23. Amie
twenty-three
Amie
W aiting for Cam’s call has become part of our nightly routine. In the six weeks since he left London he’s called every single night to read Maisy a bedtime story, only foregoing the calls when we were in Phoenix with him. He’s called from airports, hotel rooms, even from the aircraft before pushing back from the gate—that was one of the few times he couldn’t tell a story, only say a quick hello and I love you before hanging up. But he hasn’t missed a single bedtime.
Not that I expected him to. But I also didn’t expect him to be so diligent in calling every single night, bang on time, either.
After Maisy’s bedtime story—which Cam has taken to making up on the fly, with different characters and voices every night—he usually stays on the line and we talk. Sometimes it’s just for a few minutes; other nights, we chat for an hour or more. But despite loving my job, my friends, my daughter—those calls have become the highlight of every day.
Those calls are the few moments where I get to be Amie again. Not purser Amie, supervising a cabin service and an aircraft full of passengers and crew. Not best friend Amie, whose life suddenly took a very different turn when she fell pregnant unexpectedly. And not Mama, the one relied upon for absolutely everything .
Not that I begrudge any of it. I do it willingly, and I love every role I play.
But evenings with Cam, although we’re thousands of miles apart, remind me of who I am without all of that. He makes me feel seen and appreciated—treasured, even—just for me. Not because I found an extra chicken meal in the galley or managed a medical emergency, or because I organised a get-together or cleaned up spilled juice.
We talk with no expectations, no obligations; I find myself sharing things with him that I haven’t shared with anyone. Not even Katy. But Cam—he accepts everything, and he lets me be myself. My full self, unapologetically. He champions my successes, he celebrates with me; with him, I feel… worthy. Whole.
Loved?
Jesus Christ.
It helps that he’s the hottest fucking man I’ve ever met.
I don’t know why I let myself be seduced that night in Singapore. I’d only had one drink before I sat beside him, and I had no intention of getting drunk or getting into bed with anyone. But something about him drew me in. He sparked something in me. Something that turned into an inferno after one more drink, something that burned so hot and so bright, it left me branded his forever. Something about him that night sparked something that still smoulders in me, four years on.
Verdammte schei?e. For fuck’s sake, Amie.
His lips are lush and full, even on a grainy FaceTime connection. When he smirks that little half-smile, a twinkle in those eyes like sun on clover fields, I feel it deep in my belly. The things I’d do to those lips. Fuck, the things I’d let those lips do to me. The things I did let them do to me …
“Amie? You still with me, pretty girl?” I shudder involuntarily, warmth pooling in my core, coiling and spreading throughout my limbs. Fuck , if he doesn’t stop calling me pretty girl …
But I never want him to stop.
I hope he never does. Truthfully, when he says it and he looks at me with those darkened eyes, it takes everything in me not to profess my love for him, pack up Maisy and drag the pair of them to some half-crumbled castle on a private, remote island somewhere, where we can spend the rest of our days alone, just the three of us. And where I can reenact the events of Singapore, night after night. I clench my thighs together, tensing my core muscles to try to temper the throbbing between my legs.
“I’m—I’m here. What were you saying?”
“I was just asking how Baltimore was. I know you weren’t exactly psyched for it.”
“Oh—oh, yeah. Hardly chomping at the bit for Baltimore at the best of times, but it was good. A couple of us hired a car and drove up to Gettysburg. It was freezing , but it was so much fun. Have you ever been?”
“Oh, that does sound pretty fun. I’ve never made it there—don’t even get to DC much, honestly. I don’t know why. Crew scheduling just never sends me that way.”
“I like DC. I mean, I like the museums. It’s nice in the summer. December, though? I’d rather be somewhere warm. Preferably with a cocktail.”
“Singapore was pretty warm in December, as I recall. And there were plenty of cocktails. ”
It wasn’t just warm. It was downright scorching; the kind of heat that left its burn imprinted on my mind, body and soul. Fuck, that little half-smile is playing at his lips again as he teases with his voice low and his eyes bright, boring into me like they know all of my filthy thoughts. I hum in agreement, partly because yes, it was warm, and partly because I’m so fucking head over heels and out of my mind with desire right now, I don’t think I can form real words.
“Shit, I gotta go. I only have forty minutes until van time and I still need to shower. Talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here,” I say lightly. “Fly safe.”
I don’t even recognise my voice, high-pitched and thin, strained, as I fumble to end the call before I out myself. I reach down and shove my hand into the waistband of my pyjamas. Shit, just talking to him for twenty minutes has me so wet, I’ve soaked through my shorts. I shudder involuntarily as my fingers make contact with my swollen flesh. I use one hand to ghost my fingertips over my clit whilst the other reaches for the bullet vibrator in the drawer of my bedside table. It’s freshly recharged and I fumble with the switch, almost dropping it in my haste to switch it on and push it into my pants. I tear the cotton shorts down my hips to give myself better access.
The second the toy touches me, I gasp. I move it around, slipping it through my wet folds, pressing it hard against my clit, and I bring a hand up to my chest.
