Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

I SAY ‘I LOVE YOU’ MID-THRUST

CAL

Izzy knew.

This whole fucking time.

She knew I was Caleb, and she's not mad.

I can't wrap my head around it. Every scenario I had played out in my mind ended with her being furious, throwing lamps and books at me, calling me every name under the sun. But instead? She just... accepted it.

Said she liked talking to Caleb.

Said she enjoyed it.

And that? That fucking wrecks me.

Because I love her. I love her so much it's driving me insane.

I have to tell her. She needs to know. No secrets. Nothing between us anymore. But right now? Right now, I need to take care of her. And then? When she's ready? I'm going to pound her into every single surface she lets me. She's going to feel me so deep, for so long, that walking without remembering what I did to her will be physically impossible.

She senses it, too. I see it in how her body shifts as we pull up to her apartment, in how her fingers tighten in her lap, in how she peeks over at me like she's thinking about it, about me, about what's coming.

But she doesn't get to walk inside.

I carry her. Like the fucking princess she is. She huffs in protest, but I don't let her go, gripping her tighter, kissing the side of her head as I kick her door shut behind us.

"You're so dramatic," she mutters, her breath soft against my neck.

I chuckle, setting her down only when we're inside her kitchen. "Hydrate," I tell her, pressing a glass of water into her hands.

She rolls her eyes but takes a sip.

"More."

She gives me a look. "Are you going to tell me to stretch next?"

"If you want to walk tomorrow? Yeah."

She chokes on her water, droplets splashing onto the granite countertop.

I lean in, brushing my lips over the shell of her ear, feeling her shiver against me. "Drink up, pretty girl."

She gulps the rest down like a good girl. Then, I take her hand, leading her into the bathroom. The yellow light makes her skin glow golden, highlighting the soft curves of her body beneath her clothes. She's been through enough. She needs to unwind, to let me take care of her.

She doesn't fight it.

She lets me.

Maybe she can sense that I need this as much as she does. I strip her out of her clothes, slowly, carefully, pressing soft kisses to her skin as I go. The bruises on her wrists, the slight marks from where those bindings dug in?

They make my fucking blood boil.

But I focus on her, on this, on now.

I guide her under the spray of the shower, rolling up my sleeves, and grab my soap.

And then? I wash her.

Gently. Thoroughly. Completely.

I let my hands trail over her skin, washing away every reminder of what happened today, letting my fingers massage over her muscles, soothe her, until her breathing slows, until her body relaxes, until she's looking up at me like I'm the only anchor keeping her grounded.

And I am.

By the time we get out, she's soft, warm, loose-limbed. Water droplets cling to her eyelashes, her fuller curves glistening under the bathroom lights.

She lets me towel her off, lets me dress her in one of my shirts, lets me pull her into the kitchen and sit her on the counter while I cook her dinner. The sizzle of garlic and onions fills the air as I move around her kitchen, the knife rhythmically chopping through vegetables. She watches me, knees drawn up to her chest, the hem of my shirt barely covering her thighs.

I plate the pasta—simple but filling—and carry her to the bedroom. She doesn't even argue when I put on Bridgerton. Just leans into me, stealing bites of food off my plate, snuggling close as we watch, the silk sheets cool beneath us. Because before anything else? Before I fucking wreck her like I've been dying to do for weeks?

She needs to relax.

She needs to be okay.

And then?

Then she's mine.

She stays quiet, sipping her tea, watching the last few scenes of season two unfold on the TV mounted on her bedroom wall.

Finally, she looks at me. Like it’s costing her everything to hold back. Chest rising too fast, lips trembling with something unsaid. “Please?”

It's one word.

One tiny fucking word.

But it’s everything to me.

Instantly, I'm hard. I set my glass down and turn to her, my hand cupping her face, angling her up to me.

"Say it again," I murmur.

Her breath catches. Her thighs press together, the fabric of my shirt rustling. "Please," she breathes.

Fuck.

I lose it.

I grab her, caging her beneath me, rolling us so she's pinned, exactly where she belongs. My fingers trace her face, my thumb skimming her lips, my other hand bracing against the mattress beside her head. The bed dips beneath our weight, the sheets tangling around her bare legs.

"This," I whisper, my voice edged with pure fucking hunger. "This is what I've been waiting for."

Her hair fans across the pillow, breath catching, mouth parted in anticipation.

She watches me with those dark, hungry eyes, her body soft and yielding beneath mine. I take my time. I drag my fingers over her skin, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts, the curve of her hip. Her skin is like silk beneath my calloused fingers.

She shivers.

Her breath hitches.

She's so fucking beautiful.

I dip down, brushing my nose along the column of her throat, inhaling her, soaking her in.

She smells like my soap. My shirt. Mine.

She smells like mine.

I press soft, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, taking my time, teasing her, feeling the way she arches against me, desperate for more. She whimpers, and that sound? That sound does things to me. The vibration of it against my lips sends heat coiling through my body.

"Cal," she breathes.

I hum against her skin, nipping, licking, kissing, working my way lower, pushing up the hem of my shirt that she's wearing, exposing more of her skin. I run my tongue down the valley of her breasts, over her ribs, to the curve of her stomach. Her skin tastes faintly sweet.

