Camille #2
A timer goes off and Camille pulls a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
The dough sizzles with sticky sweetness.
She sets them on the stovetop and expertly spreads icing, which promptly drips down the sides of the rolls.
A half hour ago, I didn’t understand why she insisted on making so many, ten to be exact, but now I’m grateful.
From the smell alone, I know I won’t be able to stop myself at just one.
“They’re better when they’re hot,” she says, turning to me.
I join her in the cramped kitchen, reaching for the closest roll.
“If you say so,” I reply.
I wouldn’t know. My life didn’t provide many chances for me to have homemade desserts. My mother wasn’t much of a cook. She mostly bought takeout, or frozen meals she could easily pop in the microwave, but I never minded.
Camille likes to grow and make food herself. I saw it when I first arrived and found her grilling outside, even in freezing temperatures. And I’ve witnessed it many times since. I don’t know the first thing about homemade, homegrown meals.
“Have as many as you want,” she offers.
Her hair is extra crazy today, and I find that I like it best this way. She hasn’t bothered with makeup, leaving her freckles on full display. The sexy dimples I’ve seen drop into her cheeks nearly every day since moving here make an appearance again. I wonder if they’ll ever lose power over me.
“I can make more if we need,” she continues.
The first bite burns my tongue. I watch Camille lick white icing off of the side of her cinnamon roll before it drips on the floor. Even though I don’t usually like sweets, I scarf down the rest of mine and grab another.
“So good,” she murmurs.
I’m not sure if Camille is aware of how sexy she looks, licking and biting and moaning the way she is. I’d give just about anything to be the source of her pleasure.
“What do you think of the rolls?” she asks, meeting my stare.
Whatever she finds there makes her eyes heat. Does she know what she’s doing to me? I watch her tongue dart out again.
“I think they’re delicious,” I compliment, finishing my second one.
Sugar coats my mouth, and icing sticks to my fingers. I want to grab Camille, tug her to me, and see if she tastes just as sweet.
Her cheeks are rosy with a blush as she reaches for another roll. I blatantly stare, wondering how her mouth would work over other things, namely my skin.
“Do you want more?” she inquires, her tone becoming softer.
Does she mean of the cinnamon rolls, or her? I step closer.
I either need to get the hell out of this house right now, or I need to sink into her.
I don’t think there’s a middle ground anymore.
Where did the space I normally keep go? My focus has homed in on her.
Camille is so beautiful in the light of the fire, with flames brightening her hair and exposed skin.
She wears a tank top, sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and nothing else.
I grab another roll. She watches me finish it in three bites.
Camille reaches up and drags her finger across my lower lip.
It comes away with a drop of icing. The second she pops that finger into her own mouth, heat floods my veins.
Dark night presses against the glass windowpanes.
The world is quiet. There is only snow outside of the walls around us, trapping Camille and me together.
“Camille,” I growl. “How am I supposed to resist you when you touch me like that?”
“Maybe I don’t want you to resist,” she whispers.
Her mouth tilts toward mine, and the last thread of my restraint snaps.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
My lips crash into hers hungrily.
Fireworks explode under my skin. I’m not gentle, nor slow. There’s desperation in my movements. I can’t get the intoxicating scent of her out of my mind—a field of never-ending wildflowers. Her head tilts to the side, giving me access to her neck, where her pulse shudders.
“Camille,” I groan, nipping the spot above her collarbone.
This is it, what everything has built up to—months of wanting her but holding back. Maybe that’s why I have lost total control. Perhaps that’s why I feel as though I might burst if I don’t take every inch of her right now.
She fans her fingers through my hair, forcing my mouth back to hers.
My hands travel to her sides, gripping them tightly as I press as closely as I can.
For a beat, Camille pulls back and searches my gaze.
I hope she finds whatever she’s looking for, because words elude me as I bite the skin just under her jaw, and then the shell of her ear.
It’s not enough. I’m not nearly close enough.
“More,” she demands.
Her lips sear mine. An arrow of sensation lances my insides when she traces a thumb down the column of my throat.
She offers me a hand that feels smooth against my calloused one, before tugging me toward her bedroom.
She’s a vision, eyes hooded with lust. I must look rough next to her with two days’ worth of stubble covering my jaw and hunger in my stare.
When we stop next to her bed, Camille arches, her soft curves pressing into me.
She tugs at my hair, her hand rasping against my cheek.
“Dawson,” she pants.
Her curls bunch up around her face and dive down her back. I want to know what they look like against her bare, creamy skin.
I lift her into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist, and reposition her on the ivory comforter. Camille pulls at my shirt, wishing it gone. The heat from the thick fire reaches fingers into the room, warming us both. Something pulls low in my gut, a desperate need.
My shirt makes its way to the corner of the bed, and then Camille pauses to take in my features.
My chest rises and falls rapidly. Her touch heats my skin, scorching like a shot of whiskey as she trails a finger down my stomach where she sucks in a breath, and then finally to the tie on my sweatpants where I strain to be set free.
Her fingers fumble. I reach for the hem of her shirt, ripping it over her head. I nearly lose all resolve at the sight of her. She’s not wearing a bra.
“So fucking beautiful,” I whisper, lowering my head to her chest.
Her nipples harden. I take one into my mouth, and then the other, before nipping the underside of her breasts, eliciting a plea.
“Please, Dawson,” she implores, tugging at my sweatpants.
They slide down with my boxers close behind. I hiss at the feel of Camille’s hand wrapped around me.
Eagerly, I peel off the rest of her clothes, and then look at her bared for me. I kiss her hips, down her thighs, and up the softer, delicate inside of her legs until I’m at her center.
“Yes,” she pleads.
I want to devour her.