19. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
“You want something from me. You’re curious,” he adds. “I have nothing to lose, so I might as well just give you a little preview, no?”
His eyes meet mine. He’s still just as my body erupts with severe desire. An urge that I’ve repressed for far too long and is about to be unleashed.
It’s extremely dangerous.
Lethal.
Wrong.
A sharp breath leaks from me when he flicks my jeans button open. “I can be the bad guy if you want,” he murmurs. “This falls on me.”
My heart stammers. “What does?”
He drags my jeans zipper down, dipping his hands inside my pants to push them down. His posture remains straight, and my hands find his forearms to steady my sprinting pulse.
I angle my chin up, our eyes connected when he cups my ass cheeks in his hot palms. The lace of my panties crinkles under his touch, and my shameful whine strikes the silence.
Brant nudges me closer, a louder moan threatening to spill when I land against his brick chest. His palm delivers a sharp slap to my ass cheek, and I finally let go.
I seal my lips, but the echo of my mewl is already ringing. His mouth sheds a hint of a smirk when he kneads my struck flesh. “No, no. You’re not supposed to like that, Cal,” he taunts.
My mouth parts on a pant, his eyes focused on me when he lowers to his knees. My hands land on his shoulders, and he tugs my sneaker.
Guilt invades my soul, but I toe off my shoes anyway. He shuffles my jeans down my legs and off my ankles, my compliance repulsively predictable.
Everything happens in a blur.
Jesse’s face fogs as visions of sunflowers and Christmas lights flood my mind. It’s all-consuming. Impossible to escape.
Inevitable.
Brant tosses my pants aimlessly on the floor, leaving me standing in a crop top and lace underwear.
I lift my hands from his shoulders, tucking my hair behind my ears. I watch him closely as he stares intently at my bare legs. His hands ghost the sides of my thighs, and heat blooms at an exponential speed.
His eyes rest on my right inner thigh, his fingers traveling up the slope of it.
I word vomit in the next instant. “I have so much to do in the morning,” I breathe in a panic. My legs tremble when his digits land on the same spot he touched on that Christmas Eve. “W-way too much.”
My lips purse when he ignores me. I tilt my chin toward the ceiling, shutting my eyes and resting my hands on his short-clipped hair.
I silently beg myself to run away. Plead with myself to get out while I still can.
But I never budge.
Not a single millimeter.
Brant’s hands hook onto either side of my panties. His forehead melts to my quivering belly, and I dip my chin to stroke his hair.
He fights the same battle as me. His fingers are prepared to strip the only barrier between us. But they never take the plunge.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for me to protest.
I bite my lip, tears stinging my eyes. My mind and heart draw swords, the clashing of metal almost too loud.
Never louder.
Never louder than the parts of my heart that beat for the man on his knees before me.
A harsh breath trickles from me when he glides the lace down. It bunches under my ass cheeks, and Brant stands.
He hoists me up by the backs of my thighs, and I tangle my arms and legs around him. He lays me carefully on the chaise lounge, my back sinking into the cushion with ease.
In the next breath, my panties are clutched between his fingers. I cowardly pivot my head to the side, lifting my hips off the lounge. I shimmy to help him discard the fabric, all the while looking at the adjacent wall.
It’s bare just like my conscience, and I condemn myself. Curse every inch of movement I make, but my legs are already spreading for him.
It’s so awful.
So appalling, and I know it.
I can stop, but I know I won’t.
My submission to Brant doesn’t require a split-second qualm. It only requires him. That’s all it takes.
Trust.
His rough fingers stroke the spot at the apex of my thigh again. My palm lays on my belly, settling the wild butterflies as he traces the inked dove.
“I was twenty-two,” I whisper.
I sink my cheek deeper into the cushion. Brant harshly kneads my thigh, his stubbled lips grazing my tattoo.
I can practically see the small Christmas bulbs. In the back of his momma’s station wagon when he first kissed me here.
Right here.
A kiss lands on my tender skin, followed by a soft bite. I stare at the ceiling now, and Brant’s fingers greet the buttons of my crop top.
They work up the center of my heaving chest. I park my hands at my sides, goosebumps erupting all over my body.
The draft of the air skates over my bare flesh while he undresses me. “Ask me why I cut my hair so short.” He exposes my bra, parting my unbuttoned crop top so the fabric settles on either side of me.
I run my fingers over his short hair, gasping when he tugs my bra up over my breasts. My taut nipples hit the air, and my eyes flutter shut when he continues.
“Ask me why I chose to get a dove tattoo where I have it.”