She's so soft, so perfect, and I want to devour her. I grip her thighs, spreading them apart, and she gasps, her fingers fisting in the sheets. The fabric bunches beneath her grip.

"You're so fucking perfect," I murmur against her skin, dragging my mouth over her hip, over the sensitive spot at the crease of her thigh.

She shudders, her legs trembling around me. I press a kiss there.

Slow. Gentle.

Her breath shakes.

"Cal..."

I chuckle, my grip tightening, holding her open for me. Her arousal fills my senses, making my mouth water.

"So desperate," I murmur.

She whines, and I fucking love that sound. I trail my fingers up her inner thigh, slow, teasing, tracing light circles over the fabric of her panties. The lace is damp beneath my touch. "Want me to touch you, pretty girl?"

She nods frantically, her hips arching, seeking more.

I don't give it to her.

Not yet.

I pull back slightly, watching her. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breasts straining against the thin fabric of my shirt.

"Tell me how much you want it."

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't hesitate.

"More than anything."

Fuck.

That's all it takes.

I slide my fingers under her panties, feeling how drenched she is, and a groan rips from my chest. "So wet for me," I murmur.

She gasps as I press my thumb against her clit, circling it, teasing, feeling the way she shakes beneath me. Her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure.

I love this.

Love making her fall apart.

Love knowing she's mine to ruin.

I grip her tighter, holding her down.

She's so fucking sensitive.

She grabs my wrist.

Stops me.

I still instantly, studying her. She's not stopping me because she doesn't want it. She's stopping me because she wants more.

"I need you," she breathes, her voice husky with desire.

Fuck.

I grip her chin. "You have me," I murmur.

She swallows hard, her eyes wide, vulnerable, and so fucking sure. "No, Cal. I need you inside me. Now."

My cock fucking throbs. I exhale slowly, trying to hold on to the last shred of control I have left.

"You know I'm not gonna be gentle, right?"

"I don't want you to be."

Fuck.

I crash my mouth to hers, owning her, taking her, my hands gripping, exploring, claiming. She moans into my mouth, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer, tighter. Her lips are soft, yielding, but demanding at the same time.

Then she whispers against my lips, "I'm on birth control."

I pause, then I chuckle darkly. "I know."

She laughs breathlessly, pulling back to look at me, her cheeks flushed. "Of course you do," she murmurs, rolling her eyes.

I run my hands over her hips, gripping her tight. The fullness of her curves fits perfectly in my palms. "Gotta keep my pretty girl safe."

She bites her lip, eyes flicking down, her thighs squeezing. I push my boxers down, letting my cock spring free, and her breath catches. She looks up at me, eyes dark, needy.

"Cal," she breathes.

I growl, gripping her hips, pulling her under me.

She shudders.

Then I thrust into her, and we both break. I thrust into her deep and hard, and she gasps, her nails digging into my back, dragging down my skin as she arches beneath me. The sting of her nails against my skin only drives me deeper.

"Fuck, Izzy."

She cries out, her legs locking around me, her thighs squeezing, her body clenching around my cock. The headboard knocks against the wall with the force of my thrust.

She's so fucking tight.

So fucking perfect.

I pull back, almost all the way out, watching her eyes go wide, her mouth parting on a soft, desperate whimper.

I slam back in, bottoming out, burying myself inside her, stretching her open, claiming her exactly how she wants me to. She lets out a broken, breathless moan, her head tipping back against the pillows. I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"Look at me when I fuck you, Izzy."

She shudders, and I feel it—the way her body responds, the way she clenches down around me, like she was made for this.

Made for me.

"Cal—oh my God⁠—"

I grin darkly, pounding into her, setting a brutal, unrelenting pace, dragging her higher, harder, deeper. She gasps, writhing beneath me, her hands everywhere—on my back, in my hair, her nails raking, gripping, claiming.

I feel unhinged.

Like I could lose myself completely inside her.

Like I want to.

I grab her hips, shifting, lifting her just enough to get the perfect angle, and⁠—

"Oh fuck, Cal!"

Her cry is desperate, needy, her body clenching tight around me, her nails scraping down my chest, her entire body trembling. I feel her orgasm build, feel it in how she shakes, in how her breath catches, in how she moans and gasps like she can't handle it.

"That's it, pretty girl." I growl, gripping her tighter, slamming into her, driving her harder.

She whimpers, her legs trembling, her back arching off the mattress.

"Come for me."

She gasps, her whole body locking up, her thighs clenching, her pussy tightening around me as she shatters completely. She screams my name, her hands gripping my arms, her body rocking beneath me, and it's the hottest fucking sight I've ever seen. The way she falls apart, the way she lets go completely, the way she gives herself over to me so perfectly.

Then I can't fucking hold back anymore.

I slam into her one last time, burying myself deep.

"Izzy, fuck⁠—"

Pleasure rips through me, white-hot, blinding, fucking devastating, and I feel it⁠—

The second I lose myself completely inside her.

The second I fill her up, claim her, mark her.

