Chapter 10
Alexander
Iwake before Camille does, her warm body curved against mine. For a moment, I simply watch her sleep—the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the way her blonde hair spills across the pillow. Something tightens in my chest, an unfamiliar sensation I don’t want to examine too closely.
The sheet has slipped down during the night, revealing the gentle slope of her back. I lightly trace my fingers along her spine, watching as goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. She doesn't stir yet, but her body responds instinctively, pressing back against mine.
My cock hardens immediately, as if it hasn't been buried inside her multiple times in the past twenty-four hours. There's something about Camille that keeps me wanting more.
I slide my arm around her, my palm finding the soft weight of her breast. It fits perfectly in my hand—small but perfectly proportioned with the rest of her body. I brush my thumb across her nipple, feeling it harden beneath my touch. She makes a soft sound in her throat.
"Good morning," I murmur against her ear, my voice rough with sleep and desire.
She turns her head slightly, eyes still closed, a smile curving her lips. "Mmm..."
I continue my exploration, cupping and kneading her breast while my other hand slides down her stomach. Her skin is impossibly soft and warm from sleep. When my fingers dip between her thighs, I find her already wet.
"Someone’s ready for me again," I say, rubbing her clit slowly.
Her eyes flutter open now, cloudy with sleep and growing desire. "Alex..." She reaches behind her, fingers tangling in my hair.
The need to be inside her overwhelms me. I position myself against her entrance from behind, the head of my cock pressing against her. "Is this okay?" I ask, even as I begin to push forward.
"Yes," she breathes, arching her back to take me deeper.
I enter her slowly, savoring the tight grip of her body around mine. From this angle, I can control the depth, the pace. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her against me as I begin to move in slow, deliberate thrusts.
"You feel so good," I whisper against her neck, inhaling the scent of her—floral shampoo mixed with the lingering trace of sex from last night. "So perfect around my cock."
Camille reaches back, her hand on my hip urging me deeper. I comply, driving into her with more force now. The position allows me to keep fondling her breast with one hand while the other slides between her legs, finding her clit again.
She gasps as I circle that sensitive bundle of nerves. "Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. I increase the pressure of my fingers, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. Her breathing grows ragged, her inner muscles clenching around me in a way that threatens to undo my control.
"That's it," I encourage her. "Let go for me, Camille."
She comes with a moan, her body shuddering against mine, her pussy pulsing around my cock. The sensation nearly pushes me over the edge, but at the last moment, I pull out, spilling onto the sheets instead of inside her.
My body screams in protest at the interrupted pleasure, but my mind knows it's the right call. Last night was reckless enough—coming inside her without protection. What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking. That's the problem with Camille. She short-circuits my brain, makes me forget all the rules I've set for myself.
She turns in my arms, blue eyes meeting mine, a question in them. "You didn't..."
I press a kiss to her forehead to distract her from the conversation I don't want to have. "Last night was risky enough."
Something flickers across her face. But she nods, accepting my explanation without pressing further.
We lie there for a few minutes, her head on my chest, my fingers absently stroking her hair. This feels too comfortable. Too right. The kind of morning I could get used to, and that's precisely why it needs to be the last.
"I should go get ready for the day," she says eventually, sitting up and gathering the sheet around her.
I watch her, taking in the way the morning light plays across her features, the slight puffiness of her lips from my kisses. "Yes, I have an early meeting I need to get to as well," I tell her, the lie coming easily.
She hesitates, then leans down to kiss me softly. "I'll see you later?"
I force myself to nod, though I've already decided there won't be a later. "Sure."
After she leaves, I lie in bed for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. The sheets still smell like her—like us—and my body still craves her even after just having her. Fuck...
I drag myself to the bathroom, turning the shower to cold in a futile attempt to wash away the lingering arousal, the scent of her on my skin. When I step out, I pause in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection.
"No more," I tell myself firmly. "It was just sex. Great sex, but still just sex."
My reflection stares back, unconvinced. There's nothing "just" about Camille, and I know it.
Which is exactly why I need to keep my distance.
She deserves better than what I can offer—a man who has no interest in the kind of life she undoubtedly wants.
The white picket fence, the family, the forever.
I've never been that man. I never will be.
I turn away from the mirror, my decision made. It's time to do what I do best—walk away before things get complicated.
I finish getting dressed and head down to my temporary office. I throw myself into work, answering emails, signing off on proposals without my usual scrutiny. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to crush the nagging voice telling me I'm making a mistake. But I continue to feel so damn distracted.
Vince knocks on my door at eight, surprised to find me already deep in paperwork.
"Since when do you start work earlier than me?" he asks, setting a cup of coffee on my desk. He studies my face, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Thanks for the assessment," I reply dryly, not looking up from my laptop. "What's on the agenda today?"
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Meeting with the construction team at ten, lunch with the investors at noon, design review with Miss Montclair at two—"
"Cancel the design review," I interrupt, the mere mention of her name making my chest tighten. "And clear my schedule after lunch. I'm leaving today."
Vince doesn't bother hiding his surprise. "Leaving? We're supposed to be here until Friday."
"Change of plans." I finally look up at him, daring him to question me further. "Call the airstrip and have them prep the jet for a three o'clock departure."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Does this have anything to do with a certain interior designer?"
I fix him with a cold stare. "That's none of your business."
"It is when it affects the project timeline," he counters, unfazed by my tone. "I thought you said she was doing good work."
"Excellent work," I correct him automatically. "Which is why I've recommended her to Tristan and Julian for their projects. But planning for the resort is on track, and I'm needed back in New York."
Vince knows me too well to believe the lie, but he's also smart enough not to push further. "I'll make the arrangements," he says after a moment.
