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“Look at what you do to me, love,” I pant, grabbing her jaw and forcing her eyes to meet mine.
The way her walls are gripping my cock is rewiring my brain in the most fucked-up way. The depraved part of me wants to ruin her, to see how far I can push until she breaks. I’m fucking her so deep now that she can’t help but scream. And when she does, it’s the most beautiful sound I think I’ve ever heard.
“Callum,” she pleads. Whether she pleads for mercy or for more, I’m not entirely sure.
“Tell me what you need, little siren, and I’ll give you everything you desire,” I say, groaning as I destroy her from the inside out.
“I want control,” she pants, taking me by complete surprise.
Keeping myself inside of her, I flip us over until she’s on top. She grins down at me with desire unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed, and the sight of her like this only brings me closer to the precipice. Then, the little siren proceeds to lean back and ride me like the fucking goddess that she is.
“Fuck,” I groan, resisting the urge to take over as she rolls her hips over me in the most mind-shattering way.
“I want to watch you break for me, Callum,” she says, eyes full of dark mischief.
“Never,” I growl, thrusting my hips upward to meet her rhythm.
She arches a brow, her hands roaming up her figure and around her breast. A loud moan fills the air as she squeezes them, her eyes locked on mine the entire time. She glides her hands up and over her throat and into her hair, tossing her head back to the ceiling as her hips continue rolling forward.
“Graf,” she moans, “you feel so damn good.”
I have to physically stop myself from falling over the edge at the sound of my stage name leaving her lips. Fuck, I did not think I’d be as into that as I most definitely am. The little siren is playing dirty, but she isn’t going to win this game.
“Let me see how pretty you are when you’re coming all over my cock, love,” I groan, trying to slow my own impending release.
I grab her thighs as I thrust into her, meeting her momentum. I grip her skin hard enough to bruise, and I know she’s fucking close when her pussy begins gripping my cock like a damn vise.
“Fuck,” she hisses, moaning shortly afterward as her head falls back.
“That’s it, love, let me fucking hear you scream,” I growl, running a thumb down to massage her clit. Her eyes snap to mine, and I know I’ve got her.
She comes seconds later, moaning my name and writhing above me. I hold her thighs down, forcing her to give me every fucking ounce of pleasure she has. Once I know she’s given me all of her, I follow suit, and it’s the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. My mind spirals with a million frantic thoughts—one louder than all the others.
There is no world without Lydia Aston in it.
27
Lydia
I think that I finally understand what people mean when they say they feel boneless after sex. Callum Thorne has rendered me utterly boneless. I cannot move. No, seriously, I can’t. I tried. Turning my head toward Callum, I see that he’s also boneless.
“That was okay, I guess,” I say, smiling.
He scoffs, lifting himself from the mattress and climbing off it. He reaches over and grabs me, tossing me over his shoulder and heading for my bathroom.
“Sunshine, where art thou taking me?” I ask, in a perfect English accent. Because, why the hell not?
He slaps my ass, the sting of it causing a moan to slip past my lips. I toss a hand over my mouth, giggling.
“Was that supposed to be British?” he asks, setting me down on top of the bathroom vanity.
Crossing one leg over the other, I pin him with a dumbfounded stare and open my mouth to spew a sarcastic comment. But when my eyes meet his, I find myself speechless. My lips snap shut as I take in the most genuine smile I think I’ve ever seen on his face.
Blinking, I tilt my head at the imposter before me. It’s so genuine, so … natural, that I can’t stop staring. He notices, his mouth hardening into a line and then into something resembling a frown, except not. I laugh, loving how hard he’s trying to fight his emotions, even after the vulnerability we both expressed moments before.
“It’s English,” I say, correcting him. “And yes. It was flawless; how could you not tell?”
“Because it was fucking awful,” he says, averting his gaze to check the water temperature. Except, he didn’t need his eyeballs for that, so I know he’s lying. Why is admitting to himself that I’m not entirely insufferable so damn hard?
