Chapter 32
TARA
Cameron refills our glasses. Candlelight flickers across his face as he settles beside me.
The storm feels like hours ago, but I can still taste the rain on his kiss.
"Tara," he says, swirling the dark wine. "There's something I need to tell you."
His tone makes me set down my glass.
"Okay."
"You're quirky. But in a good way," he says with an easy smile. "You have a knack for charming dogs and four-year-olds alike. Not many people would think to turn on the sprinklers and blast opera music to clean off a muddy Lab."
I laugh despite the seriousness in his voice. "That's your opening line?"
"I'm being specific." His fingers trace along my wrist. "You quote Shakespeare to drunk stars in hotel lobbies. You make butterfly waffles sound like haute cuisine. You got my daughter to sit cross-legged on a dirt floor without a single complaint about her dress."
"Cameron—"
"But here's the thing."
His thumb stops their delicious circles around the curve of my face. "I don't do relationships, Tara. I'm not built for them."
The wine suddenly tastes bitter in my mouth. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I want you."
His voice drops to that rough register that makes my pulse quicken.
"I want to take you upstairs and spend the night showing you exactly how much. But I need you to know what you're getting into."
I study his face in the candlelight, searching for something I'm not sure I want to find.
"Which is?"
"I'm forty years old, Tara. I've been on the road for twenty years, and I've never had a serious relationship in my life. Never wanted one."
He runs his thumb along my jawline.
"My parents' marriage was a disaster. Screaming matches, thrown dishes, lawyers. I watched my mother cry herself to sleep for years after my dad left."
"That doesn't mean—”
"It means I learned early that forever is bullshit." His eyes hold mine, unflinching. "I don't want to hurt you. But I won't lie to you either.”
Cameron makes a vague gesture. “This moment is about us wanting each other. Not about white picket fences or meeting your mother."
My heart beats like it’s going to shoot through my chest.
"Did I ask for any of that?"
"No," he says. "But most women do, eventually. And when they do, I'm out."
Cameron's honesty cuts like a blade.
"I've had girlfriends who thought they could change my mind. Thought if they were patient enough, sweet enough, sexy enough, I'd suddenly want the entire package." He shakes his head. "It never works. I always disappoint them."
I take a steadying breath. "So what are you proposing?"
"That we be honest about what this is." His hand slides up my thigh, thumb tracing circles that make coherent thought difficult.
"You're beautiful, intelligent, and you make me laugh. I haven’t wanted anyone this much in years."
I wait for him to continue.
"Assuming all goes well with the hearing, I'll take Posey back to New York with me and resume my normal life. And you..."
He touches my bottom lip with his fingertip. "You have your entire future ahead of you. College, opera, some nice guy who'll give you everything I can't."
The words sting more than they should.
"You're assuming I want something you can't give."
"Don't you?" His blue eyes search mine. "Most people do."
I consider his question. The wine made me bolder than usual.
"What if I don't want the nice guy? What if I want the man who saves the lives of old fishermen and writes songs that make people cry? And tells bedtime stories to his daughter like he's been doing it for years instead of days?"
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe hope. But it's gone too quickly.
"Tara, you don't understand what my life is like. The tours, the tabloids, the women throwing themselves at me every night." His jaw tightens.
"I'm not going to lie to you about my past. There have been hundreds of women. Maybe thousands. One-night stands, brief affairs, nothing that lasted more than a few weeks."
Cameron pauses. “Including Posey's mother. Not proud to say that I didn't even remember her name."
I’m stunned into silence, though I expected as much.
Still, the admission that he can't recall the mother of his child hangs heavily in the air.
"That's the kind of man I am. That's the kind of life I live."
"But you remembered me," I say softly, echoing his words from earlier. "From the club. From the deli. And the hotel lobby where we shared our first kiss..."
"Yes." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I remember every damn second with you."
I lean closer toward him until our foreheads almost touch.
"Then stop talking," I whisper, "and show me."
His mouth crashes against mine with desperate hunger. No gentle exploration this time—just raw need that's been building for days. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me to him as his tongue sweeps against mine. I taste wine and desire and something deeper I can't name.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. "Upstairs," he says roughly, pulling me to my feet. "Before I lose what's left of my self-control and take you right here on this couch."
