grinding against the hardness beneath me. The friction sends sparks of pleasure through me and my back arch slightly. His groan is guttural, animalistic, his fingers digging into my thighs, holding me there, controlling my pace, guiding me how he wants me.

"Fuck, that's it, Izzy. Just like that."

I whimper, my head tipping back, exposing the column of my throat to him. I can feel my pulse racing there, can feel the flush spreading across my chest, the heat building between my legs. Every movement, every touch, every word from his lips only intensifies the need coiling inside me.

"But you know what I really want?" he murmurs, his hands gliding up my sides, tracing the curves of my waist, my ribs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the undersides of my breasts.

My pulse hammers against my ribs, my breath coming faster. In this light, his eyes look almost feral.

"What?" My voice is barely above a whisper.

He gives me that look—sinful, wicked—the kind that sends heat pooling low in my belly. It’s a glance that promises pleasure beyond imagining.

"A strip tease."

My breath catches in my throat. "What?"

"You heard me." His thumbs stroke over my hip bones, dipping just below the edge of my lingerie before retreating. "You look like a beautiful fucking snack in this, and I want you to unwrap yourself for me. Slowly."

I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting at the request. Part of me wants to laugh it off, to tell him I can't possibly do that, that I don't know how to be seductive like that. But another part—a part that's growing stronger by the second—thrills at the idea of being watched and desired.

"You want me to⁠—"

"Dance for me, pretty girl." It's not quite a command, but it's close. There's something in his tone that makes it impossible to refuse.

Heat flares through me, pooling between my thighs, making me clench involuntarily. I'm not a dancer. I've never been the kind of woman who moves with easy grace, who exudes confidence and sexuality without effort. I don't know how to do sexy, not deliberately, not as a performance.

But Cal's looking at me like I am sexy. Like I could do no wrong in his eyes. Like whatever I do, however clumsy or awkward, would be perfect simply because it's me.

And that?

That makes me want to try. That makes me feel brave in a way I never have before.

I sit back on his lap, adjusting my position slightly, my fingers finding the thin straps of my lingerie, trailing over them teasingly. The delicate lace feels like almost nothing beneath my fingertips.

His eyes darken further, tracking every movement of my hands. His own hands curl into fists at his sides.

"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise sending a shiver down my spine. "Slowly."

I inhale deeply, rolling my shoulders back as I slide one strap down my arm, the movement exposing more skin. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my flesh.

I feel ridiculous at first.

Self-conscious.

Like I'm playing at being someone I'm not.

But then I look at him, the way he's watching me, the pure, unfiltered desire in his eyes, his chest rising and falling with each increasingly ragged breath, his hands gripping the couch cushions like they're the only thing keeping him grounded.

He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world, like he's starving for me, like I'm doing everything right without even trying.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he rasps, his voice like smoke and whiskey, rough around the edges with need. "You know that?"

I swallow hard, my fingers stilling on the strap. The words hit something raw inside me, something tender and bruised. I don't know what to say, how to respond to such naked honesty.

Because I don't believe it.

I've spent too many years being told otherwise, too many years measuring myself against impossible standards and coming up short. Too many years with Evan's subtle digs and not-so-subtle comparisons.

But when Cal looks at me like this, with such open hunger, such genuine appreciation—I want to believe it. I want to see myself through his eyes.

"I mean it, Izzy," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine, seeing too much. "Every fucking inch of you—" his hands flex against the couch, his knuckles going white with the force of his grip "—is perfect."

My throat goes tight, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. There's something about his absolute certainty that breaks through my defenses.

His eyes tracks every movement, his throat bobbing as I let the fabric slip lower, exposing more of my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone. The lace catches slightly on my breast, and I hear his intake of breath. There's power in this, I realize. Power in being watched, in being wanted, in controlling the pace.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, eyes molten, voice a soothing command that somehow both calms and excites me. "Let me see you."

My skin feels hot, flushed with as he looks at me. Every nerve ending feels lit up, hyperaware, sensitive to the slightest touch. The lace slides lower, catching briefly on my nipples before falling away.

I'm bare from the waist up now, my lingerie pooling at my lap, my nipples peaked. I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide, instead forcing myself to stay still, to let him look his fill.

