Page 50 of Well That Happened

Justhim.

Caleb kisses me like he’s remembering the night we almost hooked up and every last inch of restraint he’s been clinging to just snapped.

My back hits the mattress, corset digging into my ribs, and I’m gasping into his mouth as his hands glide up my sides—careful, reverent, but full of need.

“Can I take this off?” he murmurs against my jaw, voice ragged.

“Yes.”

He unlaces the back slowly, fingers fumbling once, and we both laugh under our breath. And then it’s off—and he goes still.

His eyes sweep down my chest, pupils wide, mouth parting like he forgot how to breathe.

“Jesus, Rilee.”

“You can touch,” I tease, trying to sound confident.

He does. Both hands frame my breasts like they’re some kind of miracle. Then his mouth follows, hot and open, kissing across the soft skin, tongue flicking over one nipple while his palm teases the other.

I arch beneath him.

“Perfect,” he whispers.

I’m not sure when he lost his shirt, but he’s all muscle and heat above me, and I run my hands down his back, nails grazing just enough to make him groan.

He kisses down my stomach, slow and focused, until he’s on his knees beside the bed, tugging at the waistband of my bottoms.

He looks up. “Okay?”

I nod, heart pounding.

And then his mouth is on me.

His tongue—soft, then firm. Teasing. Learning me. Moving over my sensitive flesh. Finding my clit with expert precision…

A jolt of pleasure rockets through me.

He pauses just long enough to murmur against my skin, voice thick and low, “You’re so fucking perfect, Ri.”

Then he kisses the inside of my thigh, open-mouthed and hungry.

“Could spend all night with my face between your legs,” he groans, breath hot. “You taste so good, baby. So sweet.”

Then he’s back to it—tongue and lips and heat—like he can’t stay away. There’s something really fucking sexy about that—his enthusiasm.

I gasp as his tongue finds me again, more confident now.

“You like this?” he mutters between strokes, flicking gently, then sucking my clit with just enough pressure to make me whimper. “Tell me what you want, Rilee.”

My hands grip his hair tighter.

“This?” He circles again, slow and torturous. “Or this?” He flattens his tongue and presses harder.

All I can do is moan.

One big, calloused hand grips my thigh. The other presses gently to my hip like he’s holding me in place—not that I’m going anywhere. My hands thread into his hair, tugging when he hits just the right spot.

It’s overwhelming.

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