Page 177 of Love Me Stalk Me
I’m completely wrecked when I say, "Fuck, Izzy."
I swallow hard, my body still pulsing, my muscles still tight, my restraint hanging by a fucking thread. She tilts her head, her fingers still teasing her lips.
Like she's waiting for me to break.
I almost do.
Instead, I narrow my eyes, watching her. And then, voice gravel-rough, utterly fucking ruined, I ask?—
"What are you trying to do to me?"
I LICKED HIM. ZERO REGRETS.
IZZY
Cal is still lookingat me, eyes intense like I just did something unholy. There’s a raw hunger in his stare, so palpable I can almost hear the argument in his head—whether to drop to his knees and worship me or flip me over and devour me whole.
His chest rises and falls steadily, controlled, broad and solid and covered in ink. My eyes trace every muscle, every ridge of his body that I've wanted to run my tongue over since the moment I saw them peeking out from his button-down. His stomach remains tight, every carved-out inch of him tense.
I feel it—heat crawling over my skin, settling low and deep, flooding my veins until I’m buzzing with need. Every nerve is awake, my whole body aching for what’s coming.
Then he moves. Fast.
Before I even process what's happening, he's on me, hands gripping the backs of my thighs, lifting me clean off the ground like I weigh absolutely fucking nothing. I let out a surprised squeak at the sensation of suddenly being airborne. My arms fly around his neck on instinct, clutching onto him as he carries me like I belong to him. Like I always have. Like I always will.
I barely get a breath in before he speaks, voice laced with amusement. "You good?"
I scowl against his shoulder, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his body, the feel of his arms wrapped around me, strong and sure. "You could warn a girl before doing shit like that."
His chest rumbles with a chuckle, the vibration sinking into my skin. "Noted."
I don't tell him that I liked it—the ease of it, the control of it, the sheer strength of it. I don't mention how much I enjoyed the firm grip of his hands on me, like there is no way in hell he'd ever let me fall, or theway he moves, confident and unbothered, like he could carry me across the city without breaking a sweat.
Instead, I let him take me. Let him care for me. Let him do what I'm still learning how to accept.
He brings me into my bathroom and puts me down gently. My feet touch the cold tile and I wiggle my toes at the sensation as he turns on the shower. The pipes in my old apartment building groan to life. I shake my head as I watch him. He's so unreasonably large, taking up so much of the space, making my standard-sized bathroom feel miniature.
The first hit of warm water cascades down my back as he leads me inside, relaxing muscles I didn't even realize were tense. The pressure is perfect, needles of heat easing away the day's strain. Steam rises, thick and soft, wrapping around us, fogging the mirror, muffling the world outside.
And then Cal steps in behind me. His presence is immediate, overwhelming, suffocating in the best possible way. His chest is inches from my back, his body so close I can feel him, but he doesn't touch me. Not yet. Instead, he lets the water do its work, warming us both, washing clean the mess we made together.
Then his hands find me—slow and careful. His fingers glide over my skin, reverent, focused, spreading body wash over my arms, my stomach, my thighs. The soap creates a slick path, bubbles forming against my dampened skin.
It's not sexual. But it's intimate. More intimate than anything I've ever known. He's thorough, methodical, his touch firm but gentle, like he's memorizing every inch of me, mapping me out, soaking me in. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of him moving over me, his palms smoothing up my back, fingers spreading across my shoulders before sliding down my spine. The water drums against us, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
I feel his breath against the back of my neck and the light scrape of his stubble against my damp skin. Then he tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him—he looks wrecked. His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth slack with need, dark hair damp and curling at the ends, water droplets clinging to his lashes. One slides down the sharp cut of his jaw, trails over his throat, and disappears down his chest. I watch its path, spellbound.
His thumb brushes my bottom lip with a soft, slow, teasing stroke. When he speaks, his voice is warm. "You were amazing."
I don't know how to take compliments when they're real, and when they come from a man who actually means them. So Iduck my head, let him finish cleaning me off, and don't argue. Which, if I'm being honest, might be a first for me.
By the time we step out of the bathroom, my skin is still warm, my hair damp and clinging to my shoulders, the soft cotton of my tank top cool against my freshly showered skin. The fabric stretches across my fuller curves. But now that doesn’t seem to bother me. I feel relaxed, clean, lighter than I've felt in days.
And then I turn and forget how to function, because Cal is standing there in nothing but boxer briefs. Somehow, this is more unfair than when he was completely naked, because now there's just enough left to torment me, to tease and taunt, making my brain short-circuit as I drink him in, all broad muscle and tight definition. His thick thighs flex slightly as he moves, the deep V of his hips disappearing beneath black fabric, his stomach so fucking sculpted it's almost indecent.
And he knows it. I know he fucking knows it. Because his lips curve ever so slightly as he steps forward and tucks me into bed. He's gentle, like I'm precious, like I'm what he intends to keep.
Then he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead that lingers. His lips are gentle, heat blooming where they touch.
