Page 103 of The Persistence of Thornes
“Yes, baby?”
Baby. I’ve always hated that term of endearment. I used to find it downright patronizing. But from Caleb’s lips? It’s my new favorite word. Rather than cheap or generic, it’s reverent. Like a prayer.
“Don’t hold back.”
With a growl, he releases my breasts and spins me around. He takes a step back, his gaze dipping to my bare chest, heated, hungry, like I’m something worthy of worship.
As if he can read my mind, he drops to his knees, head tipped back, pure adoration in his expression. His focus doesn’t leave my face as he finds the zipper on the right side of my skirt and tugs it down. The skirt falls to my ankles, and he gingerly lifts my right foot, then the left, so he can get the fabric out of the way.
“I’ve been dreaming of eating this pussy again, Halle. You have no idea how good you taste.” He skims his fingers up the inside of my thighs, causing a shiver to work its way through me. He smirks, clearly pleased that he has such an effect on me. “Are you wet already, baby?”
I nod, a quiet little, “Mhm,” leaving my lips.
“Spread those legs for me, love. Let me see that perfect cunt.”
Buzzing with need, I do as he asks.
His hum of satisfaction is low, rough. “My girl is such a good listener. Aren’t you?”
I nod, dropping my hands to his shoulders to steady myself.
With two fingers, he parts my folds. “So fucking wet, and I haven’t even put my mouth on you.”
“Caleb.” His name is a plea.
He grins up at me, clearly enjoying my desperation. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“Hurry up,” I beg, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
Rather than hurry, he rubs his fingers back and forth lazily, taunting me, the smug bastard grinning again. Waiting.
“Please.” I finally give in.
Rather than reward me, he removes his hand. I cry out in protest, grasping his wrist.
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m just taking my mask off.”
“No!” I squeeze. “Leave it on.”
The way his face is partially hidden behind the mask lit a fire in me that’s been burning low all night.
Carefully, he lowers his hands. “You like the mask?”
With a nod, I loosen my grip on his wrist.
“Noted.” Lips kicked up, he pops up to his feet. The move is so quick, it startles me, and I take a step back, nearly tripping over my own feet. But before I can go down and completely embarrass myself, he catches my waist and holds me steady.
He dips his head toward me. “You good?”
I nod, unable to find my voice when he’s this close. He towers over me, and he smells good. Between his scent and the mask, he’s scrambling my brain.
With ease, he lifts me. I, naturally, am not nearly sograceful. When my feet leave the ground, I let out an embarrassing squeak and wrap my legs around his waist. Instantly, the fabric of his pants provides much-needed friction to the sensitive place between my thighs.
He lays me on the bed, slipping his hands down to my thighs to keep them spread. He takes me in slowly, appreciatively, and all traces of embarrassment melt away. It’s impossible to feel anything but empowered when he looks at me like that.
He steps back, eyes never drifting from me, as he undoes the buttons on his black shirt. When he shucks it, letting it fall to the floor by his feet, I nearly groan in relief.
His belt is next. Then he flicks the button of his pants. I’m panting in anticipation now, so damn needy. But instead of lowering his zipper, he stops there, his hands falling to his sides.