A breath slips from his lips, his eyes raking over my exposed skin, taking in every curve, every freckle, every imperfection I've spent years trying to hide.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

The reverence in his voice sends a shudder through me, heat pooling between my legs at the raw need I hear in those three words.

I move again.

I shift slightly, hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down slowly, teasingly, feeling my own pulse hammer at the sheer audacity of what I'm doing. The lace catches on my thighs, and I have to lift myself slightly to pull them down, exposing myself inch by inch.

Cal watches me. His eyes never waver, locked on me with a hunger that should terrify me—but all it does is make me ache for more.

"Good girl," he rasps.

When I’m finally bare, instinct kicks in—my arms start to rise, trying to shield myself under the heat of his gaze, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something to be devoured.

"Don't."

His voice is commanding in a way that sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs. It's not harsh, not cruel, but it brooks no argument.

"Don't hide from me," he murmurs, his voice softening slightly though no less intense. "You have nothing to hide."

There's something in his words, in the way he says them—like he genuinely believes it, like he sees nothing but beauty when he looks at me. Like my insecurities are incomprehensible to him.

I bite my lip, forcing my hands to stay where they are, to let him see me, all of me, without barriers or defenses.

"You are…" he exhales roughly, the sound almost pained. "The most breathtaking woman I have ever seen."

The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. This isn't a line, isn't something he says to get what he wants. He means it, wholly and completely.

I want to believe him.

And God, he makes me want to believe him.

Then he moves.

Fast.

One moment he's sitting beneath me, controlled despite his obvious desire, and the next—before I even process what's happening—he flips me onto the couch, pressing me into the cushions, caging me beneath him. His body is hot and hard above mine, his arms braced on either side of my head, his eyes burning into mine.

I gasp, my hands flying to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of him sinking into me even through the fabric. My pulse races, my breathing shallow, my body arching instinctively toward his.

Cal reaches beside us, grabbing the glass of wine he poured for me earlier, bringing it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip without breaking eye contact. The red liquid stains his lips momentarily before his tongue darts out to lick them clean.

"Tilt your head back."

My pulse jumps at the command. There's something about his tone, about the dark promise in his eyes, that makes me shiver with anticipation.

But I do as he says.

I tilt my head back, exposing the vulnerable column of my throat to him, my pulse hammering visibly there, my breathing shallow and quick.

"Good girl."

I feel his weight shift above me, feel his breath against my throat. He tips the glass, letting the wine slide past my lips in a cool, tart rush.

I swallow obediently, warmth spreading through me as the alcohol hits my system, mingling with the heat of arousal already coursing through my veins. Some of it spills, escaping the corner of my mouth, dripping down my chin, sliding in a cool, crimson trail between my breasts.

I gasp softly at the sensation, my eyes fluttering open to meet his. Cal tsks, shaking his head, though his eyes glitter with wicked enjoyment.

"Oops," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that I feel as much as hear. "Made a mess. Guess I'll have to clean that up."

His mouth moves lower, abandoning my lips to trace a heated path down my neck. His lips skim my collarbone, feather-light at first, then firmer, more insistent. They drag down the valley between my breasts, his breath ghosting over my wine-slicked skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

I shiver beneath him, nerves firing sharp and low as he drags his body down mine. My fingers clutch his shoulders, feeling the strength he’s barely holding back.

His tongue flicks out, tracing the path of the wine that dripped between my breasts, lapping at the liquid. His hands press my ribs down into the couch, holding me in place, controlling my movements, my breathing, my pleasure.

He takes his time, savoring me like I'm something rare and precious. Each lick, each kiss is designed to drive me to the edge of sanity.

And I'm going insane.

My body aches for more—more pressure, more friction, more of him. The teasing, the slow pace, the gentle torture of his mouth is simultaneously too much and not enough. I arch my back without conscious thought, pressing my chest up toward his mouth, silently begging for what I need. He hums against my skin, a dark, pleased sound vibrating through me before he finally, finally sucks one nipple into his mouth.

