Chapter 10
Camila
Waking up in Cameron Vance’s bed was a sensory event.
The first thing I registered was the weight.
There was a heavy, leaden arm draped over my waist, pinning me to the mattress like a butterfly in a display case.
The second thing was the heat. He was a furnace.
His chest was pressed against my back, radiating a warmth that seeped through my skin and settled in my marrow.
The third thing was the smell.
Sandalwood. Musk. And the distinct, earthy scent of sex.
My eyes snapped open.
The room was bathed in the grey, diffuse light of a snowy morning. I was staring at the wall—a stark, white expanse that Cameron probably found soothing but which currently looked to me like a blank canvas waiting for a confession.
Oh, god.
The memories of last night crashed into me like a linebacker. The victory party. The car ride. The torn tights. The way I had straddled him on this bed and ridden him until I forgot my own name.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a groan vibrating in my throat.
I had slept with the landlord. I had slept with the fake boyfriend. I had slept with the one man on campus who had the power to completely destroy me.
Rule Number One: Don’t catch feelings.
Rule Number Two: Don’t sleep with the enemy.
Rule Number Three: Don’t fall in love with the guy who is only helping you because he needs to look stable for the NHL.
I had broken all the rules. I had taken the rulebook, doused it in gasoline, and lit a match.
I needed to leave. I needed to get up, find my clothes (which were scattered across the floor like evidence at a crime scene), and retreat to the guest room.
I needed to put a wall back up. I needed to be the Brat again, because the Brat didn't get hurt.
The Brat didn't feel this terrifying, hollow ache in her chest that felt suspiciously like hope.
I tried to move. I shifted my hips, trying to slide out from under his arm.
The arm tightened.
"Stop wiggling," a voice rumbled directly into my ear.
It wasn't his normal voice. It was his morning voice—deep, gravelly, and rough with sleep. It sent a shiver straight down my spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.
"I have to pee," I lied, my voice sounding breathy and pathetic.
"Liar," he murmured. He nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my sensitive skin. "You're trying to run."
"I'm not running," I defended, though my heart rate was betraying me. "I'm... regrouping. It's a tactical retreat."
"There's no retreating," he said. "Not anymore."
He moved then. Despite the injury to his knee, he shifted his weight with surprising grace, rolling me onto my back and hovering over me.
I looked up at him.
Cameron Vance in the morning was a weapon of mass destruction.
His hair was messy, sticking up in tufts that softened his harsh features.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, sleep-warm, but intensely focused.
The bruise on his ribs was a violent shade of purple against his tan skin, a reminder of the violence he endured.
He looked at me like he was trying to solve a complex equation.
"Regrets?" he asked. The single word hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
I looked at his lips. I remembered how they felt against every inch of my body last night.
"No," I whispered. The truth slipped out before I could catch it. "No regrets."
"Good," he said. "Because if you said yes, I would have had to prove you wrong."
"Is that a threat, Vance?" I tried to smirk, tried to pull the mask back on.
"It's a promise."
He lowered his head and kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle, waking-up kiss. It was a claiming. His mouth was hot, tasting of sleep and mint. He kissed me slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a familiarity that made my toes curl.
My hands came up to grip his shoulders. His skin was warm, solid. I felt the muscles flex under my palms as he deepened the kiss, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
I felt him stir against my thigh. Hard.
"You're awake," I noted breathlessly as he pulled back to look at me.
"I've been awake for an hour," he admitted, his eyes darkening. "Watching you sleep."
"Creepy," I whispered, though a flush of pleasure heated my cheeks.
"I like watching you when you're quiet," he said, brushing a curl off my forehead. "It's rare. Usually, you're a storm."
"I can be quiet," I argued.
"We'll see."
He sat back on his heels, wincing slightly as his bad knee took the weight.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, reaching out to touch his thigh just above the swelling.
"It's fine," he dismissed. "Pain is just information."
"You're a robot," I shook my head.
"I'm not a robot," he said softly. "Robots don't want things."
"And what do you want?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He looked at me. He looked at my naked body sprawled on his grey sheets. He looked at the marks on my neck where his stubble had burned me last night.
"I want you to get up," he said.
"Get up?" I frowned. "I thought you wanted me to stay."
"I do," he said. "But not in the bed."
He grabbed my hand and pulled. I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest.
"Where are we going?"
