Chapter 20 #2
The sheer audacity of it loosens the anxiety in my chest, and I burst out laughing. Shoulders shaking, I bend at the waist, resting my hands on my thighs as my eyes water. “Go tell him you’re kidding. You have a game to finish, and I have free nachos waiting for me upstairs.”
He grunts. “Screw the nachos.”
“Absolutely not.” I snap up straight. “Never disrespect free nachos.”
His lips twitch despite the blaze still burning behind his eyes. “I’m coming to your place after the game.”
My pulse jumps at the declaration, but I tilt my head, trying to play it cool. “What about O’Leary’s? Isn’t that the postgame tradition?”
“No.” He traces a slow, deliberate path with his eyes from my face down to my toes and back up again, the intensity of it setting me on fire. “We’re finishing what you started. Privately.”
“You mean finishing what you started,” I correct, my voice embarrassingly reedy.
His lips turn down. “You’re the one who called in your favor.”
“Cameron.”
“Kennedy.”
“Davies!” Coach Henderson bellows. The shout is followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. The door flies open, revealing the red-faced coach. “Ice. Now. Or so help me, I will—”
“I’m coming.” Cameron doesn’t break eye contact with me as he says it. There’s a promise in his gaze that makes my stomach flip.
I press myself against the wall, giving him space to pass, and as he does, he trails his fingers across my wrist, sending sparks racing up my arm and straight to my chest. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looks back over his shoulder.
His expression is intense, determined, leaving absolutely no room for argument.
“I’ll see you after the game, Kennedy. We’re not done. ”
Then he’s gone, striding down the hallway while Coach Henderson mutters a string of complaints about “young people” and “priorities” behind him.
I stay frozen against the wall, my wrist still tingling where he touched me, my lips burning from the pressure of his, my entire nervous system recalibrating.
“Well,” I say to the room full of memorabilia and glory, “that escalated quickly.”
Maya doesn’t bat an eye when I tell her I’m going to head home after the game rather than meet her at O’Leary’s.
If anything, she expects it. Why wouldn’t she?
To her, it’s perfectly reasonable that I would want alone time with Cameron—my boyfriend—after an emotionally charged game.
I can’t tell her that I’m freaking out because there’s a good chance that Cameron and I are going cross a line tonight that, once stepped over, blurs the boundaries of what’s real and what’s fake in our relationship.
The drive home passes in a haze of streetlights and racing thoughts, but I manage a quick stop at Target. Maybe it’s presumptuous, but I have no idea if Cameron carries condoms around, and I have no interest in teenage pregnancy despite being in my late twenties.
While I wait at my apartment, the silence and anticipation are suffocating.
As the minutes tick by with no knock at my door or text lighting up my phone, I start to wonder if I misread things.
Maybe after the win, he wants to celebrate with his team.
Maybe he decided that it’s a stupid idea to add sex into the mix.
That always complicates things. Maybe he—
A fist pounds against my door with so much force I nearly tumble off the couch.
Pulse picking up, I scurry across the apartment. I yank the door open and find Cameron on the other side, chest heaving, wearing a suit. His tie is loose around his neck, a casual look that doesn’t match the wild gleam in his eyes.
“Sorry I’m late.” His tone is a mix of panic and pain. “The reporters wouldn’t let up, and I couldn’t exactly brush them off tonight, because Henderson’s still pissed. When I finally got out of there, I sped this way and got pulled over—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I thought you changed your mind,” I admit, heart hammering in my ribs.
He reels back as if I’ve hit him. “Changed my mind? Sweetheart, I broke three traffic laws trying to get here. The cop gave me a warning because he’s a fan, but I—” He stops, his eyes searching mine. “Why would you think I wouldn’t show up?”
Heat pricks at the backs of my eyes, but I keep my composure. “You didn’t text.”
“I was trying not to crash my car.” He steps in close, and I’m engulfed in the scent of his body wash with a hint of that cold arena ice smell. “And avoiding calls from Sloane.”
I grimace because yeah, that will not be a fun conversation for him.
He crosses the threshold like a man on a mission, which at least confirms he’s not a vampire, and shuts the door behind him with a definitive click.
“Do you actually want this?” I find myself asking, voice shaky. “It’s not because you’re pissed about Gigi or wound up from the game?”
My pulse throbs in my throat. If he says it is… I’ll survive, but it’ll suck. Big time.
He angles in, the need in his eyes desperate. Then my hand is enveloped in his. He places my palm over his crotch, the zipper straining against his hardness, and a burst of heat rushes through me.
“You feel this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and raw.
I nod because damn—thank God I got the XL condoms.
“This is because of you. Not my ex, not postgame adrenaline, not anyone or anything but you.”
With my free hand, I snag his loosened tie and pull him closer. “Then why are you still dressed?”
The question ignites a fire inside him. In one fluid move, he cups my ass and lifts me, as casually as if he’s rearranging furniture.
I wrap my legs around his waist, fuzzy socks catching at the small of his back, as his lips find mine and his tongue sweeps between them, greedy and hungry.
He stumbles a few steps farther into my apartment before he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he says, his voice rough.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe. “But turn around unless you want to do this in the bathroom. My bedroom’s in the other direction.”
He barks out a laugh but does as instructed, quickly rerouting.
As we cross the threshold, he opens his stupid mouth and says, “Maybe we should do it in the bathroom. Your bedroom is making me nauseous.”
“I like pink,” I huff, fighting the urge to flip him off. “And critiquing a woman’s design choice will not help you get laid.”
He quirks a brow but doesn’t say anything else.
Not even when he spies the mountain of pink throw pillows piled next to my bed.