A gasp catches in my throat, turns into a breathless moan that I barely recognize as my own. His tongue is hot and wet against the sensitive peak, swirling around it, teasing it to an almost painful hardness before he moves to the other side. He lavishes the neglected breast with slow, teasing licks that make my toes curl, and make heat pool between my legs.

His fingers trail lower, skimming over my stomach, tracing the curve of my hip bone, teasing along my inner thigh. The anticipation is almost unbearable, my body trembling with need, with desperate want for his touch where I need it most.

When he finally slides his fingers through my slick heat, he groans against my breast, the sound vibrating through me. He seems genuinely affected by how wet I am for him, by how ready my body is, how responsive to his every touch.

His calloused fingertips glide over my clit in a teasing circle before pressing two fingers inside me with deliberate slowness. I suck in a breath at the intrusion, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his shirt.

"Fuck, Izzy," he murmurs, voice rough, filled with pure hunger as he watches my face. His fingers curl inside me, pressing against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. "Always so fucking perfect for me."

I whimper, the sound needy and desperate to my own ears. My hips move of their own accord, rocking against his hand, chasing the friction, the fullness, the pleasure building with each deliberate stroke of his fingers. He grins against my skin, the expression I can feel rather than see, pressing a soft kiss to the swell of my breast as his fingers continue their skilled assault on my senses.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a soothing command, encouraging and demanding at once. "Let me see you come."

His words tear through me, tightening everything low and deep, pulling me right to the brink, but⁠—

I don't want it like this.

Not tonight.

I shove at his shoulders, pushing against solid muscle, trying to create space. His head lifts immediately, eyes burning into mine, questioning, and concerned. Despite his obvious desire, there's an alertness there, a readiness to stop if that's what I want.

"Cal," I pant, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "Please—I want to feel you."

"You are feeling me." His voice is strained, tight with desire, with the effort of restraint.

I shake my head, my hand wrapping around his wrist, stilling his movements. His fingers twitch inside me at the restriction, making me gasp, making my inner walls clench around him.

"No," I breathe, the word almost a plea. "I want your cock."

A visible shudder runs through him, his breath catching audibly in his throat. His fingers twitch inside me again, pressing deeper, making me whimper.

"Not yet," he rasps, his free hand moving to drag his thumb over my clit in tight, precise circles that make my back arch, that send pleasure spiraling through me. "Let me see you come first."

I shake my head again, more insistent this time, digging my nails into his skin, leaving marks that I hope will still be there tomorrow.

"No," I argue, breathless but determined. "I want your cock."

He groans, the sound raw and desperate. His eyes trail down to where his fingers are buried inside me, watching the way my body clenches around him, the way his movements make me shiver and gasp. His hand shoots up suddenly, gripping my chin, tilting my face toward him so I have no choice but to look at him.

"Fuck, Izzy," he growls, his voice rough with need, with barely contained desire. "You know I can't say no to you."

He kisses me again, claiming my mouth with a hunger that steals my breath, that makes my head spin. He groans as he reluctantly withdraws his fingers, the loss making me whimper against his lips. I scramble forward the moment he releases me, my hands finding his waistband, tugging at it with desperate, clumsy fingers, determined to taste him.

He's so fucking hard.

So big.

When I finally get his pants open, when I wrap my hand around him, I'm almost startled by the thick, velvety weight of him pulsing against my palm. I shiver, my thighs clenching together involuntarily as I take in the size of him, the heat, the way he throbs with need in my hand. His head tips back, exposing the strong column of his throat, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

"Fucking hell."

I bite my lip, shifting onto my knees, my mouth watering as I lean forward. There's something about seeing him like this—strong, powerful Cal undone by desire, by want for me—that makes me bold, that makes me want to push him further, and see how far I can take him before he breaks completely.

"Let me taste you," I whisper, the words a barely audible plea.

He swears, the sound harsh and guttural, and then he's moving, ripping his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without care for where it lands. His hands find my hair, fingers threading through it, fisting at the base of my skull, controlling without hurting.

My lips part in anticipation, in silent invitation, and I take him into my mouth. A deep, guttural groan punches from his chest at the first contact, his thighs tensing beneath my hands as I hollow my cheeks, sucking him deep. The taste of him is intoxicating—salt and musk. It’s so purely Cal that makes my head spin, that makes heat pool between my legs.