"The bathroom," he said. "I want to show you something."
He stood up. He was gloriously, unashamedly naked. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He was built like a Greek statue—broad shoulders, narrow waist, powerful thighs. And he was fully aroused.
He extended a hand to me.
I took it. I let the sheet fall.
I stood up. The morning air was chilly, raising goosebumps on my skin.
He led me into the en-suite bathroom.
It was massive. Walls of slate grey tile, a glass-enclosed shower that could fit a hockey team, and a vanity with a mirror that spanned the entire length of the wall.
He walked me over to the vanity.
"Turn around," he commanded.
I turned, facing the mirror.
He stepped up behind me.
The visual impact was immediate.
In the mirror, we were a study in contrasts. He was huge, dark, and hard. I was small, soft, and pale. He towered over me, his chest broader than my shoulders.
He placed his hands on my hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.
"Look," he ordered.
I looked. I saw myself. My hair was a wild mane of dark curls. My lips were swollen. My eyes were wide and dark. I looked thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.
"Do you see that?" he whispered, his gaze meeting mine in the reflection.
"See what?"
"You," he said. "You're not hiding, Mila. No makeup. No designer clothes. No fake smile for the cameras. Just you."
He moved one hand up to cup my breast. I gasped, watching his large, tan hand against my pale skin. He tweaked my nipple, watching my eyes flutter shut.
"Open them," he growled. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want you to see what I see."
I forced my eyes open. I watched his hand kneading me. I watched the way my body arched back into him, seeking more contact.
"You're mine," he said. It wasn't a question. "Look at you. You're responding to me. Your body knows who it belongs to."
"Cameron," I whimpered. The visual was overwhelming. The heat of his body against my back, the hard ridge of his erection pressing into my glutes... it was too much.
"Say it," he demanded. He moved his other hand down, sliding it between my legs.
I wasn't wet yet—not fully—but I was getting there fast. He found my clit and rubbed it dry, a friction that was almost painful in its intensity.
"Say what?" I panted, gripping the edge of the marble vanity.
"Say you belong to me."
"I..." I hesitated. It was the final surrender. If I said it, I gave him the power.
He stopped his hand. He pulled back slightly, denying me the warmth.
"Say it, or we stop," he said coldly.
I looked at his eyes in the mirror. They were relentless. He wasn't playing. He needed this. He needed the verbal confirmation of his control.
And God help me, I needed to give it to him.
"I belong to you," I whispered.
"Louder."
"I belong to you, Cameron," I said, my voice breaking.
"Good girl."
The praise hit me like a drug. My knees buckled.
He caught me. He lifted me effortlessly and set me on the cold marble of the vanity.
"Spread your legs," he instructed.
I did. I opened for him, completely vulnerable under the harsh bathroom lights.
He didn't enter me. Not yet.
He knelt. Despite the bad knee, he went down on the cold tile floor between my legs.
He grabbed my thighs, spreading them wider until I was completely exposed to him. He looked up at me.
"Watch," he said.
He lowered his head.
His tongue touched me.
I cried out, my head falling back.
"No," he growled, his hands tightening on my thighs. "Look in the mirror, Mila. Watch me worship you."
I forced my head up. I looked in the mirror.
I saw Cameron Vance—the Ice King, the millionaire athlete, the man who didn't bow to anyone—on his knees between my legs.
I saw his dark head moving. I saw my own face, twisted in pleasure.
He was relentless. He used his tongue like he used his body on the ice—with precision and power. He licked, he sucked, he teased. He found the rhythm that made my hips buck involuntarily.
"Cameron, please," I begged. "I'm close."
He didn't stop. He hummed against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my system.
He sucked hard on my clit, his finger sliding inside me to pump in time with his tongue.
I shattered.
I screamed his name, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I came hard, my vision spotting, my body shaking so violently the perfume bottles on the vanity rattled.
He stayed there, drinking me in, until the tremors subsided.
Then, he stood up.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked savage. He looked hungry.
"My turn," he said.
He grabbed my hips and pulled me to the edge of the counter.
"Wrap your legs around me."
I did. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back.
He lined himself up. He was glistening.
He pushed inside.
It was one smooth, deep thrust. He filled me completely, stretching me, claiming me.
I gasped, burying my face in his neck. "You're so big."
"And you take it so well," he groaned.