I shake my head. “I’m going to take my time. Not in the car service.”
He may be used to doing guys in some bathroom after a performance, but hell no. We aren’t doing that.
The pout he tries to put on is too hot to be adorable, but in true Cas fashion, he starts touching me in all the places he knows turn me on.
I capture his hands. “You think I’m not turned on enough? After dancing like that all night?”
Cas’s body gives a little tremor, his eyes dark and sharp as they meet mine. “You going to fuck me, Bee?” he asks, nipping the words into my lips with feisty, needy kisses.
“If that’s what you want, love.”
Caleb and Nix make themselves scarce after Caleb does a security sweep of the suite. Cas looks over me hungrily, but doesn’t make a move just yet.
I drift closer and closer to him, the way he knows I will. Always.
Without dropping my gaze he starts to strip, the designer ensemble getting draped piece by piece onto the chair until he’s only in the tight pants.
He hesitates, just a moment, but I see it.
Then, I lose the ability to function.
Caswell Vaughn slides his pants down, and stands before me. . .
In lace.
Not lace as in some kind of feminine undergarment. This garment was created to render the entire gender binary meaningless.
Tight against his skin is the sexiest pair of boxer-briefs I have ever seen. A dark black silk cups his semi-hard bulge. That piece is cut like a brief, and to the side, the part of a boxer-brief that wraps around the legs and hips, is a sheer black lace.
“Holy hell,” I whisper, trying to get my eyes back on his, but I can’t. It’s the most erotic thing I have ever seen.
Are there fashion awards? Because someone needs to give Tom Ford a fashion Grammy. Whatever that’s called.
My mouth went from salivating at the thought of getting my lips on Cas’s salty skin to Sahara-dry in an instant.
I’m so close I can touch him now, although I don’t remember moving.
My hand reaches out, shaking, and my eyes roll back at the feel of silken lace over hard muscle and coarse hair.
I want to clench my hands to control the arousal that floods my veins, so I slip my hands under and moan at the feel of a hairy, muscled thigh in my hand and lace on top of it.
“I like these,” Cas says. It’s not a question, but it’s begging for a response just the same. “They came with the offer to be in the campaign.”
My heart stutters. I don’t mind sharing Cas with the world. The world needs Cas. But the thought of someone seeing him like this. . .I’m fully clothed, touching him in nothing but these sexy clothes. And to think of someone walking down a street, seeing him on a billboard or a magazine like this while they go about the everyday-ness of life makes my head shake but no words come out.
“But, I wanted them to just be for you. If you liked them. The campaign is suits-only. The most skin you will see is my chest.”
There’s meaning in that, something more than this moment, but I swear to god I can barely manage the automatic functions of my body right now. Like breathing.
“It’s. . .you’re so. . .” My thumb caresses his legs, enjoying the feeling. “You are so fucking beautiful, Cas. . .” I whisper. It’s inelegant as fuck, but it’s all I can come up with.
Cas moves closer for the first time.
“I like the way the bruises you gave me look under the lace,” he whispers against my lips, and my whole body seizes as I pull back just enough to see.
Fucking fuck. There they are, the bruises and love bites I dropped there last night, on top of those fading from other nights, because I wanted to mark him before he was out in the world again, even if no one could see it.
Against the lace, the bruises on his inner thigh look sinful and decadent. Some sort of erotic art made just for me.