My legs feel unsteady as he leads me up the staircase, his hand warm against my lower back. Each step builds the anticipation until I'm vibrating with nervous energy.
At the top, he guides me toward his room, pausing to kiss me against the hallway wall. His mouth finds that sensitive spot just below my ear, and I gasp.
"Shhh," he murmurs against my skin. "Posey's sleeping."
But his hands are everywhere—sliding under my shirt, tracing the line of my spine.
When we finally reach his bedroom, he closes the door and leans against it, studying my face in the moonlight streaming through the windows. "Last chance to change your mind," he says softly. "Once we do this, there's no going back to being just boss and nanny."
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "I don't want to go back." Something fierce and possessive flashes in his eyes.
"Good," he growls, reaching for the hem of my shirt.
"Because I'm done pretending, I don't want you. Let's get this off," he says, his voice rough with desire. His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against my skin as he lifts it.
"Arms up."
I raise my arms like he's helping Posey undress, and we both laugh at the absurdity. But the laughter dies when my shirt hits the floor and his eyes darken as they take me in.
"Beautiful," he whispers, reaching around to unclasp my bra with practiced ease. "Absolutely beautiful." The cool air hits my skin as the lace falls away, but Cameron's heated gaze makes me feel anything but exposed.
His hands frame my face as he kisses me again, deeper this time, backing me toward his bed until my knees hit the mattress.
"Lie down," he murmurs against my lips. I sink onto the soft comforter, watching as he pulls his own shirt over his head.
The moonlight reveals the lean muscles of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen. I can't help but stare. He joins me on the bed, his weight making the mattress dip as he hovers over me.
"Your turn to lose something else," he says, fingers finding the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help him slide them down my legs, leaving me in just my white cotton panties. Nothing fancy or seductive—just practical underwear that suddenly feels incredibly intimate under his hungry gaze.
"Perfect," he breathes, hands skimming up my thighs.
When his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, I freeze.
"Wait," I say softly, suddenly self-conscious. "Can I—I just want to freshen up for a second. I won't be long."
He pauses, studying my face. "You don't need to—"
"I'll just be a moment," I add awkwardly, heat flooding my cheeks. Understanding crosses his features, followed by something tender.
"Of course."
I head to the hallway bathroom, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. In the mirror, my reflection looks flushed and wild-eyed, hair mussed from Cameron's hands. I splash cool water on my face, then use a soft washcloth with soap to clean myself thoroughly.
My hands shake slightly as I work. What will it feel like? Should I ask about protection?
The practical questions battle with the desire coursing through my veins. I return to his room to find him waiting by the door. He holds a small foil packet in his hand. "A gentleman is always prepared," he says with a sexy smile that makes my stomach flip.
Of course. A man like him would have to be. Except that once, with Posey's mother.
"Come here," he says, voice dropping to that rough whisper that makes me wet between my thighs. We move back to the bed, and this time when he reaches for my panties, I don't stop him.
The cotton slides down my legs, leaving me completely bare beneath his gaze. "You're tense," he murmurs, hands stroking along my hips.
"I should never have let you leave this room. I had you in that perfect state where you were melting for me."
His touch is deliberate, knowing exactly where to caress to make the tension drain from my muscles.
When I'm liquid beneath his hands, he guides my palm to his chest, then lower. The hardness of him beneath the denim makes my breath catch. This is really happening. His hands work at his belt buckle, the metallic clink sharp in the quiet room.
My mouth goes dry watching him slide the leather through the loops, then push his jeans down his hips. Even in the moonlight, I can see the outline of his aroused cock straining against black boxer briefs.
When those come off too, my breath catches. He's beautiful—lean muscle and masculine angles. Nothing like the fumbling boys from high school.
This is a man who knows exactly what he's doing.
"Touch me," he says roughly, guiding my hand to him. His cock is velvet over steel, hot and hard beneath my palm. I've felt one before, but not like this. Not with someone who makes my pulse race when he looks at me.
He grows even harder under my tentative exploration, a soft groan escaping his lips.