Page 93 of Mixed Signals
I hum, sated and a little limp. “That was nice.”
His hips nudge against my thigh as he settles at my side. He curls his arm under a pillow and he’s so beautiful I can hardly stand it. Rosy cheeks. Hair all over the place. An impression of my teeth against his collarbone I don’t remember leaving.
“I certainly hope it was better than nice.”
“It was very nice,” I amend. “Cream-cheese-frosting nice. Brownie-in-the-middle-of-the-pan nice.”
He nuzzles his nose in my shoulder and slips his hand over my belly. “Butter-croissant nice?”
Butter croissants. The not-so-special thing I make every single day that Caleb orders without fail three days a week. The thing he’s always wanted. A scale tips in my chest and something plucks tight. I blink twice at the scratchy feeling behind my eyes.
“Butter-croissant nice,” I agree, my voice a little bit rough. He moves against me again, getting comfortable in all of my pillows and blankets. His hips twitch forward and I feel him, still heavy and hard against my leg. My hand slips down his side and toys with the band of his underwear. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Caleb?”
His eyes are closed, a little furrow between his brows. “Hm?”
“What can I do?”
His eyes open—a brilliant, shimmering gold. Pupils blown wide with want. “About what?”
I roll onto my side and trace a single finger down the thick line of his erection through his jeans, my mouth at his neck. “About this.”
He groans, hips flexing into my touch. He places his hand over mine and squeezes, guiding my touch. Rough and slow, my palm grazes the hair below his belly button on every upward stroke.
“How about this time,” I whisper against his skin. I tug at the waist of his jeans, pulling them lower. “How about this time you show me what you like.”
It’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about since he pushed me down into my sofa and held my hands above my head. Since he made me come with all my clothes still on. I push at his shoulder and we roll together, my knees on either side of his hips. He gazes up at me from my tangled bedsheets.
“Layla.” He swallows around the sound of my name, his throat bobbing. His hands squeeze at my hips as I fight with the zipper of his jeans. “We don’t need to do anything else. I can—I’ll probably come in three seconds, if you keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”
I guess he means my knuckles dragging against his erection in stilted, uneven movements as I urge his jeans lower. I reach my hand into his boxers and wrap my fingers around him—hot and hard and deliciously big. He groans and drops his head back against my pillow, eyes squeezed shut.
“I don’t want you to come in three seconds,” I whisper. I stroke up, the movement frustratingly restricted by his damned jeans still around his damned hips. “I want more with you. Didn’t you say you liked to hear what I want?”
His eyes open to twin narrow slits. “I did.”
“Then trust me.” I finally wrench his pants down to his thighs and he kicks them the rest of the way off. I’m pretty sure they land on the lamp by my closet. I do not care. “This is what I want.”
Jaw clenched, hands clenched, every muscle in his body clenched—Caleb stares at me with dark eyes. “Is it the arrangement?”
I roll my hips against his and we both groan. “What?”
“If I’m going to fuck you, Layla,” the words grind out of him, rough and tight. “It won’t be because of any lessons or arrangements. It’ll be because you want me, and I want you.”
I breathe out, fingers inching below the elastic of his briefs. That’s an easy enough solution. “Well, I want you. Do you want me?”
He flips me before I even realize his intention, his body heavy over mine and his hand cupped gently against my face. He traces his thumb from the corner of my eye down to my jaw. He presses one gentle kiss against my lips and leans back. Both of us, balanced on the edge of more.
My favorite half-smile hitches at the corner of his mouth. His dimples appear on both sides. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
I don’t thinkI’ve ever had sex like this before.
Honest and unencumbered and beautifully earnest.
Caleb climbs off the bed and shucks his underwear, delightfully bashful with his briefs around his ankles. I catalog all the lines and dips of his body with interest, my palm flat against my stomach. Tanned skin. Stacked muscle. The cut of his hips and a scar, right where his ribs curve in. He ducks his head the longer I look, hand on the back of his neck.
“Come here,” I murmur.
He climbs back onto the bed one knee at a time, his big body eclipsing mine until all I can see is brown and gold and midnight black. He thumbs at my bottom lip as he kisses me, my thighs spread wide to welcome him, my ankle hooking behind his knee. Everything lines up exactly where it’s supposed to and we make twin sounds of pleasured anguish. A gasp exchanged for a groan, mouths open against sweat slicked skin.
