Chapter 13 #2
I want his jaw on the floor, but instead his brows pinch together as he surveys me as if I asked him to solve a complicated math problem.
“You wore this out in the middle of the night to do what?”
“Seduce you…obviously.”
“And what would you have done if I’d sent you away?”
“Stayed anyway.” I spin around, showing him how my panties are actually a thong. “Hope you wouldn’t notice the lopsided ass thing.”
I earn another chuckle. A genuine moment of joy and normalcy.
Playful flirty banter before this man takes what’s his and makes me his.
“Your ass is fucking perfect,” he says as he steps back into me, groping, stroking, nipping at my neck.
“No point fighting this,” he murmurs into my ear. “I just want to feel good tonight.”
“I can do that for you.”
I take his hand and pull him after me, the path to the bedroom a tightrope of anticipation and instinct.
I’m nervous with each footstep like I’ll lose him.
That he’ll go back to being cold and detached and I’ll go back to being…
empty. I flick the bedroom light off with a knuckle as we pass and pull him toward his massive bed, but he pauses, our hands breaking apart.
He turns the light back on, and stands there, lit up and raw, his hunger undisguised and staring me down. “Lights on okay?”
“Preferred, actually.”
“Good.”
He runs his hands over me, tracing the dip in my waist and curve of my hips.
He moves like he’s underwater, slow and deliberate, and yields when my hungry hands go exploring his body.
He lets me lead. I slide my hands under his shirt, up his back, and over his shoulders, peeling it off inch by inch until his chest is bare.
My palms find his skin, and it’s impossibly warm, the contrast with the cool air sending a shudder through me.
I tug at his waistband, fingers catching at the line between clothing and flesh, and he allows himself to be undressed with something like reverence, not a trace of embarrassment as I drag his sweatpants and briefs down over his hips.
He steps out of them; he’s impossibly hard, no pretense or apology.
His long, thick dick, already glistening at the tip.
“You want to just stare at it or play with it?” He winks, the teasing little shit.
I push him backward and there’s a muffled thud as his back hits the plush mattress top.
The bedside lamp, yellow and dim, highlights a soft glow on his wide smile.
I stand at the side of the bed, letting him look at me, all the lace and mesh and exposed skin, the sharp black edge of my boots.
I place my hands on my hips, telling him with a pointed look that he’s going to have to ask for what he wants. “Go ahead, beg for it.”
He sits up on his elbows, watching with a captor’s gaze, eyes bright and heavy-lidded. “Take off your bra. Slowly.”
“That doesn’t sound like begging.”
He fists his dick. “Because it’s not. Don’t make me ask again.”
My stomach twists with intrigue. Fuck, he knows. But how? How can he read me this well? How does he know I get wet when I get handled like this.
“Now turn around. The thong. Take it off slowly.” He rotates his finger in the air and as soon as my back is to him, he says, “Not lopsided at all. But I’d still love it if it were.”
I chuckle to myself, the sound eerily unfamiliar. I think I only really laugh like this around him. I only feel light like this around him. What a fucking magic trick this man has done. He’s either Siegfried or Roy, because he’s tamed a lion in less than a month.
I peel my thong down, slowly as he requested, bending at the hips, in no hurry to get back up. While I’m down there, ass exposed, stepping out of the lace thong, I touch the tops of my boots and am met with a sharp, “Stop.”
“What?” I rotate my neck to look at him.
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and ragged. “Leave them on.”
I feel a grin curl my mouth, all teeth, feral and pleased. “Oh, boots are your weakness?”
“You are my weakness, apparently.” If that’s not music to my fucking ears, nothing is.
I crawl onto the bed, into his space, climbing over him near the knees, the leather of my boots making a whistling whoosh against the sheets.
Our bodies align, my wetness slicks against his thigh as I shuffle up his body.
I blow out a breath to calm the dizzying heat of him.
I’m disoriented, in a thick haze that I don’t intend on leaving.
His hands find my waist. He drags me upward, smashing my clit against the base of his dick.
I spread my thighs wider, trying to give him access, but he pauses.
“Just a second,” he murmurs.