Fuck.

He's so thick, stretching my lips wide, his skin hot and smooth against my tongue. I can't take all of him—he's too big, too much—but I try, relaxing my throat, taking him as deep as I can.

I glance up, curious to see his reaction, and the sight nearly undoes me.

His abs flex with each breath, every muscle in his body tight with tension and restraint. His jaw is locked, his throat working as he swallows repeatedly.

"Good girl," he breathes, the praise washing over me. "Just like that."

His hands tighten in my hair, guiding me, controlling me, setting a rhythm that I follow eagerly. His hips roll subtly into my mouth, not forceful, not rough, just enough to deepen the sensation, to show his pleasure, his need.

I moan around him, the vibration traveling up his length, making him curse, making his grip tighten in my hair.

"Fuck, pretty girl," he grits out, his voice strained, barely human. "You're gonna kill me."

I dig my nails into his thighs, feeling the powerful muscles jump beneath my touch. I take him deeper, swallowing around him, letting my throat constrict around the head of his cock.

His breath shudders out in a ragged exhale.

He pulls me off him with a grip that's firm but careful, always mindful of his strength. A startled sound escapes me as the connection breaks, my lips swollen and wet, my mind cloudy with lust and confusion.

"Cal?"

He doesn't answer. His eyes are wild, his breathing harsh, his control clearly hanging by a thread. He grabs me, his grip strong but never cruel, hauling me up against him, dragging me toward the bedroom with purposeful strides. I gasp, clutching onto his shoulders for balance as he practically throws me onto the bed.

I bounce slightly on impact, my hair fanning out around me, my skin flushed with need. I barely get a second to orient myself, before he grabs my thighs, spreading me open with strong, sure hands.

His hand grips his cock, the movement deliberate, almost taunting. He drags it over my parted lips, teasing, claiming. My core aches for him, empty and needy, but he's clearly got other intentions. He walks around the bed, leaning over me so that the head of his cock starts to press against my mouth, seeking entrance, demanding submission, and I don't even think before I part my lips, letting him slide inside again.

This time, the position is different.

He's the one standing, towering over me.

He's in control.

His cock pushes deeper, thicker, harder, and all I can do is moan around him, relaxing my throat to take him, staring up at his tight abs flexing above me, at the veins in his arms bulging as he grips the headboard for leverage.

And then his mouth descends on my pussy.

Oh, fuck.

The sudden contact sends a shockwave through me, my whole body twitching from the overload. I claw at his thighs, moaning around his cock, helpless against the way he eats me like he’s been waiting his whole fucking life to taste.

Licking, sucking, fucking wrecking me with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. He's relentless, merciless, as he drives me toward the edge.

His hips roll in a steady rhythm, fucking my mouth with controlled, deliberate thrusts as his tongue flicks over my clit with expert precision. His groan vibrates against my core as he feels the way I tighten around him, the way my body trembles on the edge of release.

I scream, the sound muffled by his cock, my whole body trembling, so fucking close I can taste it⁠—

"Come for me, pretty girl," he groans, his voice demanding against my sensitive flesh.

And I do.

I break.

It hits hard and fast, pleasure tearing through me in deep, uncontrollable surges. My mouth’s still stretched around his cock, a moan vibrating in my throat as my entire body jerks beneath him. My thighs snap tight around his head, and he doesn't stop—doesn’t even slow down.

My back arches, muscles seizing as I come with a cry I can’t swallow down. He keeps working me through it, tongue dragging every aftershock out of me. My hands claw at the sheets, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. I'm soaked, shaking, and my body feels ruined in the best possible way.

And he’s still between my legs, eating me like he’s not done yet. Like I’m not done yet.

He curses, his body tensing above me, his grip tight on my thighs as he thrusts deep, spilling into my mouth in hot, pulsing waves. The taste of him floods my tongue—bitter, salty, uniquely Cal—and I swallow instinctively, dazed, ruined, completely wrecked by the carnality of the act.

And as my body melts into the mattress, as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through me, as I feel his weight lift off, his lips pressing against my temple in an oddly tender gesture after such raw passion⁠—

I realize something.

This man still hasn't fucked me.