Page 175 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
My breath caught for a moment.
Callie had followed my instruction to the letter… and then elevated it.
That sweet cunt of hers looked swollen, sensitive—used. I may have overdone it yesterday, but it looked like she wasn't done.
I approached slowly, letting my gaze roam. Her auburn curls framed her bare pussy like flames licking at porcelain. Her breath hitched when I stopped in front of her.
“Are you sore, baby?” I murmured, tossing the towels and bottles onto the bed without looking. My focus was on the trembling of her inner thighs. The way her fingers curled slightly against the sheets, like she was resisting the urge to touch herself.
“No, sir,” she whispered.
Her voice was small. Hoarse. Not from fear—but from the ache. The need.
I tilted my head, watching her chest rise and fall. Her nipples were already hard, pink and tight from anticipation.
“Are you lying to me?” I asked, letting the weight of my stare drag across her body. My voice dropped even lower. “Is that cunt still tender from taking me?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes fluttered closed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks.
I stepped closer, between her legs.
“Callie,” I warned softly.
“No, sir,” she breathed again. “It’s not too sore.”
“Mmm.” I reached down, trailing two fingers lightly from her inner knee to the slick seam between her legs.
She twitched.
“You’re wet,” I said, letting my fingers ghost over her folds without pressure. “You like presenting yourself for me?”
She nodded. Just once.
“I asked a question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
I straightened slowly, watching the way her mouth parted. Her hands balled into fists against the comforter. I could see it—all of it. The trembling restraint. The burning want.
She didn’t just want to be fucked.
She wanted to be owned.
And I was more than ready to oblige.
I reached for my T-shirt, watching her through half-lidded eyes as I peeled it off, slow and deliberate. Her gaze locked onto my chest like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Good. Let her look.
I wanted her staring.
I wanted her wrecked just from watching me undress.
Her lips parted, eyes wide behind those sweet little glasses she never took off. God, those fucking glasses. They made her look studious and innocent—but I’d had her bent over my desk, begging for more, filled to the brim with my cock and my come. That same mouth now trembled in anticipation.
I flicked the button open with a practised twist of my wrist, then dragged the denim down my thighs slow, and deliberate, watching her eyes track every inch. I stepped out of them one leg at a time, letting the weight of her stare stroke over my skin like a second pair of hands.
Her eyes dropped to the vee of muscle cutting across my abdomen, then to the bulge straining in my boxers. I saw her thighs shift. She was getting impatient.
