Chapter Twelve
Trenton
I held the door open, letting Camille glide past me into the house like a queen making her grand entrance at a ball—except the ballroom was our living room, and there was probably a half-eaten Pop-Tart on the coffee table. Her smile lingered, teasing me, like a light that could flicker out at any second. She kissed my cheek as she breezed by, ditched her purse on the console table, and headed straight for the shower.
From the doorway, I stood still, watching the steam rise toward the ceiling. My eyes drifted downward, tracing the lines of her body—every curve, every detail, and the ink I’d carefully drawn across her skin. The sight of her standing there under the stream of water behind steamy glass, humming a song familiar but that I couldn’t place, felt like a magnet pulling images to the forefront of my mind, thoughts I didn’t want to entertain.
Every time someone announced a pregnancy, it felt like getting punched in the nuts while cheering for a touchdown. Camille’s reactions were always a toss-up: she might smile and act like it didn’t sting until it didn’t, or she’d save it up for later, collapsing into my arms and ugly crying into my favorite T-shirt while I fought the urge to do the same. It really came down to her mood—if life was even slightly off-kilter, the next twenty-four hours were always an exhausting emotional minefield.
In that moment, I fought thoughts of putting a baby in her, but it was just as likely that she’d finish her shower, slip into bed, and cry us both to sleep.
Like the domestic god I was, I grabbed her towel from the hook and tossed it into the dryer, because nothing says I love you like hot laundry. When I got back, she was still relaxing under the water, suds and shaving cream sliding down her body in a way that made it nearly impossible to focus on feelings instead of my stupid caveman urges. The water gathering around the drain turned clear, and just as I was about to hang the fluff in my hand over the hook, she called out to me.
“Right here, baby doll,” I drawled, opening the door and handing her the towel.
She sighed, her wet strands sticking to her jaw and neck, a light smudge of mascara under her eyes. “You’re the absolute best.”
I undressed while Camille dried off, her movements methodical as she ran through her nightly routine in front of the mirror. The room was silent as I watched with quiet fascination until she finished. She turned off the lights, hung up her robe, and then poured herself into the bed next to me.
We both exhaled as she wiggled her way into my arms, nuzzling her nose against my neck, her slightly damp hair still radiating that post-blow-dryer warmth. Her naked body tangled in mine, soft and inviting, smelling like Heaven’s hair salon. I tried to focus on anything else to keep my dick from stiffening under my boxer briefs, but we were too close, her skin was too smooth, and she was wearing nothing but an irresistible post-shower glow that made it impossible not to think of slippery skin and clean sheets.
She giggled against my chest.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” I blew out a breath, frustrated with my own lack of self-control.
Her hand traveled over the rise and falls of my abdomen, and then her fingers breached my waistband, her warm palm and fingers encapsulating my shaft with the perfect amount of pressure.
“It’s been an emotional day for you. I just wanna hold you like this,” I spoke softly, squeezing her with both arms. I wasn’t lying. Part of me was determined to only be the emotional support husband in that moment.
Her hand tightened. “I just want to hold you like this.” She tilted her head upward, waiting until I met her gaze.
“You sure?” I asked, feeling my heart begin to pound against my ribcage.
She grinned and then kissed me, tugging down my boxers with one hand.
I helped her and then used my feet to push my only article of clothing down the rest of the way. Sucking on her bottom lip and then biting it gently, I pulled back a bit while the tender skin was still between my teeth, and then watched her watch me kiss and lick my way from her belly button to the sweet spot between her thighs.
Her head fell back when my tongue ever so lightly grazed her clit, and then with a firmer stroke, I began at the bottom and tasted her all the way to the top, taking my time, my dick screaming to be inside her every time her hips made the slightest movement against my mouth.
Camille writhed beneath me, her body begging me to stop teasing her with small kisses and flicks of my tongue, so I buried my face into her, feeling her fingers dig into the top of my head.
“Baby,” she breathed, “I want you inside me.”
Fuck yeah. Go time.
I kissed my way back up her body, groaning when my dick slid inside of her, wet enough for glide, tight enough for friction. She held her knees as I tensed my ass and slid into her. With each gentle thrust, I could feel the buildup, the overwhelming, euphoric frustration as she pulled me into her, arching her ass to meet me where it felt best.
I grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, holding her gaze with a teasing smirk.
“What’s wrong?” I asked softly, the hint of a challenge in my voice.
Her breath hitched. “Did you just read The Notebook ? What’s with the romance? Why are you being so…”
Before she could finish, I tensed, claiming her attention in one swift motion and the sound of the headboard knocking against the wall. The look in her eyes shifted as the surprise faded, and a slow grin spread across her lips.
“This is what you want?” I whispered against her mouth, my voice low, filled with intent.
Her chest rose with a shaky breath. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Say it.”
“I want you,” she breathed. “I want you to fuck me.”
I slid my thumb into her mouth, my breath hitching as her warm lips closed around it. My eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the sensation of her soft, deliberate movements. “That’s what I’m doing, baby. Just warming you up.”
“I’m past warm,” she said between labored breaths.
Prelude complete. My body moved against hers with a desperate rhythm, her moans filling the room as the bed rocked beneath us. Pausing only long enough to sit on my knees and lift her ankles to rest on my shoulders, I dug my fingers into her hips and picked up the same rhythm, pulling her to glide over me again and again. Each thrust made my dick pulse with tingling ecstasy, fracturing out like lightning through every nerve, my body the sky.
I flipped her over and climbed off the bed, planting my bare feet on the floor as I dragged her until she was bent over the edge, using my hand to guide my dick just enough that I could grab her hips and pull her to me as I sunk inside of her again.
