Page 20 of The Satyr Next Door
Panic spiked. I pushed at his head, tugging the bodice back up, covering myself with trembling hands.
He stilled instantly. “What’s wrong,Bella?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes searched mine, serious beneath the smile.
I loosened my legs around his waist, shame prickling. “I’ve had two children.” The words came out raw, defensive.
He didn’t let me slide off. His hands stayed firm on my hips, steadying me. Waiting.
“I’m forty years old,” I added, staring past him, unable to meet those eyes.
Understanding dawned slowly and softly across his face. And then he smiled, wicked and tender all at once.
“Oh, Gina,” he said, voice dropping reverent as a prayer. His hand caught the edge of the bodice again. “Do you think that makes you less?”
Before I could stop him, he tugged the fabric down, baring my bra and stomach, laying me open to the morning light. Every nerve screamed to cover myself, to hide.
But then his fingers brushed my skin, lingering over the soft curve of my stomach. The touch made me whimper, made heat rush through me despite the panic.
He leaned forward, kissing the line just beneath my ribs, soft lips pressing reverence into the places I hated most.
“Forty years,” he murmured against my skin. “Two children. And you think that diminishes you?” He lifted his gaze, pinning me with gold-flecked eyes. “No,Bella Mia.It makes you magnificent. Stronger. Riper. More dangerous to me than any untested girl.”
His words should have embarrassed me. Should have made me pull away, laugh it off, retreat back into the armor of self-deprecation I’d been polishing for years.
Instead, when his mouth pressed lower, soft lips trailing down the line of my stomach. I gasped, my hands flying to clutch at his curls instead of covering myself.
“Cal—”
“Shhh.” He kissed me again, just above my navel, reverent. “You think I don’t see it? That your body has carried life, has survived love and loss, and still has the power to make me weak?” His tongue flicked against the skin there, slow and deliberate. “Every mark, every curve is proof that you were made for more than survival. You were made to be worshiped.”
Desire flooded me, banishing the shame. My hips rocked forward instinctively, pressing against his chest.
He looked up, eyes burning, lips wet from my skin. “Let me show you.”
Before I could speak, his hands slid higher, cupping my breasts through the bra I’d been so self-conscious about. He pushed the cups down, freeing me completely, and groaned like a starving man finally given food.
“Goddess.” The word came out like a prayer. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, teasing until they peaked under his touch.
I should have cared that the light was too harsh, that the reality of me didn’t live up to the fantasy. But the way he looked at me, his eyes dark with hunger, voice raw with awe, made me forget everything but him.
He bent his head and drew one aching peak into his mouth.
I cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked gently, then harder, tongue laving the sensitive skin until sparks shot down my spine and pooled low in my belly. His hand kneaded the other breast, fingers pinching lightly, and I moaned, shameless, arching against him.
“Cal, God—”
“More,” he demanded against my skin, voice thick. “Give me more, Bella. Let me taste all of you.”
He laid me back on the chaise, his strength making me feel weightless, and pressed my dress higher. His mouth followed, trailing kisses down my stomach, over the soft skin I’d hated, worshiping it with lips and tongue until my shame melted under the heat of his devotion.
When he reached the waistband of my underwear, he glanced up, waiting.
I hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. “Yes.”
His grin was wicked, triumphant.
He slid the fabric down slowly, exposing me to the morning air, and settled between my thighs like a man kneeling at an altar.
I was trembling, every nerve strung tight. But when his tongue traced the slick line of me, slow and deliberate, every thought shattered.
