"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.

I bite my lip, forcing my hands to stay where they are, to let him see me, all of me, without barriers or defenses.

"You are…" he exhales roughly, the sound almost pained. "The most breathtaking woman I have ever seen."

The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. This isn't a line, isn't something he says to get what he wants. He means it, wholly and completely.

I want to believe him.

And God, he makes me want to believe him.

Then he moves.

Fast.

One moment he's sitting beneath me, controlled despite his obvious desire, and the next—before I even process what's happening—he flips me onto the couch, pressing me into the cushions, caging me beneath him. His body is hot and hard above mine, his arms braced on either side of my head, his eyes burning into mine.

I gasp, my hands flying to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of him sinking into me even through the fabric. My pulse races, my breathing shallow, my body arching instinctively toward his.

Cal reaches beside us, grabbing the glass of wine he poured for me earlier, bringing it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip without breaking eye contact. The red liquid stains his lips momentarily before his tongue darts out to lick them clean.

"Tilt your head back."

My pulse jumps at the command. There's something about his tone, about the dark promise in his eyes, that makes me shiver with anticipation.

But I do as he says.

I tilt my head back, exposing the vulnerable column of my throat to him, my pulse hammering visibly there, my breathing shallow and quick.

"Good girl."

I feel his weight shift above me, feel his breath against my throat. He tips the glass, letting the wine slide past my lips in a cool, tart rush.

I swallow obediently, warmth spreading through me as the alcohol hits my system, mingling with the heat of arousal already coursing through my veins. Some of it spills, escaping the corner of my mouth, dripping down my chin, sliding in a cool, crimson trail between my breasts.

I gasp softly at the sensation, my eyes fluttering open to meet his. Cal tsks, shaking his head, though his eyes glitter with wicked enjoyment.

"Oops," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that I feel as much as hear. "Made a mess. Guess I'll have to clean that up."

His mouth moves lower, abandoning my lips to trace a heated path down my neck. His lips skim my collarbone, feather-light at first, then firmer, more insistent. They drag down the valley between my breasts, his breath ghosting over my wine-slicked skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

I shiver beneath him, nerves firing sharp and low as he drags his body down mine. My fingers clutch his shoulders, feeling the strength he’s barely holding back.

His tongue flicks out, tracing the path of the wine that dripped between my breasts, lapping at the liquid. His hands press my ribs down into the couch, holding me in place, controlling my movements, my breathing, my pleasure.

He takes his time, savoring me like I'm something rare and precious. Each lick, each kiss is designed to drive me to the edge of sanity.

And I'm going insane.

My body aches for more—more pressure, more friction, more of him. The teasing, the slow pace, the gentle torture of his mouth is simultaneously too much and not enough. I arch my back without conscious thought, pressing my chest up toward his mouth, silently begging for what I need. He hums against my skin, a dark, pleased sound vibrating through me before he finally, finally sucks one nipple into his mouth.

A gasp catches in my throat, turns into a breathless moan that I barely recognize as my own. His tongue is hot and wet against the sensitive peak, swirling around it, teasing it to an almost painful hardness before he moves to the other side. He lavishes the neglected breast with slow, teasing licks that make my toes curl, and make heat pool between my legs.

His fingers trail lower, skimming over my stomach, tracing the curve of my hip bone, teasing along my inner thigh. The anticipation is almost unbearable, my body trembling with need, with desperate want for his touch where I need it most.

When he finally slides his fingers through my slick heat, he groans against my breast, the sound vibrating through me. He seems genuinely affected by how wet I am for him, by how ready my body is, how responsive to his every touch.

His calloused fingertips glide over my clit in a teasing circle before pressing two fingers inside me with deliberate slowness. I suck in a breath at the intrusion, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his shirt.

"Fuck, Izzy," he murmurs, voice rough, filled with pure hunger as he watches my face. His fingers curl inside me, pressing against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. "Always so fucking perfect for me."

I whimper, the sound needy and desperate to my own ears. My hips move of their own accord, rocking against his hand, chasing the friction, the fullness, the pleasure building with each deliberate stroke of his fingers. He grins against my skin, the expression I can feel rather than see, pressing a soft kiss to the swell of my breast as his fingers continue their skilled assault on my senses.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a soothing command, encouraging and demanding at once. "Let me see you come."

His words tear through me, tightening everything low and deep, pulling me right to the brink, but⁠—

I don't want it like this.

Not tonight.

I shove at his shoulders, pushing against solid muscle, trying to create space. His head lifts immediately, eyes burning into mine, questioning, and concerned. Despite his obvious desire, there's an alertness there, a readiness to stop if that's what I want.