He sets me on my feet, then loosens his tie further and tugs it off.
With his eyes locked on me, he quickly moves to the buttons of his shirt.
There’s a little uncertainty there, hiding behind the heat.
Like he’s waiting for me to change my mind.
So I stand taller and keep my focus locked on him as my heart pounds wildly.
When I remain silent, he shrugs out of the shirt and lets it fall to the floor. His pants and briefs go next.
Holy fuck.
The sight of him makes my core clench. I barely manage to rein in a whistle.
He’s a mountain of muscle, perfectly defined and contoured.
His chest is broad and his six-pack tapers into the sexiest V I’ve ever seen.
There’s a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and I have to actively stop myself from announcing that blond pubes are not the upgrade I thought they were.
Tattoos decorate his body—carefully chosen artwork, telling stories I’m not privy to but am dying to hear.
And not just because I’m nosy, but because I want to know him.
“I’m no Stavros,” he says with a grin, dark and teasing, “but I can still fuck like a porn star.”
Confusion hits me. What? Stavros? Who the fuck is—
Oh my God.
Heat flushes over my face, and I slap my hands over my eyes and groan.
He saw Sweaty Sex with Stavros? On my seventy-inch 4k HD TV?
While I napped on his lap after coming on his thigh?
I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.
No wonder he ended up watching the Real Housewives of Las Vegas.
I trail my fingers over the tattoos on his chest, soaking in the warmth of his skin, relishing the way his muscles tense under my touch.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to my palm. The moment is surprisingly tender, given the heated direction this is heading. “Your turn, sweetheart.”
He finds the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against the skin at my waist, as he pulls the fabric up.
As it floats to the floor, his eyes darken.
For a long moment, he takes me in, gaze tracing my body like a constellation he’s mapping.
Then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding, and his hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, threading through my hair.
We stumble backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, and suddenly we’re falling. Cameron catches himself with one hand so he doesn’t crush me and cups my jaw with the other, like I’m precious.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice raspy, bringing his forehead to mine. “And tease you. And bring you to the edge over and over again just to hear you beg for it.”
My breath quickens, heat rising in my core. “Okay.”
“But right now?” he murmurs against my lips. “I really need to fuck you.”
“I have condoms,” I blurt out, sounding desperate and demanding all at once. “Lots of them. In different sizes.”
He pulls back, his face darkening. “Why?”
Is he jealous? With a roll of my eyes, I scoff—logical and mature, I know. “I stopped on my way home to get them, asshole.”
The lines of his forehead smooth and he mumbles out a contrite “Oh.” He finds where I stashed them in my bedside table, rolling one on in record time.
Then his lips are on mine again as he presses against me in a way that feels intimate and safe rather than heavy and oppressing.
One hand traces down my chest, then stomach, until it reaches the apex of my thighs.
As his fingers brush against my center, a touch so light it feels like a ghost, liquid need courses through me, and I whimper.
“Fuck, you’re wet.” He groans, bringing his finger to his lips. Without looking away, he licks the taste of me from it, the action so incredibly erotic. “I can’t wait to be inside you.”
My huff is petulant, but I’m too geared up to care. “Same, so what are you waiting for?”
He chuckles, the sound dark and dangerous, and positions himself between my thighs.
And then he’s kissing me, deep and consuming, tongue tangling against mine in a show of dominance and desire.
When he finally pushes inside me, the process agonizingly slow, I moan against his mouth.
The sting is sweet as he stretches me, and when he bottoms out, I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulder blades.
He stills for a moment, both of us adjusting to the sensation.
I wrap my arms around his neck and sigh. “You definitely feel bigger than Stavros.”
“You definitely shouldn’t mention another man while I’m inside you.” He captures my lips in a searing kiss. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” I tighten my legs around him, swiveling my hips to prove my point. “Move. Please.”
He does, slow and steady at first, before setting a rhythm that’s neither gentle nor rough but in that perfect spot somewhere in between. He finds my mouth again, swallowing my groans, and I lose myself in the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between us.
“Fuck me, I’ve been waiting to hear you make those sweet little sounds again.” He slips a hand under the small of my back, holding my body to his. “Taking me so fucking well, baby.”
“Less talking,” I pant, the warmth in my belly growing hotter and more tangible with each passing moment. “More orgasms.”
He doesn’t listen to the first part. Instead, he pantingly lists filthy confessions between grunts. He tells me how perfect I am, how he wants to mark me, how he wants to hear me scream, how tight and warm I am.
“God, you feel incredible,” he grunts, one hand cupping my face with surprising tenderness even as he drives his hips forward. “So fucking perfect.”
As electricity arcs through me, I drag my nails down his back.
He hisses, the sound dissolving into a growl. I can’t form words as the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core as I pulse around him.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his rhythm steady. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I need to feel you.”
On command, I cry out his name, shattering into my orgasm.
Cameron doesn’t soften his thrusts, forcing me to ride out the waves of pleasure until I have to remind myself to breathe.
When he finally lets himself go, when he loses himself in this, in me, a strained groan escapes him, punctuated by a few choice curses.
Shuddering, he collapses on top of me, his chest pressed to mine, sweat-slick and breathing heavy.
I smile as I tuck my face into his collarbone, listening to the thrum of his heart as it slows.
He tenderly kisses my neck, his thumb tracing idle circles over my hip in a manner vastly different from the way he just fucked me into oblivion. “You good?”
“Never been better.”
I take a moment, clinging to the feeling, knowing reality will come crashing back in soon enough. Because whatever Cameron and I are doing, whatever this thing between us has become, we crossed a line tonight.
And the terrifying part?
I don’t want to go back.