His voice is pure tinder. Sparking the air between us as his hands cup the swells of my breasts.
He’s careful not to touch or pinch my nipples.
It’s purposeful.
I meet his famished gaze. And all I have left to do is concede. “Why?”
His nostrils briefly flare when he rests his hand on top of mine in his hair. “You tugged on me when you came for the very first time,” he confesses lowly. “I’d never forgive myself for letting someone else erase that feeling.”
He wedges his long fingers between mine, and I instinctively squeeze them. My throat rolls, my gaze locked with his hazel one.
“And if my eyes happen to pop open when I’m with someone, I know where to find you.”
It’s the same reason I chose to tattoo my inner thigh.
The same exact one.
I part my lips just as he peels his hand off mine. I’m buried in awe, my momentary lapse missing the way his large palms slide beneath my ass.
He yanks me to the very edge of the chaise, and a yelp flings from my lips.
His thumb lands on my swollen clit, and I arch off the cushion. My head sinks back as my hands reach behind me to grip a throw pillow. His free palm rests on my inner thigh, holding me open as he circles that sweet spot.
The cycled motion sharpens my nipples, and I whimper at his mastered touch.
“No, you don’t get to moan.” I hear his gentle command, sealing my mouth closed while he plays with me. “You’re not my whore. Not yet.”
I exhale a breath, glueing my eyes to the ceiling. His lips replace his thumb, his forearms snaking under and over my thighs. He holds me open, rhythmically suctioning my clit with expertise.
My lips part on stunted breaths, and his forehead crashes with my inner thigh. “Fucking Christ,” he gasps. “I forgot how perfect that is. Fuck.”
I grow thicker with arousal, wetting my lips before rolling them together in anticipation. My lower belly strangles, my hips shyly scooping up to stretch the riddled tension.
Then his mouth returns to my clit.
I stifle my whines through the wicked sensations at my core. His lips and tongue alternate their jobs, sucking and lashing at me until my limbs shake from excitement.
Ten years of pent-up longing.
Ten years.
His motion is calculated. Unhurried.
I can’t look at him or make a sound, and for some fucked up reason, I’m turned on more. Every crevice of my body feels wound with pressure. The knobs have turned so tight that it feels I may burst at the seams when they’re finally loosened.
When Brant finally unfastens them.
I’m a sex toy for him to play with right now. Not because he wants it that way, but because it’s the only way he’ll survive this.
I know it.
I know it, but I don’t care.
A few more sucks, and he pops my clit out. I bite my lip, my eyes stitching to him as he straightens. He keeps one knee on the floor while his opposite knee bends up and outward.
I’m still spread-eagled, watching closely as he rips his shirt off. He tosses the garment on the floor, and I drag my perusal over his broad and sculpted shoulders.
Then down the length of his arms.
And along his torso.
Swells of firm muscle carve from his olive skin. His body is the evidence of hard work and labor. He’s rugged and dense. So different from Jesse.
In the best way.
Or worst.
He catches my eyes, our lips twitching playfully for a split second.
He caught me.
I lick my lips, stretching my arms above my head as I close my eyes. My hands sink into the throw pillows again, my fingers gripping the plush material as my nerves whirl in a cyclone.
He’s every bit ready to go to town on me—in what way, I don’t know.
“You can look,” he offers with a taunting flair.
I feel his left palm rest on my lower belly, and he glides an opposite finger inside my soaked pussy.
“Could make it that much better for you.”
My head kicks back, body bowing before he gifts me with another digit. I buckle, writhing underneath him as I shake my head.
The weight of the ecstasy is overwhelming. He fills me with his long fingers, plunging in slow thrusts. Eventually kicking up speed.
“Your pussy says otherwise,” he whispers hoarsely. He sounds almost sympathetic. “Maybe you should listen to your body.”
I wag my head as I drench his fingers. I can hear how turned on I am, my wetness echoing against the walls of his living room.
It’s humiliating in the most empowering way.
His lubricated fingers thrust in and out, and my mouth folds. Caging all the mewls I’m desperate to release. I trap my whimpers as he preserves a melodic rhythm, and then he’s curling his digits.
Oh god.
His hand on my lower abdomen applies more pressure, all the while he massages that delectable spot inside of me.
At the same time.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s a bit firmer on each stroke, working me with precision. Expertise I don’t remember from him. It’s unfamiliar and exhilarating. Egging me on in the most selfish way possible.
It’s not rushed, but careful.
And I’m too curious not to look.
The carnal scene between my legs fuels the force of the tremble across my body. My eyes flutter, lips parting as his muscles contract to fuck me with his fingers.