"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes drinking me in like a man seeing water after days in the desert. His fingers flex against my skin, just shy of bruising, marking me as his. "Goddamn, pretty girl, you look like something I should get on my knees and pray for."
A shiver runs through me at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. No one has ever looked at me the way Cal does—like I'm extraordinary, like I'm something rare and precious.
"You like that?" His thumb brushes along the inside of my thigh, teasing, barely there, a ghost of a touch that makes me ache for more. His eyes never leave mine, watching every reaction, every minute change in my expression. "Like knowing how fucking insane you make me?"
I bite my lip, my hips shifting instinctively, pressing into him, seeking friction and relief from the growing tension. I can feel him hardening beneath me, his body responding to mine with an immediacy that's as flattering as it is empowering.
"That's it," he coaxes, his voice smooth and dark. "Move for me. Show me how much you like it."
I inhale shakily, my body obeying before my mind catches up, grinding against the hardness beneath me. The friction sends sparks of pleasure through me and my back arch slightly. His groan is guttural, animalistic, his fingers digging into my thighs, holding me there, controlling my pace, guiding me how he wants me.
"Fuck, that's it, Izzy. Just like that."
I whimper, my head tipping back, exposing the column of my throat to him. I can feel my pulse racing there, can feel the flush spreading across my chest, the heat building between my legs. Every movement, every touch, every word from his lips only intensifies the need coiling inside me.
"But you know what I really want?" he murmurs, his hands gliding up my sides, tracing the curves of my waist, my ribs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the undersides of my breasts.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, my breath coming faster. In this light, his eyes look almost feral.
"What?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
He gives me that look—sinful, wicked—the kind that sends heat pooling low in my belly. It’s a glance that promises pleasure beyond imagining.
"A strip tease."
My breath catches in my throat. "What?"
"You heard me." His thumbs stroke over my hip bones, dipping just below the edge of my lingerie before retreating. "You look like a beautiful fucking snack in this, and I want you to unwrap yourself for me. Slowly."
I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting at the request. Part of me wants to laugh it off, to tell him I can't possibly do that, that I don't know how to be seductive like that. But another part—a part that's growing stronger by the second—thrills at the idea of being watched and desired.
"You want me to—"
"Dance for me, pretty girl." It's not quite a command, but it's close. There's something in his tone that makes it impossible to refuse.
Heat flares through me, pooling between my thighs, making me clench involuntarily. I'm not a dancer. I've never been the kind of woman who moves with easy grace, who exudes confidence and sexuality without effort. I don't know how to do sexy, not deliberately, not as a performance.
But Cal's looking at me like I am sexy. Like I could do no wrong in his eyes. Like whatever I do, however clumsy or awkward, would be perfect simply because it's me.
And that?
That makes me want to try. That makes me feel brave in a way I never have before.
I sit back on his lap, adjusting my position slightly, my fingers finding the thin straps of my lingerie, trailing over them teasingly. The delicate lace feels like almost nothing beneath my fingertips.
His eyes darken further, tracking every movement of my hands. His own hands curl into fists at his sides.
"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise sending a shiver down my spine. "Slowly."
I inhale deeply, rolling my shoulders back as I slide one strap down my arm, the movement exposing more skin. The cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on my flesh.
I feel ridiculous at first.
Self-conscious.
Like I'm playing at being someone I'm not.
But then I look at him, the way he's watching me, the pure, unfiltered desire in his eyes, his chest rising and falling with each increasingly ragged breath, his hands gripping the couch cushions like they're the only thing keeping him grounded.
He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world, like he's starving for me, like I'm doing everything right without even trying.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he rasps, his voice like smoke and whiskey, rough around the edges with need. "You know that?"
I swallow hard, my fingers stilling on the strap. The words hit something raw inside me, something tender and bruised. I don't know what to say, how to respond to such naked honesty.
Because I don't believe it.
I've spent too many years being told otherwise, too many years measuring myself against impossible standards and coming up short. Too many years with Evan's subtle digs and not-so-subtle comparisons.
But when Cal looks at me like this, with such open hunger, such genuine appreciation—I want to believe it. I want to see myself through his eyes.
"I mean it, Izzy," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine, seeing too much. "Every fucking inch of you—" his hands flex against the couch, his knuckles going white with the force of his grip "—is perfect."
My throat goes tight, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. There's something about his absolute certainty that breaks through my defenses.
His eyes tracks every movement, his throat bobbing as I let the fabric slip lower, exposing more of my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone. The lace catches slightly on my breast, and I hear his intake of breath. There's power in this, I realize. Power in being watched, in being wanted, in controlling the pace.
"That's it, baby," he murmurs, eyes molten, voice a soothing command that somehow both calms and excites me. "Let me see you."
My skin feels hot, flushed with as he looks at me. Every nerve ending feels lit up, hyperaware, sensitive to the slightest touch. The lace slides lower, catching briefly on my nipples before falling away.
I'm bare from the waist up now, my lingerie pooling at my lap, my nipples peaked. I resist the urge to cover myself, to hide, instead forcing myself to stay still, to let him look his fill.
A breath slips from his lips, his eyes raking over my exposed skin, taking in every curve, every freckle, every imperfection I've spent years trying to hide.
"Jesus fucking Christ."
The reverence in his voice sends a shudder through me, heat pooling between my legs at the raw need I hear in those three words.
I move again.
I shift slightly, hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down slowly, teasingly, feeling my own pulse hammer at the sheer audacity of what I'm doing. The lace catches on my thighs, and I have to lift myself slightly to pull them down, exposing myself inch by inch.
Cal watches me. His eyes never waver, locked on me with a hunger that should terrify me—but all it does is make me ache for more.
"Good girl," he rasps.
When I’m finally bare, instinct kicks in—my arms start to rise, trying to shield myself under the heat of his gaze, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something to be devoured.
"Don't."
His voice is commanding in a way that sends a fresh wave of heat between my legs. It's not harsh, not cruel, but it brooks no argument.
"Don't hide from me," he murmurs, his voice softening slightly though no less intense. "You have nothing to hide."
There's something in his words, in the way he says them—like he genuinely believes it, like he sees nothing but beauty when he looks at me. Like my insecurities are incomprehensible to him.