Page 70 of Mixed Signals
It’s a good look for him.
His thumbs make another pass from the tops of my thighs to the inside of my knees and I almost launch us both out of the chair.
“I’m nervous,” I whisper, deciding to be honest with him. I don’t want him to get discouraged when I don’t … respond to his touch. I’ve had partners get upset in the past. Frustrated. I learned quickly that faking it is usually an easier path without the complication of bruised egos.
But I don’t want to fake anything with Caleb.
“Why are you nervous?” He slips his hands around to the curve of my ass and squeezes, making sparks dance up my spine. “It’s just me.”
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It turns out Caleb isn’tjustanything. He’s careful touches and lingering looks. Roller skates on the very first date. Shared nachos and kisses in the rain. His hand on my elbow and the small of my back, his lips pressed against the back of my neck. Solid. Dependable. Kind. Smoking hot.
Caleb is turning out to be a whole lot of something for me.
“Sometimes—” I roll my eyes up and stare at the light fixture above my kitchen table instead of his face. “Sometimes it takes me a while. To get going.”
A low sound slips out of him and his hips rock below mine. My eyes snap back to his.
He’s panting, just a little bit, the buttons straining on his shirt. He looks a little wild, a little wrecked. Hungry for something other than dessert.
“That sounds like the opposite of a problem, Layla.”
“Yeah?”
He nods with enthusiasm and then leans forward until his lips meet the spot where my dress cuts across my breasts. He presses a small kiss above my heart, and then licks a hot stripe all the way up my neck. Everything in my body clenches tight.
“I like to work for it,” he whispers against my ear.
My breath gusts out of me, a small explosion.
Okay then.
He taps the side of my hip beneath my skirt, his face still buried in my neck. “Up,” he gently commands, and I rise on my knees above him so his hands can move. He traces the line of my underwear from one hip to the other with a single, deliberate fingertip.
“Do you like to be teased?” His knuckles brush over the front of the soft cotton covering me, just barely. I suck in a sharp breath as goosebumps break out over my skin. “Or do you like it fast?” His thumb presses hard over where I ache the most, and we let out twin sounds of appreciation—mine a gasping moan, his a low rumble.
“Teased.” I pant the word into the top of his head, my voice breathy and thin. “I think.”
I’ve never been asked that question before. I’ve never given it much thought, what I do and don’t want when I’m with someone like this. But I like this build up, the low ache in my belly that swells when his touch is fleeting and soft. I like the brush of his thumb as he traces every inch of me below my skirt—slow, slow, slow. Like he’s savoring. Like he’s memorizing.
Like he wants it to last.
His thumb dips again and he grunts low in his chest when he feels the small patch of wet between my spread thighs.
“Christ,” he curses. My whole body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind. “Tell me when it feels good, okay?”
I nod and rock into his hand. “Okay.”
One of his hands slips out from beneath my skirt and he toys with the strap of my dress just as his knuckles drag over the center of me again. I bite back my moan and fist my hands in his hair, my hips pushing into his touch and then rocking away. This position is awkward, my body held suspended above his as he works me. I feel clumsy and off balance, everything pulled too tight.
“No, stay.” Caleb’s hand goes back to my hip and he pulls me back down onto him, encouraging a rhythm over his hand and his lap. More comfortable, I wind my arms around his neck and settle. A half smile tugs at his lips, teasing out that dimple I love, and I settle some more.
This is Caleb, and with Caleb I’m safe.
I watch him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as I rock, his gaze fixed on me perched in his lap. I feel each touch of his eyes like the pad of his fingers against my bare skin. My shoulders. The swell of my breasts straining against my top, and the hem of my dress riding up against my thighs. He slouches back in the chair and kicks his legs wider, making mine spread, too. His fingers curl beneath my dress and my breath catches.
“You are so beautiful like this,” he says on a low rumble. “Does it feel good?”
I hum happily in response and close my eyes. I tilt my head back as he pushes one of my dress straps down and then the other, both of them settling in the bend of my elbows. His lips brush against my collarbone, in the slight hollow between my breasts. The fabric of my dress holds there, constricted.