Fuck , I remember the way Cam took his time with my nipples, rolling and pinching them, sucking, nipping and then soothing with his tongue. I remember the way my entire breast fit perfectly in his large hands, the way he held them, squeezed them, the way he rubbed his hard cock over my tight nipples, the way he painted them with my own juices before sucking them clean. The way he moved lower, licking a hot trail down my stomach to my clit.
I remember the way he sucked me into his mouth, pushing his fingers inside and fucking me with his hand. I rode his hand and his face like a cowgirl on horseback. Like I was on a mission. I still remember everything about that night.
He sank to his knees, kissing a line down my throat and chest, leaving a wet trail of saliva to evaporate and cool my overheated skin. He continued down my body, tapping each of my ankles once, a silent question, a demand to lift so he could remove the scrap of black lace, and then kissed the strip of neatly-trimmed hair between my legs. I gasped at the gentle contact and he lifted my right leg, bending it at the knee and draping it over his shoulder. He paused for a moment just to look at me, already slick with arousal, and my flesh swollen, ready and needy. He dove in and licked once, a long swipe of his tongue ending with a light flick at my clit. My entire body trembled as he pulled back.
“Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he declared, and immediately returned his attention to the space between my legs. He focused on my clit, lavishing it with his tongue, and I soaked his stubbled chin with my arousal as his tongue flicked and circled my sensitive flesh. My body tensed, my panting and whimpering reaching a fever pitch, and that’s when he pushed two fingers inside and curled them. I fell apart instantly, quaking and squeezing around his digits and he smirked between my legs as he continued to lick and suck, determined not to waste a drop.
He continued to pump his fingers in and out lightly as I came down from my high.
“How was that for you, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my belly.
“Incredible,” I sighed. “But I want more.”
I need more. I thrust the vibrator in and out, clearing my mind of everything but the low buzz of the motor and the obscene wet sounds as I fuck myself as hard and as fast as I can with my toy. My body needs the release. I need the release.
I haven’t been with anyone since that night—since Cam ruined me for anyone else. No one, vibrator or human, can come close to the way he made me come, the colours he showed me, the stars I saw. I pant heavily, desperate and writhing, hands between my legs beneath the sheets, wishing it was him. It feels filthy; a dirty little secret I should be ashamed of, but I’m not.
I’m not, I’m not, I’m—
Fuck, I’m coming.
“Cam,” I breathe, a huff of air leaving my lips. “Fuck.”
I haven’t come once without his name on my lips since that night—a cry, a whisper, a whimper.
And since he left London six weeks ago, I’ve touched myself to thoughts of him every single night.
It takes me a few minutes to come down from the high, and then I feel sick to my stomach. No, not sick. Broken. I feel broken. I miss him. I want him so bad it hurts. How can you miss someone you never truly had? He’s shown me the kind of love I never knew existed, even if it’s not for me. Even if it’s just for Maisy.
I pad across the hall to the bathroom to clean myself up, and I dial Katy’s number as I climb back into bed. Under the safety of my bed covers, I finally break.
“A? What’s up, love, are you okay? Is Maisy okay?” Katy answers the phone. She always picks up, even in the middle of the night .
I’m spiralling. Between the jet lag and the exhaustion, between balancing how much I love my job with how much I miss Maisy when I’m away, between loving the time I spend talking to Cam every night and hating it because I want so much more and it aches deep in my chest. I feel like I’m going insane. I feel torn in so many directions, giving so much to everyone and getting nothing back. I’m supporting people at work and I’m supporting my friends at home, and my well has run dry. For all that I give, some days, it feels like I get nothing back, and there’s nothing left to pour.
And I’m running on empty.
I’m doing everything to push all of this down so it stays away from Maisy—my bright, sweet, sunshine girl—but there’s too much to push down. It’s coming up, whether I want it to or not. It’s bubbling over, a fever pitch, one wrong step off the edge of the tightrope. It’s a lit rocket, rising, rising, until it’s all out of climb and the only thing left is to fall.
The only thing that escapes from my lips is a sob.
“Are you home?”
I nod, heedless of the fact that Katy can’t see me. It doesn’t matter.
“I’m coming over, babe, I’ll be there in a minute.”
She hangs up and I huddle under my duvet, knees to my chest and my arms wrapped around my shins. Nothing has ever hurt like this before.
A few minutes later, I hear a key in the lock and my front door click open and closed, and then the soft padding of Katy’s footsteps on the staircase. She pushes my bedroom door open to find me in the dark. I feel her before I see her as she throws herself onto my bed, wrapping me in her arms and pressing our bodies together in a head-to-toe embrace. I breathe in her sweet orange perfume—the same one she’s worn since we were in school—and its familiarity soothes my soul .
Several more minutes pass by in silence. Katy lies beside me and holds me as the sobs subside to sniffles, and then she speaks.
“What’s going on, A?”
“I—” I hiccup. “I’m so tired, K.”
Katy presses her face into my hair, holding me tighter.
“I want him so bad and I’m so tired. I miss him.”