Page 90 of Mixed Signals
I slip my thumbs under the waistband of her underwear and snap it against her skin. She huffs a frustrated sound and I grin. I like teasing her this way, too. Hearing her beg just a little.
“Where, Layla?”
She leans up on her elbows and huffs a frustrated breath. “You know, if you’re going to be difficult, I can just do it myself.”
Heat licks down my spine and settles heavy between my legs. The thought of Layla touching herself while I watch—I swallow against the heady rush of wanting. Her ferocious scowl dims and a brush of pink lights up her cheeks.
“Maybe that’s not the threat I thought it was,” she says faintly.
“No,” I manage through a throat that suddenly feels bone dry. “No, it’s really not.” A cascade of possibilities slip through my mind. But one—one has my breath coming short, her skin a temptation half-an-inch away from my lips. I tear myself away and crawl up her body until my hands are planted by her shoulders. I hover there with my nose against her cheek and my mouth against the corner of hers. I drag a kiss against the swell of her bottom lip and then catch it with my teeth. I tug until she moans and leverage myself up so I can see the length of her spread out against the sheets. Bare skin, legs tipped open. Eyes heavy and a strand of hair, stuck to her neck.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Could you show me, Layla? Could you show me what you like?”
TWENTY-TWO
LAYLA
I staredown my body at Caleb, shirtless and kneeling between my thighs. Waiting for my answer. He looks positively indecent like this. Tan, broad chest. The button of his jeans undone. The strong cut of his hip where it disappears below the hem. Dark eyes and swollen lips.
I had a dream like this four days ago. In my dream, he came up behind me while I was mixing cookie dough and slid his hand in the collar of my dress. He cupped my breast with his mouth at my neck, fingers pinching and plucking. He was wearing an apron and nothing else, I’m pretty sure. There was chocolate sauce involved.
This is better. His tongue licks at his bottom lip as his eyes blaze a path from my forehead to my exposed belly button and the twisted line of my underwear beneath. His eyes catch and spark like embers in a campfire.
This is so much better.
I squirm against him. “What?”
“You heard what I said.” His firm tone makes my blood run a bit hotter. His hands glide over my thighs, fingers spread out wide like he’s trying to cover as much skin as possible. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it. His gaze is fixed firmly on mine. “Can you show me how you touch yourself?”
I shift my bare legs against the blankets. It’s one thing to whisper things in the heat of the moment, another to show him in the afternoon sun drifting through my curtains how I like to be touched. His eyes soften the longer he looks at me, heat and need replaced with gentle affection.
A smile tips the corner of his mouth as he ducks down and nudges my nose with his. “You’re safe with me, remember? We can do anything you want or nothing at all. We can stop right now.”
I nod, barely brushing his mouth with mine. I test him with my fingers against the skin of my belly and his gaze sticks there, watching. I clear my throat and he drags his gaze back to mine with significant reluctance. I like it, I realize. I like the way he’s looking at me, like I’m everything he could possibly want. Like he would be happy with just this, sitting on the edge of my bed and learning what sort of touch I like the best.
It’s enough for me to shake off the rest of my hesitation.
My hand drifts lower.
“We never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he tells me. It’s like that with Caleb, an ebb and flow between control and release. Demand and desire. The best sort of dance.
“I know.”
“We can go back to the kitchen. Have some of that pie.”
I bite my cheek against a smile. “Let’s stay here.”
I want this. I want to explore all the ways he makes me feel different—makes me feelbetter—than anyone else ever has before. I want to watch the way his jaw clenches as my hand moves against my body. I want to watch his eyes flash a shade darker and the muscles in his arms jump. I want to unravel him, bit by bit. Test that meticulous control of his.
I want him to be just as overwhelmed as I feel, a buzzing beneath my skin and an ache low in my belly. Like we’re teetering on the precipice.
“Alright,” he whispers. His thumb traces lightly against my thigh and then he pulls his hands away from me completely. He kneels on my bed and squeezes his hand around the back of his neck. A man wrestling with his control.
Oh, I like it so much.
I pull at the edge of my shirt and then drag it up again. I don’t know if I should take it off, or keep it on. For all my enthusiasm, I actually have no idea where to start. “Should I just—”
