13. Crossing the Line #4
She pulled the boxer briefs down and he sprang free — thick, hard, the tip already slick.
She wrapped her hand around him and stroked once, slowly, base to tip, and his head dropped back against the pillow.
“Look at me,” she said.He did. She held his gaze while she lowered her mouth.The sound he made was devastating.
A groan that started in his chest and broke apart somewhere in his throat.
She took him deep — not all at once, inch by inch, her lips tight around him, tongue working the underside in slow, deliberate waves.
His hand found her hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers tangled in the dark strands like he needed an anchor.She built a rhythm.
Slow, then faster, then slow again, edging him toward the brink and pulling back.
His hips lifted off the bed, chasing her mouth, and she pressed them down with one hand.
“Camila—I can’t—”She pulled off. “You can.”
“Please.”The word cracked something open.
She took him back in her mouth and this time she didn’t stop — hollowed cheeks, tight grip, tongue relentless — until his thighs clenched and his hand tightened in her hair and he came with a sound like her name and a sound like surrender.She swallowed every bit of it.
Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Crawled up his body and pressed her lips to the bruise on his ribs, gentle as a whisper.
He was still breathing hard when he pulled her against him.They didn’t talk for a while.
The breeze from the balcony cooled the sweat on their skin. Somewhere outside, a fountain trickled. The mansion hummed with the low-frequency silence that only expensive houses can achieve.Then he rolled toward her.“Again?” she asked, surprised.
“I owe you.”He kissed her stomach. Her hip.
The inside of her thigh. He settled between her legs and she felt his breath, warm and close, before his mouth found her.
He was slower than his hands had been — thorough, almost reverent, his tongue tracing long strokes that made her fingers twist in the sheets.
When he focused on the spot that mattered, he did it with patience and precision, building her up in layers.She came twice more before he finally moved over her.
“Are you sure?” he asked. One last boundary.
One last attempt at professionalism.She reached between them, wrapped her hand around him — hard again, impossibly — and guided him to her entrance.
“I’ve been sure since the car.”He pushed in slowly.
She gasped. He filled her completely, the stretch of it almost too much, and he paused with his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. “Move,” she whispered.
He did. Long, deep strokes that pressed every nerve she had.
His hands gripped her hips, tilting her, and the angle shifted and she cried out — not loud, just sharp, just honest. He swallowed the sound with his mouth.The pace built.
He was careful with his ribs but relentless with everything else, and she met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking down his back, leaving marks she’d see tomorrow and smile at.
The headboard knocked softly against the wall.
The sheets tangled around their legs.“Chris—” Her voice broke on his name.
“I know.”He reached between them, his fingers finding her, and the combination — the fullness, the pressure, the rhythm of his body inside hers — sent her over a third time, harder than before, her whole body clenching around him.
He followed seconds later, pulling out at the last moment, spilling across her stomach with a groan that he buried in the pillow beside her head.The ceiling was white. Plain. Expensive.Chris stared at it.
Camila was asleep against his chest, her arm draped across his stomach, her breath warm and even against his skin. Her hair smelled like jasmine and something else — something that was just her, something he’d been cataloguing for months without admitting it.She trusted him.She shouldn’t.
He thought about the three men. The tire iron.
The way his ribs had screamed when he’d gotten up and the way he’d ignored it because she was behind him and that was the only thing that mattered.
He thought about Mateo’s words —you’re hers — and how they’d landed like a sentence and a salvation in the same breath.He thought about the espresso machine, still in pieces on the kitchen counter.
He’d fix it tomorrow. He’d fix everything tomorrow.
The machine. The security protocols. the distance he was supposed to maintain.
But right now, in the dark, with her weight against him and her trust a living thing pressed to his chest, he let himself have this one thing.His arm tightened around her.
She murmured something in her sleep — not a word, just a sound, a sound like safety — and he closed his eyes.Tomorrow he’d be professional again. Tomorrow he’d rebuild the walls.But tomorrow was going to have to wait.