Chapter 50 #3
Every so often, he glances up through the plastic.
“Still good?” He checks.
“Yes,” I grit out, already sweating. “Fuck, Caleb—”
Pleased with my answer, he ignores my dick completely.
The bastard.
When he finally does touch me, it’s with deliberate cruelty. A palm pressed over the bulge in my sweats, then gone. Fingers tracing the outline, running up every single piercing, then drifting up to slide under the waistband, not low enough to give me relief.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So worked up just from being chased around a cabin like Scooby-Doo.”
“Fuck you,” I gasp.
“In a minute,” he says. “Patience, baby.”
Caleb leans back on his heels, that stupid mask grinning at me while his real mouth curves. Slowly, he peels his own hoodie and T-shirt off in one go, tossing them aside.
My breath catches. Now I’ve seen him naked a hundred times. It still hits. The long lines of his torso, the eclectic mix of ink on his ribs. The faint scars on his hip from old injuries. All of it, familiar and new at the same time in this light.
He hooks his thumbs in his sweats, eyes on me, and drags them down. Boxer briefs go with them, leaving him bare and hard and unmistakably affected.
My dick twitches in solid solidarity.
“See?” he says softly. “Not just you.”
“Yeah, I kind of noticed,” I say hoarsely.
Then he stands at the foot of the bed and wraps a hand around his cock and starts to stroke himself.
My brain short-circuits.
It’s one thing watching him touch himself over FaceTime when I’m not able to do it.
It’s another seeing him touch himself while I’m tied up and forced to watch in the same fucking room.
The angle is ridiculous, cruel—his hand working slow, thumb sliding over the head, body framed by the railings and the fairy lights like some fucked-up art piece.
A bolt of want slams through me so hard I groan out loud.
“You okay?” he says, breath already hitching as his hand squeezes. “Need me to stop?”
“God no,” I say, then hiss as his other hand slides up his own stomach, pinching his nipple lightly. “Fuck, Caleb—”
“What’s going on in there?” he asks, head tilting as he watches my face through the mask. “Tell me.”
I swallow, my throat dry. “I wanna touch you,” I admit. “I wanna be the one doing that.”
His hand slows. “Jealous?” he asks, something warm in his tone.
“Little bit,” I say. “Not gonna lie. But I’m also proud.”
Everything slows down. “Proud?” he echoes.
“You look… fucking incredible,” I say, words spilling, unfiltered. “You’re in control. You’re choosing this. Choosing me. Choosing to do something just because it feels good, and not to drown something out. It’s—” I break off, swallowing hard. “It’s really fucking hot, babe.”
Caleb stays frozen for a second. The mask hides most of his face, but his breathing changes and stutters. He lets go, hand dropping to his thigh. His chest heaves once.
“Say that again,” he says quietly.
“That you look hot?” I tease, trying to lighten the air that just thickened. “Baby, you’re so fucking sexy… I’m dying over here…”
“No… that I’m choosing,” he says. “That part.”
Emotion punches me in the sternum.
“You’re choosing this,” I say, softer now. “Choosing to play. To take up space. To be the one calling the shots. Not because your brain is on fire. Because you want to. That’s… everything, Caleb.”
His shoulders relax, tension shifting into something else, less brittle, more molten, and he climbs back onto the bed, straddling my hips.
His dick presses against my stomach, leaking warm pre-cum against my skin.
Leaning down, he bumps the mask against my forehead, almost like an affectionate thud.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I smile up at him, wrists flexing against the rope. “Any time,” I say. “Now, are you gonna ride me or… keep giving your hand all the attention?”
He snorts, the sound sharp and wet. “Look who’s a bossy bottom,” he mutters.
“Says the one tying me up,” I point out.
That makes him huff, then lean over to the nightstand, groping blindly until his fingers close around the bottle of lube we definitely did not leave at home.
I may have made it my personal mission to pack it… just in case.
Caleb holds it up, shaking it so the slosh of the liquid echoes in the quiet.
“Okay,” he says, back in game mode. “Breathe for me, Miggy.”
“I only breathe for you,” I say, because I like the way he twitches when I do.
The click of the cap is loud and then I’m hit with cold air as he pushes my sweats and briefs down finally, baring me fully.
They go careening over the bannister and we both laugh.
It’s that first touch of his lubed hand around my dick that makes my whole body arch, a choked noise ripping out of me.
He chuckles, low. “Easy,” he says. “We’re not even at the main event yet.”
“Feels like a main event,” I manage.
Caleb gives me one long, slow stroke, enough to light every nerve on fire, and then lets go.
“Edging is a hate crime,” I inform the ceiling.
