Page 18 of Tricked By Jack
Caleb chuckles as he slides his hands under my shirt, palming my breasts while he licks and nips his way down my throat, not stopping until he reaches my collarbone.
“Oh, God,” I moan, rolling my hips. His answering groan makes me huff with impatience, and I reach between us, cupping his erection. “I want this.”
He tips his head back and looks up at me while lifting my shirt to reveal the black lace of my bra. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You don’t mind if I take a picture, do you? Got to keep a record of my conquests.”
The question is the equivalent to being douched in cold water. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth as I contemplate the question. I’m not shy by any means, but that doesn’t mean I want pictures of me floating around.
“Don’t,” I warn when he raises his phone, holding it right in front of me. “If you need wanking material, call me. But don’t photograph me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, eyes already scanning me like he’s picturing the shot anyway.
I huff with annoyance, gyrating my hips to get the spark back. And it doesn’t take long until the world again narrows to a series of sensations—the pressure of his cock between us, the tight grip of his fingers as they find my hips and pull me against him in a rhythm that makes my breath catch.
“I want you inside me,” I pant.
Caleb groans against my skin. “Fuck. Yes—”
Three sharp knocks at my front door split through the room like a gunshot, freezing us both mid-motion.
My heart, already racing from Caleb’s attention, kicks into a higher gear. A strange cocktail of dread and anticipation floods my system, making my skin prickle with awareness.
“Ignore it,” Caleb commands, his hand sliding between my legs to cup my pussy. “They’ll go away.”
His lips reclaim mine, more insistent now, as if he can physically distract me from whoever stands on the other side of my door. For a moment, it works—my body responds to him automatically, melting back into the pleasure of his touch.
But the knocks come again, the same pattern—three sharp raps that seem to echo through my body. I break the kiss, turning my head toward the door despite Caleb’s frustrated sigh.
“Don’t fucking think about it,” he growls, his voice a mixture of desire and annoyance. His fingers trace the line of my jaw, trying to recapture my attention.
I look back at him, taking in his kiss-swollen lips, the naked want in his eyes. My body aches for him, for the release I know he can provide. And yet… “What if it’s him?” The words escape before I can stop them.
Caleb’s expression hardens, frustration eclipsing any trace of desire. “The mask guy?” His hands slide to my shoulders, steadying me as he searches my face. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Now?”
I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound insane—that something about him has rooted in me, quietly, dangerously. “I just need to see who it is,” I say. And while I pull my shirt back down, I glance down at the watch on Caleb’s wrist. It’s midnight. Exactly.
“You can’t be serious,” he shouts. “Over my dead body,” he snaps, like my curiosity is just another thing for him to shut down.
“Listen to yourself, Caleb,” I scoff. “I don’t need your permission.”
As he runs a hand down his face, I get off his lap.
“It’ll just take a second,” I promise. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince here.
As I move toward the door, Caleb’s hand catches my wrist, his touch gentler than I expected. “Eve,” he says, my name a question and a warning all at once.
I meet his eyes, seeing the concern there beneath the frustration. “One minute,” I say, offering a smile I hope is reassuring. “Stay right here, and keep this ready for me.” Licking my lips, I pointedly look at his very obvious erection.
Caleb releases me with reluctance. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy with accusation, as I reach for the handle. I hesitate for just a moment, heart hammering against my ribs.
Then, taking a deep breath, I pull the door open.
The masked courier stands motionless in my doorway, exactly as before. Unchanged. Unmoving. Like a funeral statue that wandered off its pedestal to deliver a final omen. Black gas mask with its vacant round eyes, military boots planted firmly, leather jacket zipped to his throat.
My stomach knots tight—not just with dread, but with anticipation that feels dangerously close to arousal.
In his gloved hands, he holds a black and orange envelope. His chest rises and falls with measured breaths that filter through the mask with a soft, mechanical whisper.
“You again,” I say, my voice breathier than intended.
