He sucks, nibbles, and teases my mouth open until his tongue sweeps in, his hum of satisfaction reverberating through me. Pleasure skates over my nerves, dulling the pain of a bad memory more effectively than any other panacea.
When he pulls away, I’m left with jellied knees and a hammering heart. I hold onto his shirt for dear life and hope he doesn’t expect me to let go anytime soon.
Cal licks his wet lips, savoring the taste he’s stolen from me, and smirks, looking extremely pleased with himself. “I see why you moaned like it was the best thing you’ve put in your mouth. Fuckin’ delicious.”
Every fiber of my being wants to melt. He wasn’t staring at me because he found me embarrassing? The realization acts like an unlikely balm over a cut I never acknowledged.
“Oh.”
That’s the only syllable left in my arsenal of viable responses. This man has, for the second time this week, decimated my capacity to speak by kissing me into a state of delirium. More than that, he’s effortlessly provided me with a comfort I needed but didn’t know how to ask for.
How am I supposed to survive a casual fling with him? What the hell have I gotten myself into? At this rate, I’ll have to set daily reminders to leave my emotions at the door because this thing with Cal? It’s supposed to be just sex.
I’m doing this so I can overcome my discomfort with intimacy. Namik made it clear I was uninspiring in bed. The longer I’m away from his influence, the easier it’s becoming to believe I wasn’t the problem. But none of the men I’ve met through dating apps have given me the sense of security Cal has.
I wonder if that’s why those dates never worked out. Maybe, on a subconscious level, I was allowing Namik’s voice to sabotage them.
But I was able to push past it just now and that further strengthens my hope that this experimentation will finally let me leave him where he belongs: in the dungeons of my past, along with every inkling of doubt and apprehension he propagated in me.
“Permission to speak freely?”
Cal’s question cuts into my thoughts.
“Why do you ask for permission when we both know you’re going to speak your mind anyway?”
“Manners, Tots,” he chides playfully as he navigates to the sink. “My mother would be disappointed in me if I forgot my manners.”
“So, if I say no, you’ll listen?” I tease, passing him the colander when he reaches for it.
“For a while, yes. But then I’d probably ask again.”
I guffaw at his cheekiness, leaning over to try the piece of gnocchi he holds out for me. My mouth is full, so I wave at him to continue speaking.
“Why ChatTrick?” he asks, plating a generous portion of food on two plates. He nods toward the glass doors leading out to a beautiful patio.
I pad behind him.
“Would you rather I use ClitMate?”
He chokes and our plates clatter onto the glass tabletop, thankfully safe. When he finally turns to face me, his green eyes shine with a mix of interest, amusement, and horror.
“Please don’t tell me you’re using ClitMate,” he begs, dragging a chair out for me. Pressing my lips together, I rein in the urge to chortle.
ChatTrick is tame compared to ClitMate. An hour into making a profile on the latter, I realized it was too much, too soon. Most of the twenty or so messages I received only had three letters in it: DTF?
Down to fuck. I went as far as googling it to make sure I wasn’t mistaking it for something else.
Cal shakes his head as he drops into the seat beside mine, wagging one finger at me like I’m an errant child.
“You, Alia Tater Tots Joshi, are still waters.”
I giggle, feeling naughty. I’m not so deep as that, but Cal finding me interesting is an ego boost I’ll take any day. “How else was I supposed to meet men?”
“Now that you have me, you can delete all those apps. I can even do it for you.”
He almost sounds jealous. Ha! Now I’ve certainly lost it. Why would he, with all his options and his undeniable charm, be jealous?
But I don’t deny his conclusion. There’s no point. He’s the only one I’m interested in.