“You’ll live,” he says, smugly.
I feel the pads of his fingers lower, slick and sure. He moves slowly, spreading the cool lube, rubbing circles, not rushing. When his fingertip finds that familiar ring of muscle, he pauses.
“Okay?” he murmurs. “Still green?”
I force myself to exhale, and my head is swimming. The vulnerability of this position, being tied down, open, him in the mask could tip either way in my body. It doesn’t. It settles into a deep, hot ache.
“Green,” I say. “I trust you.”
The first finger slides in slowly, a stretching burn that’s more memory than pain. My hips jerk, but he holds me steady with his other hand on my thigh. He waits, breathing with me, letting my muscles unclench.
“Fuck,” I groan. “Forgot how that feels.”
“In a bad way?” he asks, voice tight.
“In a ‘holy shit, yes’ way,” I say. “Keep going, hermoso.”
So he does, easing his finger in and out in short, gentle strokes, then adds a second when I’ve gone from stiff to pushing back. The stretch makes me hiss through my teeth, head tipping back against the pillow, rope digging pleasantly into my wrists.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “In four, hold, then out six.”
I actually listen, and it helps. The burn shifts into something fuller, deeper, my whole body relaxing around him.
He curves his fingers deliberately and I swear my vision snaps white at the edges.
“Jesus fuck,” I gasp. “Okay, yeah, I remember that one.”
Caleb laughs, breathless. “Good,” he says. “Wanted to make sure the wiring still works.”
He keeps it up, patient and relentless. Two fingers become three, each addition preceded by a check-in, by a wait for my nod or my “green.” By the time he withdraws, my whole lower half is buzzing, thighs trembling. My dick is a throbbing, neglected weight against my stomach.
“If you leave me like this and go to sleep, I’m breaking up with you,” I pant.
Rolling his eyes in that bratty way of his. “Rude,” he smirks. “Totally warranted. But rude.”
“Baby,” I whimper, and that draws his gaze to mine. “Take the mask off and fuck me. I need you.”
“Fuck… that is so hot hearing you say that.” Ripping the mask over his head and tossing it to the floor.
He slicks himself up with a quick, practiced hand, face scrunching a little at the sensation, a soft noise punching out of him.
I watch, eyes glued to the way his fingers coat himself, the way his dick jumps when he brushes the head.
Then he shifts my hips again, one hand gripping my thigh open and the other guiding himself.
Eyes on mine, he pauses at my entrance.
“Color?” he says, voice barely more than a shaky breath.
Not only am I vulnerable to him in this position, but he is to me. And honestly, there is nothing more beautiful.
“Green,” I say, and my voice doesn’t even shake. “Come on, baby. Take what you want.”
Caleb exhales shakily. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
Sinking in slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is intense, even with all the prep—borderline too much, then not, then just… full. My breath punches out of me. Rope creaks softly as my fingers reflexively curl, uselessly, against it.
Watching my face like it’s a road map, stopping when I wince, waiting as my body adjusts, rocking the tiniest amounts to ease the burn.
When he bottoms out, we both groan.
“Fuck.”
“Oh, God.”
“More?” He asks, voice strangled.
“Holy shit,” I say, the words coming out hoarse. “More… fuck… I need more.”
He laughs, broken and incredulous. “Begging,” he says. “Like I said. You feel… Jesus.”
Caleb grips both of my legs under the knees and starts to move at a pace that feels like it should be illegal.
It’s not frantic. Not at first. He rolls his hips in slow, deliberate waves, like he’s testing every angle, every nerve.
Each drag hits something high up inside, a dizzy little spark that makes my toes curl.
I watch him.
Head tipped back just enough so that I can see his lip caught between his teeth. Sweat beads at his hairline, trickling down his temples. His chest rises and falls, muscles working.
He looks… powerful.
Beautiful.
Alive.
Pride swells in my chest so hard it hurts. “Fuck, Caleb,” I groan. “Look at you.”
Glancing down at me, with his cheeks flushed, and eyes dark. “No, look at you,” he counters, voice rough. “All tied up and letting me have you.”
Speeding up, just a little, and any coherent reply I might have had gets knocked out of me on a moan.
Sometimes he thrusts in slow and deep, sometimes hard and fast. Every so often he puts his weight on my chest so he can kiss me, and that changes the angle enough that I see actual stars through the skylight.
Caleb edges me on purpose, stroking me a few times, bringing me right to the edge, then stopping, letting me hang there, nerves screaming. My wrists jerk uselessly against the rope, he just presses a hand into my sternum and pins me down.
“I want—fuck—I want to be inside you so bad,” I gasp at one point, watching his face crumple a little as he fights off coming.