“Define all the way?”
“Have you not stuck your dick in—”
I cut him off, panic rising. “Jesus Christ, don’t finish that sentence. No. I haven’t had full-blown sex before, okay?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling everything inside me contorting. I waited for the laugh. I waited for the unloading of jokes about the virgin wrestler who acted like he knew everything. I waited for Deadlock to tear me apart.
Cal didn’t speak. Instead, he tugged my waist, closing the gap between us. I felt his hand cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. He kissed me again, soft, slow, apologetic.
“We really don’t have to go any further,” he assured me against my lips. “We can stop. We can sleep.”
I felt my chest prickle with a different kind of heat.
Stop?
No. God, no.
I wanted more. I’ve never wanted more of anything in my life. Even now, buried under twenty layers of embarrassment and insecurity, I wanted this. I wanted him to be the one to wreck me.
“Would it freak you out if I wanted to do more…?” I asked hesitantly, my voice barely a whisper.
Cal pulled back just enough to look at me. He gave me that same warm smile, understanding, genuine, with a flicker of heat behind it that told me exactly what he was thinking.
“Not at all,” he assured me. “That doesn’t freak me out at all.”
I nudged Cal backward. The back of his legs hit the mattress, and he let himself fall, landing back on his elbows. He scooted himself up toward the pillows, his legs spreading slightly, an invitation.
I didn’t hesitate. I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, my wet shorts soaking into his. I felt the hard ridge of him beneath me, and a jolt of electricity went straight to my spine. I leaned down, crashing my mouth to his, continuing to get lost in the kiss, letting the rest of the world, and my self-control, fade away until there was nothing left but Cal.
Cal’s hands began to trail down the curve of my spine again, his palms hot against my wet skin, before settling firmly on my ass. His grip was firm, confident, and possessive. God, it was making my brain feel like it was short circuiting. The sensation of his fingers digging into me sent a jolt straight to my groin that nearly made me see stars.
I pushed into Cal more, grinding down, and he let me. He arched up into the friction, a low sound vibrating in his chest.
Naturally, instinct took over. I pinned his wrists next to his head, holding them against the mattress. A faint, broken moan escaped his lips, a sound I wanted to bottle up and keep forever.
I pulled away from him momentarily, my chest heaving, gazing down into his eyes. I took in how fucking beautiful Cal was right now, lips swollen, hair messy,looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. For months I’d been fighting the desire to see him this way, burying it under layers of scripted rivalry and indifference. But fuck, I couldn’t fight it anymore.
He was intoxicating. Addicting. And right now, he was pushing my entire being to levels I would never, ever go to in a normal situation. But this? This was anything but normal. This was inevitable.
“Whatever you want, Si,” he breathed out, searching my face. “I’m right here. You’re calling the shots.”
His voice was low, fueled by the same raw intensity I was feeling. Maybe even more.
I kissed him again, hard and desperate. My breathing hitched, a jagged sound that betrayed me, making the mask of confidence and control seemingly shatter. Cal sensed it instantly. I know he did.
He pulled away from me once more, freeing one of his hands from my grip. His hand came up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, gentle, grounding, like he knew I needed the reassurance more than I was letting on.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” he whispered, his eyes dark with promise. “Do you want me to show you what I like?”
I nodded, unable to find my voice. “Yes.”
I was breathless, completely fucking drunk on him, and he knew it too.
Cal pushed on my chest lightly, nudging me to sit up on his hips. He took my hand in his own, guiding it down the center of his chest. I felt every hard, defined, tattoo covered piece of muscle under my fingertips. The ink felt like it was humming against my skin. It was like electricity running through my body, overloading my nerves, making me feel like all of my senses were bombing out at once.
He dragged my hand lower, over the ridges of his abs, until he rested my palm on his lower stomach, right above the waistband of his soaked shorts.
He tapped my leg, nudging me to lift my body off of him just a fraction.
