Chapter 5 #2
"For you," I confessed, the truth ripping out of me. "I'm wet for you."
Something in his face shattered. The control snapped.
He groaned—a low, animalistic sound—and crashed his mouth onto mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was three days of pent-up frustration, anger, and undeniable lust exploding all at once.
His tongue swept into my mouth, demanding, claiming. I tasted coffee and mint and man. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel the weight of him.
He growled into my mouth, his hand moving against me. He rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves through the lace, a rhythmic, maddening friction.
"Cameron," I moaned into his mouth.
"Shh," he commanded. "Take it."
He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with mine, mimicking the rhythm of his hand. It was too much. It was sensory overload. The marble was cold against my back, his chest was hard against my front, and his hand was setting me on fire.
I was unraveling. I forgot about the contract. I forgot about the scouts. I forgot about my father.
There was only this. The friction. The heat. The taste of him.
"Good girl," he praised again against my lips. "You're so responsive. So messy."
"Please," I panted, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. "Cameron, please."
"What do you want?"
"More," I begged. "Don't stop."
He shifted his hand. He pushed the lace aside. Skin to skin.
The contact was electric. I cried out, arching my back off the counter.
He found my rhythm instantly. He played me like he played the game—with absolute focus, predicting my reactions before I even had them. Fast, then slow. Hard, then soft.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I forced my eyes open. He was watching me. His face was flushed, his lips red from our kiss, his hair messed up from where my hands had been gripping it.
"Watch yourself come apart," he whispered.
He picked up the pace.
I shattered.
It hit me hard and fast, a blinding wave of pleasure that started in my toes and exploded behind my eyes. I cried out his name, digging my nails into his shoulders, shaking apart in his arms.
He held me through it. He didn't stop until the last tremor had faded. He kept his hand there, soothing me, grounding me.
Slowly, the world came back into focus.
The hum of the fridge. The ticking of the clock. The smell of burnt toast (wait, had I burned toast earlier?).
I was lying on the kitchen island, legs spread, panting like I’d just run a marathon. My shorts were askew. My lips felt swollen.
Cameron was standing between my legs, his chest heaving. He slowly withdrew his hand.
He looked at me. There was no regret in his eyes. Just a dark, terrifying possessiveness.
He reached for a paper towel and wiped his hand. Then he adjusted his glasses, which had somehow stayed on his face.
He picked up the textbook.
"That," he said, his voice rough and two octaves lower than usual, "was the Renaissance. Tomorrow, we cover Baroque."
He closed the book with a snap.
"Go to bed, Mila. Class dismissed."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. He didn't look back.
I stayed on the counter for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my heart still racing a mile a minute.
I touched my lips. They were throbbing.
I was in trouble. I was in so much trouble.
Because the scariest part wasn't that he had touched me. The scariest part was that for the first time in my life, I hadn't wanted to be the one in charge.
I wanted him to do it again.
And I had a feeling that tomorrow's lesson on the Baroque period—known for its drama and intensity—was going to be the death of me.
The next morning, the air in the penthouse was different. It wasn't awkward, exactly. It was... charged. Like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks, when the ozone is so thick you can taste it.
I walked into the kitchen at 8:00 AM, fully dressed in leggings and a sweater, clutching my books to my chest like a shield.
Cameron was there, drinking his sludge.
"Morning," I squeaked.
"Morning," he said. He didn't look up from his phone, but I saw his hand tighten around his glass. "Coffee is ready."
I poured a cup. I leaned against the counter—the counter—and tried not to think about the fact that twelve hours ago, I had been writhing on top of it.
"So," I started, needing to break the silence. "About last night."
Cameron set his glass down. He looked at me. His expression was unreadable. The Wall was back up, but I could see the cracks.
"We were studying," he said smoothly. "You needed motivation. I provided it."
"Motivation," I repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"It worked, didn't it?" He gestured to my stack of books. "You're up early. You're ready to work."
"I'm terrified," I admitted. "I'm terrified that if I get an answer wrong, you'll... punish me. And if I get one right, you'll..." I trailed off, my face heating up.
"Incentivize you?" he supplied.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. It was devastating.
"We have a deal, Mila," he said, walking over to me. He stopped just inside my personal space. "We fake date. I tutor you. You follow my rules."