Page 72 of Mixed Signals
He holds me down on the couch and moves against me like we’re in a bed. Like we’re in a bed and we’re both naked and he’s deep inside me and wants to get deeper. He rolls his hips and sucks at my neck and drags one palm down the line of my arm to my breast. He pinches my nipple as he grinds into me and everything erupts into bright colors. Shapes. Sensation and the panting sound of our breaths together.
“You look so damn pretty, Layla. Fuck.” A lock of dark hair falls over his forehead as he reaches for my ankle. He curls his long fingers around the delicate bone and guides it higher against his back. My knees tip wider and I choke on the edge of a gasp.
“I bet you look prettier when you come. Can I see it?” He catches my earlobe with his teeth and tugs. “Will you show me?”
“Caleb.” I say his name for no other reason than I want to. I want to taste the syllables on my tongue as I wind tighter. He hums and presses his thumb to my chin, guiding my mouth to his. He kisses me slow and deep and keeps his pace exactly the same. He doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t slow down, he just keeps rocking into me in that perfect, delicious, heavy rhythm.
“You almost there?”
I nod and then nod some more. I don’t know how long we’ve been moving together like this, just that it feels so, so good. He feels so, so good. His teeth collar my ear just as his hand slips between our grinding hips, a heavy drag of his thumb that has me arching, gasping, whimpering beneath him.
“Tell me how you need it.”
“Faster,” I gasp. He takes my instruction beautifully and I whimper. “Two fingers, a little higher. Please—I—”
“Good. There it is,” Caleb tells me. His hips bump into the back of his hand. “Chase it, Layla. Take it.”
Maybe it’s his encouragement or maybe it’s his thumb slipping beneath my wet and twisted underwear. Maybe it’s his first touch against my bare skin or the deep, appreciative sound he makes in response. The cut-off curse beneath his breath like he’s unraveling just as thoroughly as I am. I don’t know. I just know that in one breath I’m watching Caleb move above me and the next I am tumbling over the edge of my release.
It’s sudden, a rough jerk right in the center of my chest. A rope being yanked. I cling to Caleb as it roars through me, a wildfire of pleasure and wild, messy sensation. It might have started suddenly, but it spreads slowly—the backs of my legs, the cradle of my hips, the tips of my breasts where they’re pressed against the cool material of Caleb’s shirt. I whimper and moan and make sounds I’ve never heard come out of my mouth before.
When I finally calm, Caleb is still above me, panting into my neck. I slide my palms down his back to the hem of his shirt and tuck my hands beneath. His hips jump and he nuzzles down into me, his skin warm beneath my touch. He feels like the heaviest, most delicious smelling blanket.
I grin at the ceiling. “I think that was the best idea you’ve ever had.”
His nose nudges at my neck, and I can feel his lips curl into a smile. “Better than the roller rink?”
I wiggle beneath him, pleased as punch. “Oh, definitely.”
He laughs and rests his hand at the base of my throat. His thumb traces over my skin. It’s a comfort and a brand. A gentle reassurance that everything we just did was exactly right. “I agree.”
“Do you—” I shift beneath him and trace the strong column of his spine, all the way down to the divots just above the band of his jeans. I want to strip this shirt off of him and trace pathways across all this gorgeous skin. I swallow hard. “Do you want me to touch you, too?”
Caleb leans up on his forearms, a delicious flush on his cheeks and throat and the tips of his ears. His lips are swollen and his hair is sweaty, tangled waves. I hope I think of him exactly like this, every single time he stands on the opposite side of my counter and orders a croissant.
Though I imagine that might be a challenge to my productivity.
“I, uh—” His teeth clamp down on his bottom lip with a wince.
“It’s okay.” I ignore the twist in my gut, the sting of his rejection—kind and gentle as it was. It’s okay that he doesn’t want me to touch him the way he just touched me. It’s fine.
I stare up at the ceiling and still my roving hands.
“Layla.” Caleb sighs my name. “It’s not like that. I already, uh—I already—”
I frown and watch his face twist in embarrassment. “What is it?”
He looks down at me with a timid, rueful smile. He lifts his hand and traces the lines of my face, the swell of my bottom lip. He looks captivated. That memorizing touch of his, all over again. I curl my hand around his wrist and press a smacking kiss right against the center of his palm.
He drops his forehead back to my collarbone and rocks it back and forth.
“I finished,” he tells me with no shortage of reluctance. He rubs the hand I just kissed over his chest. “Watching you was enough. Touching you was—” He exhales slowly.Incredible,that sound says. Another sigh and a low, rumbling chuckle. “I feel like a teenager.”
A surge of warmth replaces the hollow feeling in the center of my chest. Affection, steady and sure. “Teenage you must have been fun.”
He shrugs and lifts himself up on his palms. “I was an awkward kid. I didn’t really know how to talk to people. Girls, especially.”
I find that hard to believe, since he was telling me totake itabout three minutes ago. But I like it all the same. I like that he feels comfortable enough to be himself with me. That he doesn’t censor or shape himself into something he thinks I want. I get Caleb in all his beautiful, imperfect shades.
