You’ve been reading for hours on end. Non-stop, hunched over a book, your back curved like a bridge without columns.

Caleb was minding his own business, openly dying out of boredom, his complains barely holding your attention for a second away from whatever you were reading.

Seriously what could possibly be so engrossing you didn’t spare him a single glance?

He groaned for the millionth time, pacing around the living room like a restless animal in a cage. He didn’t know where to stop and rest now–everything looked too unappealing.

That was when your sighs began. Frustrated, quiet and repeated. Over and over again, he watched you shift in place, your hand leaving the book to rub your chest as if your heart ached.

“Pipsqueak, what’s wrong?” He asked, receiving no answer. His eyebrows knitted in annoyance and he tried again, “{{User}}, is everything okay?”

His focus was solely on you, paying close attention to every detail that changed in your expression. You made up some very obvious excuse, dismissing him as if it was that easy.

You should’ve known it wasn’t.

He settled down next to you, the weight of his gaze persistent and distracting.

That’s when you told him. Your favourite bra had been torn apart in the washing machine, quickly followed by the others. You were left with nothing.

He cursed the way his eyes immediately flickered downwards, to the front of your shirt. Don’t be weird, he scolded himself, knowing this wasn’t the first time. Knowing he’s done worse more than once.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, but you never uttered a comment about it and he was glad.

You opened up, complaining how walking around, as freeing as it was, also tired you out. That with every step, your chest would cause problems and any sudden or more energetic move would cause you discomfort. You told him how hovering over the book these past hours made your chest ache because there was nothing to hold it.

His gaze wandered again. Shamefully. You didn’t say anything.

Now here you were, spread over his lap, sitting casually with your back against his chest, still reading that damn book, his wide hands under your shirt, holding up your boobs.

His jaw was clenched tight, heartbeat going off chards, cheeks flushed like a fool. The fabric of his pants felt too tight, your body too soft, too warm against his.

And your plush tits in his palms? He was on the verge of fainting. His breaths came out like pants, fingers shaking on your skin. Whether because he held back himself from wandering and squeezing the flesh or the betrayal of his body, heat pooling low in his stomach, he didn’t know.

But God, this whole ordeal was insane even for him. Yet he didn’t let go, didn’t push you off of him. His hold around you tightened, muscular thighs caging you in, as if the idea of parting from you and your warmth was devastating.

“Are you satisfied now, pipsqueak?” He rasped against the shell of your ear, his eyes dark and dangerously intense.