Page 29 of Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
Us.
Ben’s absence is like a hole in the air, sucking all the oxygen away from us, and I hate that I want him here even after he kicked me to the curb. I hate that I miss his touch on me so much it hurts.
I hate it.
Even as I can’t deny it.
“Fuck, you taste good,” Caleb murmurs. His strong fingers dig into the soft rounds of my ass, keeping my pussy angled the way he likes, and the feeling of those almost-bruising fingertips along with the chafe of his beard drives me perilously close to orgasm. His tongue seems to be everywhere, until he gently takes my clit between his teeth and suckles at it.
My head falls back as I give a long moan. “God, Caleb, oh my God.”
But I don’t keep my head back, because he’s too delicious right now, and I never want to forget how he looks like this. On his knees in front of me, those big shoulders tucked in, his dark head below the curve of my still-clothed stomach, tilting and working…
It’s so much to feel, so much to see, even as awful questions filter through my mind.
Are you doing this out of pity?
Why doesn’t Ben want me?
How am I supposed to walk away from this?
But even the questions disappear into smoky nothing as my impending orgasm winds closer and closer and closer, and I arch against the railing, trying to push myself harder against Caleb’s wicked tongue.
He responds with a hungry, eager groan, sucking and licking like his life depends on it, and then I’m done for. I pant out his name right as my climax bursts, and then I don’t know what else I’m saying. Curses, blessings, maybe even Ben’s name leaves my mouth, but it doesn’t matter, because it feels so fucking good. Waves and waves starting in my clit and radiating out through my stomach and thighs and all the way to the tips of my fingers. It feels like it goes on for hours as I ride it out against his mouth, with one hand braced on the rail
ing and the other hand in his hair, clutching him tight.
And then, gradually, as all good things do, it subsides. It goes away, leaving only weak knees and a full-body flush in its wake.
Caleb seems reluctant to stop eating me, but he does, tilting his head up with half-lidded eyes and wet lips. He looks intoxicated—intoxicated from me, my body—which is a heady feeling. Heady as fuck. And when I look all the way down his body, I know for certain pity had nothing to do with what just happened.
He’s hard.
Hard enough to seriously tent his jeans.
For a moment, we linger like this, my hand still twined in his hair and him on his knees with his face canted up toward mine, like a sinner before God. His eyes blaze earnestly across my face, and my stomach twists as I recognize what he’s doing.
He’s committing me to memory.
I let go of his hair.
“Ireland,” he says as I bend over to grab my shorts. “Please.”
I don’t know what to make of him, this honest, passionate man who can make honest, passionate love to me and still say goodbye afterward. I don’t know what to make of Ben either, and the thought that I’ll never have the opportunity to figure them out is sharp enough to make me pull my shorts on with haste. I need to leave. Before I do something truly awkward, like cry.
Caleb stands, licking his lips like he’s licking the last of my taste off them, and renewed lust hits me low below the belly button. I ignore it and fasten my shorts.
“I’ll just go get my things,” I announce, pointlessly, and he follows me into the house and up the stairs like a puppy. A big farmer puppy with big farmer muscles and pleading green eyes.
Ugh. Why do the two of them have to be so unfairly handsome? What chance do I stand against that?
I go into the guest room and pull together my things to pack, and from behind me, Caleb says, “Ben was in the army.”
“Okay,” I say, keeping my back to him as I fold up my clothes and stuff them into my bag. “Thanks for telling me.”
“No, I—” Caleb makes that frustrated noise that tells me he’s frustrated with himself, with the way he can’t explain things the way he wants. “Ben was in Afghanistan. Four tours.”
That slows me down. I put my camera on the bed next to my bag and turn to face him. “Okay,” I say again, but curiously this time. I’m listening. Thinking of the way Ben kept so still this morning to avoid flinching at the booms of the thunder. Why he has trouble sleeping.