Reaching up with both hands, he cups my breasts with a gentleness that doesn’t match the look in his eyes.
He thumbs a nipple, and my hips jerk forward, grinding against him.
The friction is sweet and sharp, the kind that threatens to undo you.
He leaves my tits. His hand comes up to my face, cradling my jaw, and he draws me down for another kiss.
This time, it’s tender, nothing like the violence of trying to swallow each other’s tongues.
He parts my lips with his, slow and searching, and I melt into it.
I could kiss him forever. I feel like I do.
He’s the one who eventually caves, wedging his hands between our locked hips, lifting me up a few inches, positioning his length, and holding his dick for me to slide down on it.
The moan I make is soft when his tip nudges against my entrance.
The moan I release when I drop down too fast—is animalistic.
But has nothing on the hiss that escapes him.
“Fuck, you’re tight.”
“Too tight?” I ask, frozen still. The thought didn’t occur to me that I could make him uncomfortable. But it’s been a long time, and he’s quite large. More than large. Gifted with both hands so to speak.
“Perfect tight, baby. It feels so fucking good. Grind on it.”
We move together, a seamless negotiation of want and need, his hands everywhere—my hips, my ass, tangled in my hair.
I lift up, line him up again and sink down over and over, recreating that first memory of pure satiation.
I’m tense at first, but I quickly relax. I learn his rhythm, let him explore.
I brace my hands just above his shoulders, collapse on top of him, and he knows immediately what I want.
The moment I let my chest settle to his, Callen plants his feet and thrusts up, hard, his cock driving deeper than I thought possible, grinding against every nerve ending like he means to carve himself into my body.
My mouth hinges open on a gasp, all air and nothing but a choked Yes, yes, God, yes.
He takes the cue, hands locked on my ass, rhythm brutal and relentless.
Each snap of his hips rocks me forward, forces my nipples to drag across his chest, and I cling to his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping me from being flung off the edge of the world.
I can’t control myself. I let loose a string of curses, half mumbled and desperate, and he’s grinning into my neck through the sweat and the wildness.
“Too much?” he asks between grunts, his voice thick with need. “Want me to slow down?”
“Harder,” I pant, rising back up so I can look down on his face, grinding my hips, meeting him thrust for thrust. “Fuck, Callen, don’t you dare stop.”
He pivots us, flipping me to my back in one fluid motion, the movement so fast it blurs.
He presses my knees up and apart, opening me wide, and slams back in, driving the air from my lungs.
My boots dig into the mattress, the leather friction somehow making the whole thing hotter.
It’s not just good; it’s losing-time, see-stars, forget-your-name good.
I rake my hands along his back, scoring him with my nails, and he only fucks me harder, like he needs the pain to stay tethered to the world.
He bends over me, mouth at my ear, body caging mine.
“I’m going to take what I want from now on.
I’m going to fuck you like this every single day.
I’m going to make you as crazy as you make me,” he whispers, and somehow the words feel rougher than the sex.
My whole body tenses, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring.
I can’t hold it back; the orgasm rips through me, blinding and ecstatic.
I gasp for air, but it escapes me. I’m starved for air as I float in pleasure, enjoying the aftershocks as much as the carnal earthquake itself.
I arch up, clutching at him, and he keeps moving, keeps driving into me, chasing his own end.
He finishes with a growl, hips stuttering, then holds himself deep inside, spilling into me.
We stay like that, tangled and breathless, sweat cooling on our skin, a mess of limbs and hard breathing and something like relief.
He collapses beside me and, for a minute, there’s just the two of us in the soft light, the storm of it settling.
He turns his face to mine, and in the half-dark, I see the peace settle on his features for the first time since we met.
“How’s that for a truce?” he asks, voice a wreck of sandpaper and satisfaction.
“Incredible. I could’ve ‘truced’ for a little longer but…”
“Mean. You’re just mean, woman.” And my laughter starts small, then builds until it’s all I can do to hold onto myself and not float away.
I plant little kisses on his chest, toggling between “kiddings” and “it was perfect” between my soft pecks of approval across his muscular, tan chest, scant with short dark hair. He’s all gruff. All man. And now?
All mine.