He sighs in annoyance and then grabs my left hand and places it on his stomach. I’ve never touched his abs. Never. My fingers spread without warning, and I feel his muscles bunch under my touch.
Fucking deadly.
“Better,” he says softly, seeming to melt into me.
We watch for a few minutes, and then he peels my right hand off the sofa cushions and places it right over his heart. I can feel the wild thump of it under my palm.
He tenses, as if realizing that I can feel what this is doing to him, but then shrugs it off, like he always does.
Everything with him just moves so easily.
Life for him must be a breeze.
Caleb dozes on and off as the show plays endlessly, and in those moments, when I know he’s asleep, I let my hands drift, touching that strong abdomen, curling against it for just a moment.
I’ve never had a man like this. So big. So overwhelming.
And if I graze his nipple ring and trace the line of his collarbone, it can’t be helped.
He’s a work of art, a sculpture.
It’s nothing more than admiration.
Of course, my father has to ruin it. Of course, he chooses to call now. I feel the buzz in my pants pocket, and I pull my phone out.
When I shift, I feel my half-hard cock bump against Caleb’s lower back and my cheeks flame, as does my irritation.
He couldn’t have felt that, right?
God, don’t let him have felt that.
“I have to take this,” I say, expecting Caleb to move. He only sinks in.
For some reason, speaking to my father while he’s here against me,another man, someone my father would not approve of, makes me feel brave. Defiant, even.
“Da?” I ask, and my father replies in Romanian.
He knows I responded to the email, that the deal is done. He doesn’t need to follow up, but he does because he can. Because he gets a thrill from controlling me.
I make sure my responses are clipped and steady, happy that Caleb has no idea what I’m saying.
I don’t need anyone to know the dark situation I’ve found myself in.
The call is over as quickly as it started. My chest constricts, anger welling up inside of me, and I toss my phone across the couch and take a deep breath.
“I didn’t know you spoke another language,” Caleb says, breaking the tense silence.
His voice, the way he shifts against me, has me calming. “I do.”
“Come on, man. Give me something. What language was that?”
“Romanian,” I say, my fingers tapping against the couch.
He reaches around and grabs them, placing my palms on his stomach. “Who was that?”
“My father.”
“Ah. Not a fan?”
