Page 12 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)
Gina
Then he kissed me again, tasting me on his tongue while his hands slid lower, down my ribs, down my hips until he found the slick heat his mouth had left trembling.
I gasped when his fingers pressed inside, thick and sure, curling just right until sparks burst behind my eyes.
My back arched, my breasts strained against his chest, and a desperate whimper escaped before I could stop it.
“Cal…please—”
“Shhh.” His lips brushed my jaw, my throat, my ear. Each word was heat and promise. “I’ve got you. I’ll always keep you safe.”
The words melted something deep inside me, something that had been locked away for years.
I clung to him, thighs falling open shamelessly, rocking against his hand until I shook.
But he wasn’t finished. Not even close. He shifted, bracing my hips, pressing his thick, heavy, straining cock against me. I forgot how to breathe.
He pushed inside me, stretching me. I'd had a moment to be scared, but the slide of him sent tingles through me, nerve endings singing as he pushed in.
Slow. Careful. Giving me every chance to stop him.
The feeling of being stuffed full of him made me clench down, squeezing him.
My fingers dug into his shoulders, torn between panic and desperate need, until he was fully seated, hips flush with mine. The rightness of it left me reeling.
“Oh my God—”
His forehead dropped to mine, sweat damp between us. “ Bella. You feel like heaven.”
He held still until I moved first, until I rolled my hips against him and whimpered for more.
Only then did he start to move, long, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside me.
Each stroke wrung a cry from me. It had been years since anyone had touched me like this, years since anyone had taken the time to learn how my body wanted to be loved.
And Cal worshipped me with every thrust, every groan, every whispered endearment.
“Beautiful. Mine. Made for me. Every inch of you, perfect.”
The words undid me as much as the rhythm of his body.
My legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and when his thumb found my clit, rubbing in devastating circles, I came again.
Pleasure tore through me, fierce and blinding, my cry muffled against his shoulder as my body clenched around him.
He groaned my name, hips jerking harder, faster, until he followed me over the edge, spilling hot and thick inside me.
We collapsed together, trembling, his weight heavy and solid over me, his heartbeat thundering against my chest. For a long moment I just held him, stunned by the fact that I was alive. Alive in ways I hadn’t been in years.
At some point, he carried me to his bed where we stayed for hours.
Every time I thought I was spent, wrung out and boneless, he touched me again, his mouth on my shoulder, hand on my hip, slow thrusts that reignited me from the inside out.
It wasn’t frantic anymore. It was abundant, luxurious, like every part of me, body, mind, the soul I thought I’d buried was finally allowed to unfurl.
He mapped me with his hands and mouth, traced the pulse points of my wrists and throat, kissed reverence into the stretch marks on my stomach.
And when he slid inside me again, steady and unhurried, eyes locked on mine, I understood what the poets meant about souls touching.
It wasn’t just physical. It was recognition. Completion.
By the time afternoon spilled golden through his curtains, I’d lost track of how many times I’d come, how many times he’d whispered my name like it was sacred. I only knew I never wanted it to end.
But the world had other ideas.
The sound reached me first: brakes screeching on asphalt, the hiss of bus doors, children’s voices carrying high and familiar on the warm air. The bus.
Merda.
I lurched upright, panic slicing through the haze. My dress tangled in the sheets, my panties lost under his pillow. My hair was wild, my lips swollen, my thighs aching in ways that would make dinner an exercise in not squirming.
“They can’t see me like this!”
“Bella—” He reached for me, still gloriously naked, eyes soft with understanding. “They’ll only see their mother.”
But I was already scrambling into my clothes.
I made it across the gardens and upstairs in time.
I stuffed my wrinkled dress into my hamper, then threw on my robe, clutching it like flimsy armor as I stumbled downstairs, tying the belt with shaking fingers.
The bus wheezed to a stop out front. Seconds.
I had seconds. The front door banged open.
Backpacks hit the floor. Aria froze at the sight of me hovering in the doorway.
“Mom? Why are you wearing a robe? It’s like a hundred degrees outside. ”
I forced a smile, words tumbling out. “I wasn’t feeling great earlier. Took a shower. About to lie down.”
Her frown shifted to disgust at the magic phrase of female troubles, and the crisis passed.
But guilt clung heavier than the robe. Because I wasn’t just a woman glowing from incredible sex.
I was a mother lying to her children, covering the scent of a satyr’s skin and fur with terry cloth and excuses.
And as I stood in the kitchen with dinner still to make and laundry waiting, the afterglow of Cal’s touch tangled with the weight of responsibility. Not shame. Not regret. But fear. Fear of what wanting him might cost me.