But he doesn’t grab at me.
His hand dips to waist level, then slowly, slowly rises, the touch barely perceptible through the material of my dress. His thumb traces the curve of my breast as his other hand makes tiny circles against my windpipe, curling further to cup my head.
The exhalations against my cheek are hot, his breathing heavy. It whispers across my ear, making my hair move and wave like it’s at a sleepy parade.
I hear when he swallows, feel the saliva pool in my mouth in sympathy. The skin on my neck tightens, feeling every touch, every breath, reacting when he utters a small moan.
If he was rough, I could push at him, beat him with my fists while they remain free, scream in his face. But his gentleness undoes me. Like the mouth of a glacier touching water, I lose structure. The ocean soaks in, working its magic until large chunks of my defences calve away.
He moves, repositions himself so his leg presses between mine, pulsing his thigh muscle until it feels like he’s stroking against my intimate centre. I can’t help but clench in time, intensifying the friction, building pleasure.
His lips press against my forehead, tender kisses at my hairline while he spreads his fingers, the hand still cradling my head but with his thumb now rubbing along my jaw, stroking my cheekbone, the rough pad making my skin hum at the contact, enjoying the taste and seeking more.
When he presses his lips against mine, they’re soft but his mouth is penalising, taking what he wants and leaving me sagging, breathless, melting against him while his leg presses against me, harder and harder, increasing my urgency with each tensing as my clit throbs and swells, aching for his touch.
And what do I think I’m doing? Two minutes since I ran away and now his tongue is down my throat and if I could talk, I’d be begging. Begging for more of his touch, more of his kisses, more, more, more.
But when he breaks for air that isn’t what I ask for.
“Stop,” I whisper while he sucks air into his lungs like a drowning man trying to make the most of his last gasp. “I have a boyfriend.”
That’s meant to be the magic sentence. The one that men listen to when they’ve overridden every other protest as some petty female concern.
Caylon ploughs ahead as though I didn’t say a word. When I try again, there’s no backbone to my voice. No conviction. I can’t blame him when he chuckles, dismissing the comment as pure comedy while his thumb still caresses the side of my breast, working closer and closer to my nipple, already so hard it feels like nerves trapped in stone.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, Em,” he whispers back, and I wouldn’t care what words he says as long as I continue to feel the rush of warm breath against my ear, against my hair, puffing out around the curve of my neck. “You have someone who’s not meeting your needs.”
Then his thumb rubs against the peak of my nipple, the long trek there having made it so sensitive that I whimper at the contact. Too much and not enough. Whimper again when he circles away, my body demanding its immediate return.
The pulse between my legs beats harder, my hips bucking out to increase the pressure as his thigh continues to clench and abate, driving me into joyful dizziness at the persistent rhythm.
His attention returns to my nipple, circling it with a teasing dance that makes my body jerk against his. The touch of his lips against mine, reclaiming my mouth as the sensations spilling across my body grow ever more insistent, ignites a new level of desire.
Caylon’s tongue thrusts inside me as his hand plunges deep into my hair, clenching hanks in his fist while the hand cupping my breast grows ever more playful, tugging at my nipple, pulling at it, then finally clamping in such a hard pinch that I cry out, the sound swallowed by his possessive mouth, the shock orgasm spiralling out with such force that my entire body convulses, thighs trying to trap his leg in place while I ride out the overwhelming rush of sensation.
Tingles wrack my body, spinning across my skin. It feels like I’m turned inside out, nerve endings exposed, raw sensation pulsing at me from every direction.
As it fades, his grip lessens, easing away when to stay in such a tight embrace would become painful.
He palms my nipple, gently working away the sharp stab of pain from his pinching fingers. His lips break from mine as he tilts his head away, eyes devouring my expression as he stages a retreat.
I can’t catch my breath. Every part of me is simultaneously exhausted and triumphant. It’s nothing like the mechanical orgasms that Wilbur forces out of me. Nothing like the tiny spasms I achieve on my own.
Fingers untangle from my hair as Caylon cups my chin, tilting my head back as his eyes scour mine, searching for signals, warnings,something, I don’t know what.
I can’t think. Can’t hide. My disguises lie in tatters at my feet as my body fights to recover.
Finally, a noise penetrates from outside the room. The dreaded demand for attention shrieking from my discarded phone.
“I h-have to—”
“Don’t.” He wraps his arms around me, head dropping to nuzzle against the curve of my neck. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”
I know how this goes. He gave me a gift and there’s a silent demand for something in return.
My hand, still caught against his chest, drops, reaches for him through the thickness of his jeans, but he pulls it away, raising it to his mouth where he presses the gentlest kiss on my knuckles.
“I don’t care how many boyfriends you have,” he says in a voice choking with emotion. “Take whatever you need from them, but put me in rotation, Em.” His voice breaks and he stops for a minute, battling for control. “I need you.”
