Page 38 of Caesar DeLuca
I rush to snatch my panties off the hanger and stuff them in the nearest drawer.
“You can leave now,” I stammer. “I don’t… normally… I don’t do visitors.”
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Are you embarrassed, Ariana? About what? Your panties?”
Oh my god…
“Caesar, I’m good. You can go.”
Please. PLEASE have mercy and go! This is humiliating enough…
“So what?” He shrugs. “So I saw your bras. Is that supposed to mean something? I’ll tell you what it’s done—it’s just made me think about how your breasts look in them. That’s all.”
“What?!” I choke out before I can stop myself.
Half of a grin flashes in and out on his face. “You heard me. What else am I supposed to think when I see an attractive woman’s bra and panties? I’m going to think about her in them… and getting to take them off her.”
“I… don’t even know what to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything to it—it’s just the honest truth. I already told you I’m an upfront man, didn’t I? I mean what I say when I say it. Go to bed, Ariana. Get some rest and sleep off the wine. I’ll make sure the place is locked up.”
He closes in on me to give my shoulder a squeeze and stroke a stray curl out of my face. The touches are gentle, contrasting the natural stern set of his features. They’re touches that convey understanding and maybe some affection.
Some hint that he’s being real. Everything he’s said is true.
I’m left shocked as Caesar shuts the door and gives me the privacy I demanded.
Yet I’m more confused than ever.
The wine serves as a foggy lens for which I’m viewing the moment, but that doesn’t mean the effect he’s had on me goes unnoticed. My body’s thrumming with desire it hasn’t ever felt before. I’m craving something I’m not sure I’m willing to admit.
Something that deepens inside me. It becomes an ache, a loud longing that suddenly feels unbearable.
I want Caesar. I want him like I’ve never wanted a man before. But I’m so afraid, so unsure and insecure that I have no clue what to do with all of this overwhelming desire.
Could I really let go of the damage Freddie’s done?
He hadn’t ever made me feel desired, let alone beautiful, when we dated. He had no shortage of criticisms about my appearance, about my body. Once, he’d offered to pay for a breast reduction because he didn’t like how large mine were.
He complained about the sag.
I hadn’t let him pay for such a procedure, but I also never took my top off again.
Every time we had sex after that, I was in a bra. I was often naked only from the waist down.
But Caesar couldn’t feel more different—he’s spent his time under my roof staring at me like he’s a predator out in the wild and I’m the prey to be devoured. His touches have been careful and considerate if sometimes dominant in a way that makes my pussy clench.
I can’t be imagining those things. He’s been dropping hints all night. He’s frank to the point of uncomfortableness.
What do YOU want?
Can you handle him?
I’m afraid to know the answer.
14
CAESAR
