Cameron #2
“I’m pretty sure that what I do stopped being your business a long time ago,” I repeat his words from last night back to him, and Atticus snarls.
In a flash, his mouth is pressed to my neck, right over the hickey I was given last night. His lips latch on, sucking angrily as a small grunt leaves me, my body immediately crumbling and writhing against him.
He nips and sucks until I’m sore and raw, and as Atticus raises his head and appraises the spot, he’s panting and glaring. A string of spit hangs from his bottom lip and connects gently to my skin.
His hands twitch. “How can it not be my business when your body reacts as if I still own it? As if it’s mine to take, to mark?”
My chest tightens, reacting to his words as thoroughly as his touch. Pain is blossoming within me, and it has nothing to do with his teeth or his lips and everything to do with what we’ve lost. Of what I threw away in my attempt to keep him all to myself.
If I had trusted him to deny Cassie, would we be somewhere else entirely?
Suddenly, all of my anger is gone, and all that’s left inside of me is longing, desire, and an angry misery that is eating me alive.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, feeling my eyes grow wet and hot. “I’m so fucking sorry for what I said, Atticus. I just didn’t want to lose you; I didn’t want to spend a single moment imagining you with someone else.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, his glazed eyes still locked onto the column of my neck.
“I like that you’re controlling. I like that you’re aggressive and demanding and possessive. I want your touch, your words, your guidance.” The words are pouring out of me, as if this will be the very last time I’m able to confess them.
To gift them to him in desperation and fear.
I’m so fucking terrified that the only version of him I’ll ever touch again is the cold, disoriented version that’s visited my bedroom.
Atticus groans, turning that glare onto my pleading eyes as he fumbles with the button of my jeans. “You’re cruel, Cameron. So incredibly mean.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my tears now falling steadily. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Leave you?” He drops to his knees before me, startling the very depths of my soul with something hot and confusing, considering the current conversation we’re having. “You left me when you reduced me to a crazy, repulsive monster.”
“No,” I cry, my hands fisting at my sides as he rips my jeans and briefs down my thighs. “I didn’t leave! I begged you to stay.”
I’m embarrassingly hard from all the throat sucking he just did, and he eyes me hungrily, though the anger never leaves him.
Not for a moment.
“You can beg all you want, sweetheart,” he tells me, “but all I can hear is your voice tearing me to shreds.”
The endearment, the nickname he gave me so long ago, sounds so sweet. So intimate and intentional that it makes this entire situation so much worse.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I whisper, jolting as his hand wraps around the base of my dick. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”
Atticus doesn’t reply to that. Instead, he sucks my tip inside his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as if he’s trying to pull the truth from inside of me.
I choke through a broken sob, my own tears pooling into my mouth and dripping from my chin as I hunch over, pleasure and pain in equal doses pooling inside of me.
But I can’t seem to stop talking, to stop confessing.
“You’re so beautiful,” I push out through my cries. “You’re so much better than I am: smart and strong and successful. I don’t deserve your grace, but I want it anyway. I’m horrible and greedy, and I miss you.”
It’s a desperate admission, a plea.
Atticus pops off of me with a growl, his own eyes a tad wet as he glares up at me. “Shut up! Stop talking. I won’t let you fool me twice. I can’t. I’m not… I’m not the same as I once was. I’m not the same guy you could trust to save you.”
I’m not thinking straight. I can’t, not with him before me like this and all my darkest, most pathetic secrets spilling free.
My hands reach for him, cupping the sides of his face and ravishing the way he leans in, lashes fluttering.
“But I think I love you,” I confess, quiet and broken.
And Atticus loses it.
He groans, but it’s just as full of misery as it is of pleasure. Like it hurts him to hear, to acknowledge. And he swallows me up, taking all of me into the back of his throat as he works me over angrily, greedily.
“Fuck!” I sob, my hands rubbing gently against his skin as his eyes drill into mine.
The hazel is flooding, filling with tears that could be related to the weight of me or my confession. I wipe at them as they fall, my own body shuddering with emotion and physical stimulation.
“Keep me,” I plead, pushing as much honesty into my gaze as possible. “Boss me around, take control. I’ll give it to you—all of me. All of my freedom.”
Pleasure is building at the base of my spine, my dick swelling and my balls drawing tight as I imagine a life in which Atticus is always present. Taking care of me. Handling everything so that I can just fucking breathe.
He swallows roughly, his fingers moving from my hips to my ass, where he slips a finger down my crease and presses lightly over my hole.
I shudder, the sensation cresting, and begin to explode inside of his mouth.
“Please,” I moan, tasting my own tears as I clench my eyes shut against the onslaught of feeling. “Please.”
Atticus milks me thoroughly, drawing out anything he can, and as I begin to soften in his mouth, he pops off slowly. As if he’s savoring it. As if he won’t be keeping me after all.
I only cry harder at this realization.
Atticus stands slowly, not bothering to wipe the drizzle of my come or his own spit from his chin.
It’s silent for a moment, with only his panting and my crying to fill the forest. He’s staring at me like he’s suffering, angry and miserable.
“You should leave now,” he tells me, voice rough and thick with emotion.
“Atticus,” I whisper, twitching as he pulls my pants back up.
“Go,” he mumbles. “I can’t keep you. You can’t fix this. It’s been too long; I’m damaged now.”
“I can help you; I can sort this out,” I insist.
I’ve already been begging and swallowing my pride; what’s a bit more? I don’t think I can live without him.
“Go,” he repeats softly, and the pain in his expression, the exhaustion in his tone, keep me from pleading any further.
So, I leave. Just as he did that night, so many years ago, I turn from him, and I leave.