Chapter 8 #2
“I see.” I know from my own research that Camille is a sex therapist. Whatever she’s treating this woman for must lie in the intersection between grief and sexuality. “Do you feel you’re making progress with her?”
“It’s hard to tell sometimes.” Camille sighs. “So often it’s two steps forward, one step back, you know?”
“Yes.” I do know.
And maybe I need to share something more with Camille.
“Brigitte died in a car accident.” My voice sounds gravelly and I’m not honestly sure why I’m telling her this. “Grayson, our son, was in the backseat. He lingered in a coma for two weeks but ultimately passed on as well.”
“Oh, Ash.” There’s a small sound that might be a sob. “I’m so unbelievably sorry. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you.”
“It—wasn’t great.” Such a fucking master of emotion. “As you can tell by that unbearably inadequate response, you hit the nail on the head when you suggested I’m not in touch with my feelings. I’d prefer not to be, frankly.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” she says.
“And I promise I’m not wearing my therapist hat when I say so.
This is me, Camille, your friend and—” She flounders there, probably seeking a term to describe what we are to each other.
“I lost my father last year, and while I know that can’t possibly compare to the heartache of losing a wife and a child, I do understand grief. And I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss as well.” What the fuck is wrong with me, turning this conversation into a sob-fest? Did I not just remind myself to keep my emotional distance from Camille?
“You asked about my personal kinks.” I wince at how jarring that sounds. “That wasn’t the smoothest subject change, was it?”
Camille laughs and the spell gets broken. “I’ll give you a pass. Did you bring it up because you’d like to share yours?”
Not really, but here goes nothing. “I’m a bit of a voyeur, to be honest.” If she’s struck by the fact that my kink matches her exhibitionist desires, she doesn’t say so.
“I love women. I love looking at them, touching them, breathing them in.” My voice goes a little bit husky.
“I love admiring their curves, savoring the softness of their skin. I love watching them come unraveled with just the lightest touch. I don’t even need to be part of it.
Just witnessing that beauty is perhaps my most deeply ingrained kink. ”
There’s a soft little click as she swallows. “Are you trying to turn me on right now?”
“Not precisely.” But now I’m curious. “Are you turned on?”
“A little.” There’s some rustling on the line and I picture her touching herself. She probably isn’t, but I like to imagine she might. “I love that about women, too.”
“You’ve been with a woman?” There’s another picture indelibly burned in my brain.
“Yes.” Her response slips out on a wisp of breath. “A few times in college and grad school. It’s been years.”
“Do you consider yourself bisexual?”
“I suppose so, but I’m leery of co-opting that identity.
I’ve never been in a relationship with a woman, and I won’t claim I’m a member of a marginalized community.
” She lets out a soft little laugh. “I know I promised not to put on my therapist hat, so won’t bore you with the science of sexual fluidity and gender, so I’ll just say that I’m heteromantically bisexual. ”
I feel my brow furrow. “Say what?”
“I’m sexually attracted to both men and women, but I prefer men for long-term partnership.”
“I see.” I honestly wouldn’t mind if she donned that therapist hat, but we’re already treading on dangerous ground. The last thing I want is a shrink rooting around in my brain.
“That makes sense,” I continue. “I’m only attracted to women but open to ménage experiences that include any gender.”
“Good to know.”
Is she picturing me as part of that three-man fantasy she marked on her form? The filmstrip in my brain that’s playing a girl-on-girl ensemble switches to one starring Camille at the center of an all-male cast.
These pants are becoming exceptionally snug.
“Can I ask you something, Ash?”
The urge to say no makes me pause. “Perhaps.” I pause. “I reserve the right not to answer. Not to be obstinate. I just?—”
“I get it. I do.”
Something in her voice says she does. “Go ahead. Ask me what you want to ask.”
“What made you open a sex resort?”
The breath leaves my lungs. I can’t answer that one completely. Not without spilling my secrets.
But I can give her at least part of an answer. “I care very deeply about women’s sexual experiences. Giving women a safe place to explore all their fantasies and unmet needs.” I take a moment to find the right words. “Especially women who’ve been betrayed in some way.”
“I see.” There’s no more rustling on the line, so clearly I’ve killed any urge Camille felt to touch herself. “That’s noble of you.”
“Absolutely not.” The snap in my voice surprises me. “I’m not noble.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t argue, which tells me something.
What, I’m not sure.
“It’s simply a good investment,” I point out. “Crystal Bliss is the most profitable venture in my portfolio.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a business venture. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Understood.”
Does she understand? Does Camille believe the bullshit I’m spouting, or has she put on her therapist hat despite pledging not to?
The thought chills me down to my core.
“I should go.” My voice comes out raspy and low.
“I have an early meeting and need to prepare for bed.” It’s not even eight, so that’s a stupid excuse.
“I’ll be available via text if you need anything tomorrow and done with my meetings by four.
And I’ll be in touch with my contact at the airline and will update you immediately with any news. ”
“Thank you,” she says. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done to make me feel welcome, in spite of me showing up without a reservation.”
“It’s been my pleasure.” I don’t even mean it in a sexual way. “Truly.”
There’s a long, drawn out pause that I’m aching to fill. By spilling my secrets. By telling Camille just how badly I want her.
But she speaks first. “Good night, Ash Hole.” She says it so kindly my chest aches. “Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams,” I repeat, wishing it could be that simple.
That I could be the sort of man who deserves such a thing.