One hand at my throat, the other at my core. One cupping, the other clutching. One clamped with enough pressure to render me tremulous with a hint of fear, the other digging under silk to find flesh, stealing my breath.
“You’re mine, X.”
I can only moan in response. Fingers curl, slip in, find me sensitive and needy, press just so to set me shaking, knees weak.
I come, quickly and hard.
But I’m not done. Oh no. While I gather my strength to stand up on my own, the fingers slip out of me and unzip trousers. My dress is up around my hips, hot breath on my ear, and now my underwear has vanished, leaving me bare from the waist down, the air cool and my damp core hot. I hear shoes kicked off, pants and belt thud on the floor. Feet nudge mine apart, and a hand pushes me forward. My bottom is bared, exposed. I drip with need. I ache. God, I ache.
The hand on my throat has not slackened its grip, and now, bent forward, that grip is all that keeps me from falling over.
A deep-throated groan, and I am filled. Deep, slow, and hard.
“You feel it, X? You feel us?”
I don’t know how to fathom this. Words have never entered this equation, have never been a part of this act. “Yes, Caleb.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I feel it.”
But it’s the same, still. Despite the words, despite the palpable emotion, it’s the same. I see only the floor. Feel only what I’m allowed to feel.
But then something changes. A thrust, another. I moan, stumble, shake, only the hand on my throat keeping me upright. I’m dizzy with lack of breath. I’m not being choked, but it is still limiting my oxygen.
Control.
I want more.
“Let me see you, Caleb.” I say it, out loud, and I am amazed at my own daring.
The presence within me vanishes, and I am hauled upright by a sharp tug on my hair. Hands turn me. Eyes fiery, blazing, burning, dark and unknowable. “You want to see me?”
God, that body is dizzyingly perfect. All hard angles and huge muscles. Carved, cut, and perfect. I reach, and for a split second I am allowed to touch firm flesh, but only for a moment.
Hands strip the dress off me, make short work of the strapless bra, and then I’m naked.
I am pushed backward, and I trip over something.
So focused on the man in front of me, am I, that I’ve noticed nothing of the space around me. That does not change now. A couch, I think. I fall backward over the arm of a couch, and male heat and hardness follows me over. On my back, my legs dangle over the edge, hang into space. A broad wedge of male flesh and muscle fills that space, parting my legs. Hands grip my thighs, pull me, and then grip my hips and lift me. I can see the sharp angles and dark stubble, wild, angry eyes, thin slash of a mouth. I have a moment of breath, a moment to look, to see slablike pectorals and grooved abdomen, and then one sharp thrust drives the thick shaft into me.
I let out a gasp of surprise. It scrapes within me, fills me in a strange angle, fullness but different. Hands gripping my hips, I am lifted and pulled backward into the next thrust, which is hard and rough.
“Oh—oh God.” It hurts, these hard thrusts, but they feel good as well.
“You’re mine, X. You fucking belong to me.”
Hips slam in between my thighs, and I am rocked forward, but strong hands keep me hauled taut for the next powerful drive.
Dark eyes do not leave mine. I cannot look away, not even to close my eyes as orgasmic tremors blow through me. Cannot look away, do not.
“Mine.” A rocking thrust, sending me over the edge. “Say it, X. Fucking say it! Say you’re mine.”
I need the next thrust, need it to stay here on the far side of bliss, where everything is nothing, and nothing matters but the heat and fullness and the slight ache and burn and twinge and the grip of hands on my hips and the slam of body against body. Right now, that’s all that matters. I am conditioned to need that, this moment, this now. It’s all I am.
“I’m yours, Caleb.” I say on a whimper, a sob.
As soon as those three words leave my lips, I feel the hot wet rush of release within me, feel that heavy body collapse forward, and I accept the weight, feel hard muscle under my hands. Stubble on my face, cheek against cheek. A moment of mutual breathing, harsh and ragged.
“X.” My name, said thus, with such . . . not vulnerability, but something like it—I want to believe everything I’ve heard over the last few minutes.
I should say something, but what?
Abruptly, the weight is gone, and the cold statue-blank expression is in place. “I have to go.”
I lie on the couch, naked and sated, confused, emotionally demolished. I watch the naked body as it is covered inch by inch with expensive clothes. Shoes, last, slipped on, tied quickly.
“Stay.” I say it, hoping.
A pause. Hesitation. All I can see is a broad back, trim waist, strong legs. I cannot see the expression on that handsome, too-beautiful face. “I can’t. I’ll be back, though. You stay here. Don’t put on clothes.” A rumble, deep-chested, of some deep emotion too thick and male and tumultuous to express in mere words. “Just . . . stay. I’ll be back. And X?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“You are special to me.”
I feel something in me twist and expand and bloom with hope.
Silver key, twisted. Elevator doors open, easy strides into the car, turn, and I can see a hint of the storm of emotions. There is much kept hidden, I’m realizing.
Still waters run deep, I believe the saying goes.
The elevator doors close, and I am alone.
Glance away, huge windows letting in the sunlight. Perhaps thirty minutes have passed since I entered this penthouse.
The space is mammoth. Exploring, I realize the entire uppermost floor of the building composes this penthouse, more square feet than I can count. Most of it is open space, divided here and there with half walls and paper panels, or sectioned off with long couches to create informal nooks of space. A kitchen, way off in the distance, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. A balcony, the walls themselves sliding apart and the ceiling sloping back and away out of sight to bare an outdoor area cut out of the structure of the building itself.
There, a set of elaborately painted paper panels inspired by Japanese culture, sectioning off the bedroom. Cleverly layered, three sets form a barrier so that the bedroom cannot be seen from without. A wide, low bed with a white comforter, neatly made. A nightstand on either side, empty of any effects. An actual wall forms the left side of the bedroom, and in it a doorway, leading to the bathroom.
I need a shower, I suddenly realize. I’ve not had one in a long time.
But when I get into the interior of the bathroom, there is a deep claw-foot tub, and I smile to myself.
I run the water hot, fill the tub. Climb in, skin scorched by the delicious heat, splashing water onto the floor. Sink down, submerged gradually until I’m immersed to my nose.
Immediately, I am assaulted by the chaos in my mind, the furious onslaught of everything I’ve refused to think about.
I ache between my thighs, and now that the source of that ache is gone, I feel shame, embarrassment, revulsion. Hatred. I fell for the sorcery yet again. Caleb has some way of weaving a spell over me, of making me forget all my objections and all my thoughts and everything that is logical or rational.
Caleb is a god, and gods are meddlesome . . . or so read the ancient myths. As a god, Caleb meddles with my rationality. Manipulates my body and my mind. Drowns my senses with masculine perfection, blinds me with beauty. Now, alone, I can only see the distinct parts that compose the whole, and the effect is not the same. The eyes, the mouth, the jawline; the arms, the hands, the massive musculature . . . these are Caleb. The anger, the coldness, the body heat and skillful touch, the way I can be melted down to nothing. These, too. But all together, it is more.
And I fall for it every time.
I let Caleb spin a web of words and touch, and I let—I allowed myself to be fucked, only a few short minutes after Rachel.