Chapter 33 Emily #2
“What are you doing?” I asked, even as warmth bloomed under my rib cage at the gesture.
“Your feet were cold on the porch.” His thumbs pressed into my arch and I nearly moaned. “And I like touching you.”
God, this man.
He didn’t fill the silence with idle chatter. He just ate his food with one hand and kept the other firmly on my ankle, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against my skin. It was domestic. It was intimate.
I took a large sip of wine. The liquid gave me a little courage, but it didn’t stop the thoughts swirling in my head.
“This feels nice,” I all but whispered. “Almost too nice.”
Cam looked up, his green eyes dark and serious. “Why is it too nice?”
“Because it feels too good to be true.” I put my fork down. I couldn’t eat. “I keep waiting for you to realize I’m not what you signed up for.”
His hand stilled on my foot. “Talk to me.”
I could deflect. I could make a joke about my pageant days or change the subject to the weather. But looking at him, sitting there so solid and open, I felt like I owed him the truth.
“Okay, here goes. Feel free to stop me if, um, you know, if it gets boring or something.”
“Emily.”
There was no denying the command in his voice.
I dragged in a breath. “The last guy I was with…” My voice felt small in the quiet kitchen.
I needed to take another deep breath before I could go on.
“I was twenty-one. I met him at a baseball game. One of those open invitation things where anyone could show up and play. His name was Mitch. He was really into me right away, but it felt different from usual. Like he actually wanted to know me, you know? Asked about my art, my life, what I wanted. Made me feel like he saw more than just...” I gestured vaguely at myself.
“More than just the surface. We dated for months before we... before anything happened. He was sweet. Patient. Or at least he acted like he was.”
I took a sip of wine to buy some time.
Cam’s jaw tightened slightly. “Acted?”
“Yeah.” I looked down at my wine glass, watching the dark liquid catch the light.
“After the first few times, he started getting impatient. I always wore a t-shirt during sex. Wouldn’t let him touch my bare chest. He’d try sometimes and I’d redirect him, and at first he just went with it.
But then it started to bother him. He started getting pushy, asking why I was being so fucking weird.
He said he’d been patient enough. And, um, what was the point of having such a hot girlfriend if he didn’t get to look at my tits. ”
I swallowed hard. The memory tasted like bile.
“I liked him. I wanted it to work. So one night, I decided to trust him. I, uh, I took my shirt off.”
Cam’s hand had stilled on my foot. “Sweetheart.” I knew he was giving me an out, telling me I could stop if I wanted to.
But now that I’d started, I wanted him to know.
The memory was so clear it made me want to throw up.
The way Mitch’s expression had changed when he saw the scars.
The way he’d pulled back like I’d burned him.
“He looked at my scars like I was a monster. He literally recoiled.” My voice cracked. “He told me he never would have asked me out if he had known I was damaged goods. He said I was a head case for doing that to myself and that I didn’t match the image he wanted for his life.”
I risked a glance up. Oh fuck, he looked like he was about to flip the table.
“He got up and left right then,” I finished in a rush, my gaze sliding away again. “I haven’t been with anyone since. I thought... I thought he was right. I thought anyone who saw the real me would run.”
“Emily.” His voice was a low growl. “Look at me.”
I forced my eyes to meet his.
“That guy isn’t just an asshole.” His tone was lethal. “He is a raging fuckstick who didn’t deserve a second of your time.”
“I know, but...”
“No buts. Listen to me.” He moved my feet gently from his lap and stood up. In two strides, he was around the table, pulling me out of my chair and into his arms. He held me tight against his chest. “You are not damaged goods. You are not a head case. You are a survivor. And you are beautiful.”
I let out a shaky breath and hid my face in his neck. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, sweetheart. With every molecule in my fucking body. I saw your scars tonight. I touched them. I kissed them.” His arms tightened like iron bands around me. “And I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly.
“He messed me up,” I murmured into his shirt. “He made feel so ashamed.”
“Then let me fix it.” Cam pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. He brushed a stray hair from my face, his touch agonizingly gentle. “Let me show you he was wrong.”
My heart squeezed. “How?”
“Let me take you upstairs.” His voice dropped an octave. It sent a shiver straight down my spine. “Let me worship every inch of you until you forget his name.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, but I didn’t need it. He swept me up into his arms, carrying me bridal style.
“Cam?”
“What?”
“My legs aren’t painted on, you know.”
“I know.” He started toward the stairs, his eyes burning with a promise that made my knees weak. “But tonight, I’m carrying you.”