CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter seven: Lost in Transition

Abigail Macron

The silence in the penthouse suite stretched until it became a physical weight, heavier than the thick glass walls keeping the vast Tokyo skyline at bay. Caleb didn't move.

He stood rooted to the threshold of the bedroom, a drop of water tracing a slow, agonizing path down the hard ridges of his collarbone, lost in the dark hair of his chest before disappearing beneath the low tuck of his towel.

The fierce, corporate predator who handled multi-billion-dollar acquisitions looked entirely paralyzed.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, heavy breaths, the knuckles of his hand turning white where he gripped the doorframe.

"Abigail," he finally rasped, his voice rougher and deeper than I had ever heard it. It was the voice of a man who had been pushed past his limit, stripped of his expensive suits and his legendary discipline. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, Caleb," I whispered, stepping away from the floor-to-ceiling windows. My heels clicked softly against the dark wood, a deliberate, slow countdown as I closed the distance between us.

"The ocean isn't wide enough. You can't just bite me in the dark, tell me you’ll ruin me, and then hop on a private jet to the other side of the world."

"Your father—"

"My father thinks I'm at an art biennale in Roppongi," I interrupted, stopping just two feet away from him. The sheer, overwhelming heat coming from his damp skin hit me like a wave, melting away the last remnants of my caution. Up close, his 6'4" frame completely dominated my vision. I had to tilt my head back just to look into his dark, tortured eyes. "He doesn't know. No one knows. It's just us, Caleb. Just like you wanted."

"I never wanted this," Caleb muttered. He lied, though his eyes betrayed him, snapping down to my mouth, tracking the dark red lipstick that had haunted him across continents away.

"Don't lie to me," I whimpered, stepping directly into his space. I reached out, my hands trembling as my fingers brushed against his bare, muscled chest. His skin was burning hot, a stark contrast to the cool air of the air-conditioned suite. The moment my palms flattened against his pectoral muscles, a violent tremor ran through his massive frame. His heart was hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm right beneath my fingertips. "You're shaking, Caleb. The great Caleb Macron is shaking because of a girl" he called kiddo,” the girl child that he used to carry on his lap and play with.

"You are not a girl," he growled, the words tearing from his throat like a confession. "You are a localized disaster, Abigail. You are the match that’s going to burn my entire life to the ground."

"Then let it burn," I gasped. My heart was ready to accept what this illicit communion will bring.

The last shred of Caleb’s restraint disintegrated with a terrifying, beautiful finality.

With a low, guttural groan, his large, calloused hands shot out, wrapping around my waist with a desperate hold. He lifted me completely off my feet, placing me back against the nearest wall with a force that made breath leave my lungs. My skimpy knitted dress rode up past my thighs as he push his heavy, rigid body between my legs, pinning me to the wood.

His mouth rested on mine, not with the hesitant hunger of the hallway, but with a ruthless, consuming fury. He kissed me like a dying man drawing his last breath, his lips parting mine with a great intensity that made my head spin. I let out a broken moan into his mouth, my arms flying up around his neck, my fingers burying themselves deeply into the damp, silver-flecked hair at the base of his skull.

Caleb groaned into the kiss, his tongue claiming mine in a slow, deep, and possessive rhythm that mirrored the frantic pulsing between my thighs. The friction of his wet, hard chest crushing against the thin fabric of my dress was intoxicating. I could feel every muscle in his shoulders shifting, his large hands sliding down from my waist to cup the undersides of my thighs, lifting me higher so I was entirely wrapped around his hips.

The dark gray towel slung around his waist gave way under the pressure, slipping to the floor unnoticed. The shocking, white-hot sensation of his bare, unyielding desire pressing hard against the thin lace of my panties made my entire body arch. A sharp, needy whimper tore from my throat, a sound of absolute surrender that only seemed to drive him wilder.

"Abby... God, Abby," Caleb rasped, tearing his mouth away from mine for a fraction of a second. His breathing was a ragged, desperate sound in the quiet suite as his lips dragged down my jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin of my throat. His hands were frantic now, sliding up the hem of my dress, his rough palms scraping against the bare skin of my thighs until his fingers found the waistband of my underwear. "I’ve tried to be good. I’ve tried to respect your father, to remember who you are... but you’ve ruined me. You’ve completely ruined me." Abby.

"Show me," I cried out, my back arching off the wall as his fingers hooked into the lace, tearing the fabric down my legs in one fluid, impatient motion. "Please, Caleb. Don't make me wait anymore."

He didn't. He gripped my hips with fingers that left bruises, positioning me exactly where I needed to be. I looked down at him through hooded, heavy lids, seeing the raw, primal hunger etched into every line of his face. He was forty, he was powerful, and he was completely at my mercy.

When he drove into me, he pulled out, he thrust in again and pulled out, until he finally stayed. He started riding me to the left and to the right making different moves inside of me as if he was mixing dough for cake. Filling me completely with a slow, heavy push, the sheer intensity of it made my vision blur. A loud, ragged sob escaped my lips, echoing against the minimalist walls of the penthouse. It was a beautiful, devastating ache, a fracturing of the world I had always known.

Caleb froze for a beat, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and fierce with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like love mixed with ruin. He let out a shaky, trembling breath, his forehead resting against mine as he buried his face in my hair.

"You're mine now, Abigail," he whispered, his voice a gravelly vow that shook the very foundation of my soul. "No matter what happens after today... you belong to me."

"Yes," I gasped, tightening my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into the fire. "Yes, Caleb. Always."

Then, the rhythm took over—a bruising, desperate pace that left no room for thoughts of my father, of Tokyo, or of the consequences waiting for us on the horizon. There was only the white-hot friction of our skin, the sound of our ragged breathing, and the rising sun finally breaking over the glass walls, exposing our beautiful sin to the world.