She cried out into the mattress, grabbing a pillow in her fist. She looked back at me with a tired, impish grin. “That’s what I wanted.”
I pulled out, but before she could protest, I flipped her onto her back again, hooked my elbows under her knees, and with my hands on her shoulders, I lifted her until she was facing me, her fingers digging into the back of my neck.
I lowered her slowly, my cock easily encompassed by her wet and silky pink skin. She moaned against my cheek as I filled every inch of her, and then she pressed her cheek firmly against mine as I began bouncing her ass against my hips. My biceps began to burn as I lifted and lowered her over and over, but the sounds she made in my ear made the pain easy to ignore.
I knew she was thinking the same thing I was; it had been far too long since I’d had her in the air, helpless as I fucked her as fast or as slow as I wanted, keeping her right on the edge. After listening to her come for years, the slight change in the pitch as she begged told me she was close, so I let her fall onto her back, flipped her over again, and then reached around, rubbing small circles against her clit as I picked up the pace.
Coming at the same time was always the goal, and just as I felt her insides tighten and overwhelm me, my entire body began to tense and then release, causing a chain reaction I had no control over. With my free hand, I reached under her arm and grabbed her shoulder from beneath, pulling her against me, groaning through clenched teeth.
After a few moments, our labored breathing the only sounds, I stood and massaged my fingers into the muscles of her back, kneading the tension away while still inside her. “Good girl.”
She exhaled with absolute contentment. “Best. Husband. Ever.”
“Did you get what you wanted?”
All she could manage was an almost imperceivable nod against the mattress, her arms splayed on each side of her, her hands in weak fists.
She complained when I finally disengaged, settling onto her side of the bed as I fetched the towel she’d used after her shower. I handed it to her, noting the longing in her eyes was still there, but it was different. She didn’t say anything as she used the towel and handed it back, and she was still quiet when I put it in the hamper and returned to the bed, not making a sound even when I pulled her into my arms. The silence between us wasn’t cold, but it was fragile, like one wrong word would shatter the last thirty minutes.
She looked back at me with a mix of emotions only I could read—the conflict of satisfaction, love, sadness, and a little bit of guilt.
I swallowed hard, not sure what to say. What words would reassure her that it was okay to default back to the hope that this time would be the miracle we both so desperately wanted?
Camille nodded, understanding that we both felt the same deep, aching feeling in our chests. Raegan and Wesley, last I’d heard, weren’t even trying. It could’ve been as simple as a flippant conversation over lunch about getting off birth control, and now they were expecting a child. It wasn’t fair, and that thought sent a wave of guilt through every inch of my soul. We were still happy for everyone who seemed to so easily achieve what we couldn’t, and yet the sting of it made it feel difficult to breathe.
“It’s okay,” I said, hugging her to me. “I’m hoping this was it, too.”
She nodded and looked away, relaxing her head into the warmth of my arm. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and exhaled. I tried to balance being strong and bearing the weight of our struggle with her, but sometimes comfort was just too far for words to reach.
The next morning, words didn’t come any easier. Camille stood at the kitchen island, absentmindedly rubbing her fingers along the smooth edge of her coffee mug.
I cupped my hands on her hips and kissed the back of her hair. “This is the part where I start to get nervous. Those old conversations pop up in my mind where you talk about leaving.”
She turned to face me. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry I ever said it. It was stupid, and I can see the worry on your face every time we hear someone we know is expecting. I’m not going to lie to you; those thoughts still creep in, but I fight with them every time and win.”
I kissed her forehead, looking up at the ceiling fan in the living room slowly turning, trying to focus on something else so I didn’t revert back into the old version of me who’d lose his shit at the mere thought of losing the love of my life.
“It just feels like everyone around us is moving forward with their lives, and we’re just… stuck,” she said.
The pain in her voice sliced through me. I pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes. “Being stuck with you is the best possible scenario,” I said. “You’re more than enough for me.”
“I just hate dragging you through this.”
“Cami…” I warned, my heart beating faster. “Don’t. Don’t start with the you didn’t sign up for this talk. I signed up for you—just you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Anything else would just be a bonus.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” she sighed, setting down her mug. “If it’s just us, it’s enough.”
I frowned, dubious.
“I just want to give you children,” she said, her eyes immediately filling with tears and spilling down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away and turned back to face the sink. “That’s it. I want to, so badly, but no matter what I do… I can’t. And so many things remind me of that. Every baby, every baby shower invitation, every time we’re in bed together… and I just wonder… when will it stop? When I’m too old to have children? Because I’m just so tired of feeling that I’m failing you, that a part of our future is slipping away. And I know, I know you’d rather have me than a house full of kids. I know that, and still, it gnaws at me.”
I squeezed her. She’d already heard what I wanted to say dozens of times before.
“I love you so much,” she said.
I tensed, worried what she’d say next.
“The way you listen, let me vent, and just,” she sighed, “let me feel what I’m feeling… makes it all feel less… suffocating.” She held my arms against her middle. “And I don’t think I’ve told you that. Everything you do, if you didn’t know, is exactly what I need.”
I felt my eyes burn. “Yeah?”
Her head fell back against my chest. “Yeah. No one has a handbook for this, and somehow you do everything right.”
My muscles relaxed. “I really needed to hear that. Thanks for saying it.”
She turned, and we stood there in the kitchen, holding on to each other like the world didn’t exist outside of that moment. Those few words soothed something raw inside me, repairing threads that had been slowly fraying over time. It’s strange how a little acknowledgment could work like extra-strength Gorilla Glue, sealing the cracks in my confidence. Just like that, I felt a renewed sense of purpose, reassured that I was still capable of holding down the fort.
“I’ll say it more,” she whispered.