He kneels back for a second to look at me.
The mask tilts, and he climbs between my legs and leans down, palm flat on my chest. The weight is a comfort and a command.
“This time,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to do anything.”
I swallow. “Not exactly mad about that,” I say.
His laugh is strained. “We’ll see how you feel in ten minutes,” he says.
Caleb tugs my shirt up, leaving it bunched at my bound hands, baring my chest to the cool air. His fingertips follow down my sternum, tracing the ridges of my muscles, over tattoo ink and over the faint mark his teeth left at my throat earlier.
Then he takes his time.
He touches everywhere but where I want it.
Throat, collarbones, shoulders, sternum. Nails scraping lightly down my sides, making me arch and curse. His mouth follows, kissing, sucking, leaving wet heat in his wake. The mask rides up and down, sometimes covering his eyes, sometimes his mouth, always in the periphery, like a neon reminder of who’s in control.
Every so often, he glances up through the plastic.
“Still good?” He checks.
“Yes,” I grit out, already sweating. “Fuck, Caleb?—”
Pleased with my answer, he ignores my dick completely.
The bastard.
When he finally does touch me, it’s with deliberate cruelty. A palm pressed over the bulge in my sweats, then gone. Fingers tracing the outline, running up every single piercing, then drifting up to slide under the waistband, not low enough to give me relief.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So worked up just from being chased around a cabin like Scooby-Doo.”
“Fuck you,” I gasp.
“In a minute,” he says. “Patience, baby.”
Caleb leans back on his heels, that stupid mask grinning at me while his real mouth curves. Slowly, he peels his own hoodie and T-shirt off in one go, tossing them aside.
My breath catches. Now I’ve seen him naked a hundred times.It still hits.The long lines of his torso, the eclectic mix of ink on his ribs. The faint scars on his hip from old injuries. All of it, familiar and new at the same time in this light.
He hooks his thumbs in his sweats, eyes on me, and drags them down. Boxer briefs go with them, leaving him bare and hard and unmistakably affected.
My dick twitches in solid solidarity.
“See?” he says softly. “Not just you.”
“Yeah, I kind of noticed,” I say hoarsely.
Then he stands at the foot of the bed and wraps a hand around his cock and starts to stroke himself.
My brain short-circuits.
It’s one thing watching him touch himself over FaceTime when I’m not able to do it. It’s another seeing him touch himself while I’m tied up and forced to watch in the same fucking room. The angle is ridiculous, cruel—his hand working slow, thumb sliding over the head, body framed by the railings and the fairy lights like some fucked-up art piece.
A bolt of want slams through me so hard I groan out loud.
“You okay?” he says, breath already hitching as his hand squeezes. “Need me to stop?”
“God no,” I say, then hiss as his other hand slides up his own stomach, pinching his nipple lightly. “Fuck, Caleb?—”