After he leaves, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. This is for the best. A clean break before Camille gets the wrong idea about what this week has meant. Before I start to question my own rules about keeping women at arm's length.
My phone buzzes—the airstrip confirming they can have the jet ready by two.
One hour earlier than requested, which means I can be in the air before Camille even realizes I'm gone.
The realization that I'm essentially sneaking away like a thief in the night doesn't sit well, but I push the discomfort aside.
The morning meeting drags on, my attention drifting repeatedly despite my best efforts. The construction manager is updating us on the final phase of the beach villas, but all I can think about is Camille.
"Mr. Kingsley?" The manager's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Can I get your input on the timeline adjustment?"
I blink, focusing on the plans spread across the conference table. "Proceed as scheduled. Miss Montclair's designs don't require any modifications to the structural elements."
Even saying her name feels dangerous, as if I might conjure her into the room.
Back in my office, I stare at my laptop, trying to compose a message that doesn't sound like what it is—a coward's goodbye. After several false starts, I settle on something brief and professional:
Camille,
I've been called back to New York on urgent business. Your work on the resort has exceeded expectations, and I've taken the liberty of recommending your services to my associates Tristan Vale and Julian Fairfax, who may be in touch regarding their own projects.
The final payment for your services has been processed with a bonus for the exceptional quality of your work.
If I have future projects requiring your expertise, my office will be in touch.
Alexander Kingsley
I read it over twice, hating every impersonal word, but unable to write anything more honest. What would I say? Thanks for the best sex of my life, but I'm not the man you deserve? I'm leaving before I start to want things I've always told myself I can’t ever have?
I print the note and seal it in an envelope with her name written on the front.
Vince returns as I'm gathering my things, eyeing the envelope in my hand with undisguised judgment.
"A note? Seriously?" He shakes his head.
I hand him the envelope, ignoring the jab. "Make sure she gets this after I'm gone. And ensure her final invoice is processed with a fifty percent bonus."
"Paying for your sins?" he asks dryly, taking the envelope.
"Recognizing exceptional work," I correct him sharply. "Her designs are what will make this resort stand out from our competitors."
Vince pockets the envelope. "Whatever you say, boss. Car's waiting whenever you're ready."
I take one last look around the office, gathering the few personal items I brought. Through the windows, I can see the curve of the beach where Camille and I walked that first night, the restaurant where we had dinner, the marina where we boarded the sailboat.
Every inch of this place reminds me of her now, and I can't get away fast enough.
"Let’s go," I tell Vince, turning my back on the view and whatever possibilities it might have held.
An hour later, the jet lifts off the runway, banking sharply over the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. I watch through the window as the island grows smaller, the resort becoming a tiny speck. A tightness grips my chest that I refuse to acknowledge as regret. This is how it has to be.
Vince sits across from me, absorbed in his tablet, mercifully not mentioning my hasty departure or the note I left behind. I wonder if Camille has received it yet. If she's reading those cold, impersonal words and wondering what happened to the man who held her so tight last night.
I close my eyes, but that's a mistake. Behind my eyelids, I see her—Camille stepping out of the hot tub, water streaming down her naked body. Camille biting her lip as she comes apart beneath me. Camille this morning, sleep-warm and soft in my arms.
"Fuck," I mutter, opening my eyes and reaching for the scotch the flight attendant has already poured for me.
Vince glances up. "Problem?"
"Nothing," I say tersely, taking a long swallow of the amber liquid. It burns going down, but not enough to make me forget.
This is better for both of us. What could I possibly offer Camille beyond a few weeks of great sex? She deserves someone who can give her the future she wants—marriage, family, stability. All the things I've spent my adult life avoiding.
And me? I have an empire to run. No room for distractions, no matter how tempting they might be.
I pull out my laptop, forcing my attention to business. First order: an email to Tristan and Julian. My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before I begin typing:
Camille Montclair of Evoque Design would be perfect for both your projects. Her aesthetic sensibility is exceptional, and she has a unique talent for understanding the vision behind a space and elevating it beyond expectations.
Her contact information is attached. I've already mentioned to her that you might be in touch.
Alex
I read it over, finding it oddly difficult to hit send. Am I truly doing this for her benefit—giving her valuable connections that will help her business grow? Or am I just ensuring that she'll remain in my orbit, working with my closest friends, impossible to forget completely?
The truth is something I'm not ready to face.
I hit send anyway.
The plane levels off at cruising altitude. Below us, clouds stretch like a white carpet over the ocean. I should be reviewing quarterly reports or planning my strategy for next week's board meeting. Instead, I find myself thinking about what made Camille different.
It wasn't just the sex, though that was undeniably spectacular.
It was the way she challenged me without trying, the flash of intelligence in her eyes when she caught something others missed.
The quiet confidence in her work that contrasted with her vulnerability in private moments.
The way she carried herself like she had something to prove—to herself, not to anyone else.
She reminded me of myself when I was younger, hungry and determined. Except she has a softness I never allowed myself, an openness I've always avoided.
Maybe that's why I had to leave. She was beginning to make me question whether the walls I've built around myself are protecting me or just keeping me isolated.
Vince interrupts my thoughts. "Do you want me to arrange a car to take you straight to the office, or home?"
"The office," I decide. I need to stay buried in work.
I open a financial report, determined to focus on something—anything—other than the woman I'm flying away from. The numbers blur before my eyes, meaningless symbols that fail to engage my usually razor-sharp attention.
What is she doing right now? Has she read my note? Is she hurt, angry, relieved? Does she understand that I'm doing this for her own good?
Or is that just what I tell myself to justify running away?
As the jet carries me farther away from her, I can't shake the feeling that something significant is slipping through my fingers.