The second she becomes mine forever.

I collapse against her, panting, our bodies damp, tangled, shaking, and she's still trembling beneath me, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, her breath uneven. I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in, my heart pounding, my body still throbbing from the aftershocks. She lets out a soft, exhausted giggle, her fingers brushing my hair back, her legs still wrapped around me. Our skin sticks together, slick with sweat.

"Jesus, Cal."

I chuckle, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then to her lips. Her skin tastes faintly salty now.

"Yeah, pretty girl?"

Her head tips back against the pillows, her hair fanning out around her like a dark halo.

"I think you might have actually broken me."

I kiss her again. "Good." I'm still breathless, still buried inside her, my arms wrapped around her like I can't fucking let go.

Because I can't.

I won't.

She runs her fingers through my hair, her touch softer now, her body relaxed beneath me, her breathing evening out. The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat and other evidence of what we've done. And I should just let her drift off, let her sleep, let her bask in this moment.

But I can't.

Because I need her to know.

I need her to hear it.

"I love you, Isabella Russo."

Her fingers still. Her body tenses—just slightly—but then she lifts her head, eyes locking on mine. For a beat, something raw edges into her expression before her lips curl into that familiar, smug little smirk.

“Cal,” she says. “You literally stalked me and you know every messy, embarrassing thing about me. So, you have to know I love you. There’s no other reason I would put up with this.”

My chest tightens, my heart fucking pounds. I kiss her like I never want to stop. Like I want to keep her in this bed forever, wrapped around me, panting, moaning, begging. The taste of her mingles with the taste of my own desperation.

Because she's mine.

My pretty girl.

My entire world.

Just as I'm about to pull her closer, ready to go again⁠—

She snorts.

Loud.

Followed by uncontrollable giggling.

I pull back, raising an eyebrow. Her body shakes with laughter beneath me.

"What?"

She bites her lip, barely holding it together, eyes glinting with mischief.

"The best part of you being Caleb?"

I narrow my eyes. "What?"

She grins, smug as fuck.

"I don't have to spend fifteen bucks a month on that premium membership anymore."

I groan, dropping my forehead against her shoulder.

"Jesus Christ."

She laughs harder, wrapping her arms around me, her body shaking beneath me. The vibration of her laughter travels through both our bodies.

"You love me, stalker."

I press a kiss to her collarbone, my fingers squeezing her waist.

"Yeah, pretty girl. I really fucking do."

NOW CHATTING WITH CALLAHAN

Pretty Girl

today’s the day

Callahan

You nervous, pretty girl?

uhhh duh??? kinda a big deal ya know

I don’t know… feels pretty inevitable to me. Man stalks woman. Man seduces woman. Man makes woman fall in love with him. Man fucks woman so good she agrees to marry him. Classic romance arc.

omg stop this is literally NOT how people describe their wedding day

Tell me you don’t love it.

…. okay fine I love it

That’s my good girl.

I hate you

No, you don’t.

okay no i don’t but that’s beside the point you should be telling me something sweet and sentimental like “oh izzy, my beautiful bride, you have made me the happiest man alive” or something like that

Oh, Izzy, my beautiful bride, you have made me the wettest man alive.

DELETE THIS CHAT RIGHT NOW

Why? I’m just saying you should send me a picture of what I’m missing before you walk down that aisle. For old time’s sake.

cal i am in my wedding dress IN MY WEDDING DRESS

Yeah, and?

AND?!?!?!?

Pretty girl, I’ve made you come while you were on a conference call for work. I think we’re past pretending you have morals.

STOP THAT WAS ONE TIME

One time too many for me to take this whole “innocent bride” act seriously. Now… about that picture.

i hate you

Again. You don’t.

i am literally about to MARRY YOU stop trying to get me naked for five seconds

Impossible. Also, the wedding night is gonna be fun.

….should i be concerned

Oh, pretty girl. You should always be concerned. For your legs.

OH MY GOD

Say your vows. Kiss me at the altar. Then prepare for at least three days where you won’t be able to sit comfortably.

omfg stop i am going to walk down the aisle to you with THIS in my brain

As you should.

i hate you so much

No, you don’t.

NO I DON’T I LOVE YOU YOU CRAZY STALKER

There she is. My perfect, pretty girl. Now go say “I do.” I’ll be waiting.

oh btw I forgot to tell you i hired clowns for the reception surprise!

You fucking WHAT

yep! a whole troupe! they're going to make balloon animals and everything

You wouldn't.

they even have a special performance planned just for the groom

Isabella Russo, if I see a single red nose at our reception, I'm carrying you out over my shoulder.

god you're so easy to mess with

…

don't worry, no clowns. i want you focused on me, not having a panic attack in the bathroom

You're lucky I love you.

See you at the altar, Callahan

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Chat Ended.

EPILOGUE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laura Bishop writes books about obsessive men, clever women, and the dangerously thin line between love and psychological warfare. She lives in sunny Florida, where the skies are blue, the humidity is high, and her search history is a federal red flag.

Love Me Stalk Me is her debut into the world of dark romantic comedy, where every red flag is just another reason to fall harder.