Page 220 of Love Me Stalk Me
I straddle him with more confidence than I feel, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips, my hands resting on his shoulders. He's so big, so solid beneath me, all heat and strength and barely contained desire. I can feel the tension in his muscles. His hands immediately find my thighs, sliding up over the delicate stockings, spreading his fingerswide as he grips me.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes drinking me in like a man seeing water after days in the desert. His fingers flex against my skin, just shy of bruising, marking me as his. "Goddamn, pretty girl, you look like something I should get on my knees and pray for."
A shiver runs through me at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. No one has ever looked at me the way Cal does—like I'm extraordinary, like I'm something rare and precious.
"You like that?" His thumb brushes along the inside of my thigh, teasing, barely there, a ghost of a touch that makes me ache for more. His eyes never leave mine, watching every reaction, every minute change in my expression. "Like knowing how fucking insane you make me?"
I bite my lip, my hips shifting instinctively, pressing into him, seeking friction and relief from the growing tension. I can feel him hardening beneath me, his body responding to mine with an immediacy that's as flattering as it is empowering.
"That's it," he coaxes, his voice smooth and dark. "Move for me. Show me how much you like it."
I inhale shakily, my body obeying before my mind catches up, grinding against the hardness beneath me. The friction sends sparks of pleasure through me and my back arch slightly. His groan is guttural, animalistic, his fingers digging into my thighs, holding me there, controlling my pace, guiding me how he wants me.
"Fuck, that's it, Izzy. Just like that."
I whimper, my head tipping back, exposing the column of my throat to him. I can feel my pulse racing there, can feel the flush spreading across my chest, the heat building between my legs. Every movement, every touch, every word from his lips only intensifies the need coiling inside me.
"But you know what I really want?" he murmurs, his hands gliding up my sides, tracing the curves of my waist, my ribs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the undersides of my breasts.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, my breath coming faster. In this light, his eyes look almost feral.
"What?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
He gives me that look—sinful, wicked—the kind that sends heat pooling low in my belly. It’s a glance that promises pleasure beyond imagining.
"A strip tease."
My breath catches in my throat. "What?"
"You heard me." His thumbs stroke over my hip bones, dipping just below the edge of my lingerie before retreating. "You look like a beautiful fucking snack in this, and I want you to unwrap yourselffor me. Slowly."
I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting at the request. Part of me wants to laugh it off, to tell him I can't possibly do that, that I don't know how to be seductive like that. But another part—a part that's growing stronger by the second—thrills at the idea of being watched and desired.
"You want me to?—"
"Dance for me, pretty girl." It's not quite a command, but it's close. There's something in his tone that makes it impossible to refuse.
Heat flares through me, pooling between my thighs, making me clench involuntarily. I'm not a dancer. I've never been the kind of woman who moves with easy grace, who exudes confidence and sexuality without effort. I don't know how to do sexy, not deliberately, not as a performance.
But Cal's looking at me like I am sexy. Like I could do no wrong in his eyes. Like whatever I do, however clumsy or awkward, would be perfect simply because it's me.
And that?
That makes me want to try. That makes me feel brave in a way I never have before.
I sit back on his lap, adjusting my position slightly, my fingers finding the thin straps of my lingerie, trailing over them teasingly. The delicate lace feels like almost nothing beneath my fingertips.
His eyes darken further, tracking every movement of my hands. His own hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise sending a shiver down my spine. "Slowly."
I inhale deeply, rolling my shoulders back as I slide one strap down my arm, the movement exposing more skin. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my flesh.
I feel ridiculous at first.
Self-conscious.
Like I'm playing at being someone I'm not.
