Chapter 39
Aida
“T’ explore the secrets of the hoary deep, a dark, illimitable ocean without bound.”
—Milton, Paradise Lost
Cal watches me as he undoes his belt. His movements are hurried, jerky.
Desperate, even. But he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
My gaze, however, flickers up and down his body, because he’s so freaking hot I can’t bear it.
The bottom of his hood kisses his collarbones, and then it’s skin.
Muscle. Hair. Even a little ink: that serpent hugging his tapered waist.
His hands are large and male and strong.
Why is watching a man undoing his belt buckle and zipper so incredibly hot?
Probably because it’s so intentional. He’s getting his dick out.
For me. And yeah, I’ve seen it, sucked it, but this is different, because we’ll both be naked.
I’m so transfixed by the show before me I almost forget to feel self-conscious, even though I’m butt naked and trussed up in chains as though I’m in some kind of porno.
He gets his zipper open and shoves his pants down, hopping a little in his haste to get them off. But when he straightens up, his crown is actually poking out of the top of his snug black boxer briefs, and it looks angry.
Holy fuck.
He rubs his hand over his length and then tugs his underwear down so he’s naked in front of me, and I swallow.
Shit—I’m way, way out of my depth here. I have this beautiful, beautiful man in front of me, and he’s fisting his enormous erection and pointing it straight at me, and his gorgeous face is covered like he’s a common fucking criminal.
Seriously, he looks like he belongs in a supermax prison, and it’s making me so fucking wet. I blame my Starred Up obsession.
He comes right to the edge of the bed.
‘Legs up,’ he barks. I obey right away, sliding them up and open so my feet are flat on the sheets.
He pumps some lube from the dispenser on the nightstand into his hand and climbs between my legs so he’s raised up on his knees.
He’s shaking, I realise. My beautiful man is pointing his dick at me and shaking with the effort of holding himself back, and it makes my heart twinge.
‘I can’t wait,’ he shudders out, giving his cock a single pump with his lubed-up hand. ‘Have to take the edge off before I fuck you like you need. And it’s about time I covered your tits in my cum.’
His pump is slow, but he’s white-knuckling the damn organ like touching himself is the only thing keeping him from crashing through the sanity threshold and into the darkness. He runs his free hand up my inner thigh before dragging a thumb through my wet pussy and groaning.
I watch, transfixed, as he kneels there and jerks himself off. His strokes are so slow and long and fucking powerful. This may just be the most hypnotic thing I’ve ever seen. John wasn’t—
Nope.
There’s no room for John here. Not when Cal’s in his Felon Era. Not when he’s giving me the private show of a lifetime. I’m totally conflicted, because being cuffed and helpless is really doing it for me, but I’ve never wanted anything like I want to get my hands on his dick.
‘You’re so fucking sexy,’ he pants as his hand moves up and down. Up and down. He’s so rough with himself—rougher than I’d dare to be with a guy. ‘Jesus fuck, the way you tasted… look at your tits. Look at them. So fucking soft. I’m gonna come all over them. Legs down.’
He removes his hand from my core and I lower my legs so he can step his knees over them. He’s straddling my hips now, looming over me, this great, hulking man, his mouth parting in a combination of anguish and ecstasy as he fucks his hand hard.
‘Fuck, I’m close,’ he grits out. ‘Need to blow. Fuck—I’m—’
His hand speeds up. The way he’s working his dick is almost violent. He throws his hooded head back and really lets himself have it, his hand a blur of movement, his entire being a vision of hyper-masculinity. In this moment, he epitomises the staggering beauty of the male form.
And then he roars like he’s in so much pain, and ropes of hot cum hit my body like lashes. My stomach. My breasts. My neck. My jaw.
Branding me as his in the most primeval way there is.