Chapter 27
CAM
Sweet torture. That’s what this was. The sweetest fucking torture.
Emily lay on top of me, her fingers gripping my hair as her tongue tangled with mine. The only light in the living room came from the flickering TV screen, casting blue and white shadows over us.
My hands roamed the curve of her waist, gripping the soft material of her shirt. She tasted like mint tea and desperation, a mix that was quickly unraveling my control.
I slid my palms down to her hips, pulling her tighter against me, and the friction dragged a sound from her throat. Something needy. Hungry.
She pushed herself up, straddling my hips properly now. I was rock hard, so when she ground down, heat jolted through me like lightning.
“Fuck, you feel so good.”
Her only reply was a soft whimper as she planted her hands on my chest, watching me with smoky eyes as she rolled her hips again.
With a groan, I let my head fall back against the cushion.
Her breathing was ragged, matching mine as she leaned down to kiss me again. Hot. Demanding. Overwhelming.
I gritted my teeth, every muscle in my body locked tight as I fought for control. We had agreed on slow, but right now, with her moving against me like this, slow felt impossible.
When she took my hand and pressed it against her breast, it was all I could do not to lose it completely. “Jesus, Em.”
She shuddered, her hips stuttering against mine. For a second, just a second, I felt her sink deeper into it. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted, and she was right there with me, chasing the same edge.
Then something shifted.
I felt it before I saw it. A tension creeping into her shoulders. A hitch in her breathing that wasn’t pleasure anymore. Her rhythm faltered, then stopped altogether.
She went still. Completely, utterly still. The heat that had been building between us cooled so fast it left me dizzy.
We were done.
Biting back a groan of frustration, I slid my arms around her and pulled her close. She came willingly, burying her face against my neck, her hands fisting in my shirt.
“I wish I wasn’t such a fuck up.” The words were so low I almost didn’t catch them.
“You’re not a fuck up.” I pressed a kiss into her hair. “You’re fine.”
“I’m not.” Her voice was muffled against my skin. “And you’re a damn saint, I swear.”
She stayed there for a heartbeat longer, her body tense against mine. Then she exhaled a long, trembling breath and pulled back, her eyes not quite meeting mine as she climbed off my lap.
The loss of her warmth was immediate and brutal.
She stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than she had any right to. I wanted to reach for her, to pull her back down and hold her until that haunted look left her eyes.
But I knew that wasn’t what she needed right now.
“I’m just… I’m gonna go.”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
Her movements were jerky as she gathered her things, shoving her feet into her shoes, grabbing her phone from the coffee table. In the entryway, she dragged the door open and paused, turning back to me with a stiff smile.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
The door clicked shut behind her, absurdly loud in the quiet of my house.
I dropped my head back against the couch and closed my eyes, my hand sliding down to adjust myself. This was going to be a long night. I was wound so tight I thought I might actually snap.
With a frustrated groan, I hauled myself up and headed upstairs, into my ensuite. My mind replayed every moment of the last twenty minutes. The way she’d tasted. The sounds she’d made. The feel of her body against mine.
I imagined her here with me, imagined pulling her shirt off. Pressing my lips to her skin.
But instead, I was alone, taking care of myself in the bathroom like a goddamn teenager.
I stripped down and turned the shower on, stepping under the harsh stream. Water pounded against my back, too hot to be comfortable, but I needed it. Needed the burn to match the frustration crawling under my skin.
Pressing my forehead against the tiled wall, I wrapped my hand around my aching cock and let the images take over.
Emily. On top of me. The way she’d looked, cheeks flushed, pupils wide.
I groaned, stroking harder.
Her shirt bunched in my fists. The weight of her in my lap, rolling her hips, her breath hitching every time I touched her. That moment when she put my hand on her breast. God, I could still feel the heat of her through the fabric, her heartbeat under my palm.
I imagined lifting that shirt. Running my hands up her stomach. Claiming every part of her like I’ve wanted to for weeks.
My hips jerked forward, chasing the friction.
What if she’d stayed? What if she’d let me peel those jeans off and taste her? What if I’d pinned her down on the couch, tied her wrists above her head and kissed every doubt off her lips while she came undone beneath me?
I let the fantasy play out, imagining the special rope I’d wrap around her wrists. The knots I would use on her. The way she’d look, all flushed and breathless and trusting me completely.
I came with a choked groan, my release pulsing through me, vision whiting out for one long, empty second.
The water rinsed away the mess. But not the memory. Not the ache.
I stayed under the spray, jaw tight, knowing the real problem wasn’t physical.
It was knowing she’d run again, and that I’d let her. Fuck.