25. Nell
Adam’s still alive—barely. Gurgling, choking, still scrabbling for each breath like it might be his last. But Cameron isn’t looking at him, not even glancing his way. His focus is on me.
And I should push him away.
I should protect what’s left of my heart, wrap it in steel and silence, and run before he shatters it for good. Because I will fall for him. It’s already happening—slipping in around the edges like a chokehold. And when I do, when I’ve sunk too deep to claw my way out, he’ll rip the floor out from under me.
He’ll leave.
He’ll leave me raw and wrecked, lonelier than I ever was before. Like loving him was just another bruise I let happen.
He drops to his knees like a wave giving way to gravity, and the sight steals the air from my lungs. His hands unhesitatingly find my thigh and hike it up over his shoulder like I’m weightless, like I’m his.
I’ve seen him do this before.
But not to me.
My mind spins, caught somewhere between drowning and free fall, between the ceiling and the dark pulse throbbing low in my belly.
Then his mouth finds me.
Hot. Demanding. Unapologetic.
His tongue flicks sharp at the seam of my throbbing clit—tracing heat like a brand, drawing a slick, staggering hunger to the surface with every stroke. I’m boneless. Shaking. Strung tight on the sound of my own breath.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. He’s already orchestrating my ruin—each movement coaxing my body into the shape he wants.
He knows exactly where to find the unravelling.
I want this so badly.
But I can’t let him break me. Not like this.
“Stop,”
I snap—sharper than I mean, but I need the air, the space, the control. My hands yank free from his hair, fists curling at my sides as I drag in a breath, desperate to reset the pulse pounding through my veins. I crush the ache clawing at me, shove it down deep where it can’t reach him.
He rises slowly, tight-jawed, and silent, eyes boring so deep into me I fear he might reach my soul. His frustration simmers just beneath the surface, writ clear in every tense muscle, every shallow breath.
And yeah—he’s hard as hell, straining against his jeans like his body hasn’t caught up with the command to stop.
But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t beg. Doesn’t move to touch me again.
He just watches.
And I wonder which one of us feels the fire more.
“We can’t. I can’t be hurt again.”
I don’t wait for his answer—can’t. I can’t look at that maddeningly perfect mouth, flushed and reckless from kissing me like it mattered.
I just move.
Past him. To Adam. Fingers curling tight around the rolling pin as I wrench it free from his throat, the sound guttural and wet. He gasps behind me, his eyes bloodshot and bulging from the suffocation, but I don’t turn. I walk. Out. Away. Letting Cameron finish what he started—whatever that is.
And I hate myself for it.
Hate that I’m running. That I ruined the only thing that’s made me feel anything close to wanted in longer than I want to admit.
But a man like him could never want a girl like me. That’s the truth, isn’t it?
He’s all clean lines and sharp certainty. I’m static—blurry at the edges, stitched together with stubbornness and too many apologies. I’d stain him just by standing too close.
Still…
The way he looked at me. The way he touched me.
Those moments—messy, breathless, real—they’ve sunk their hooks deep. And I know they’ll stay, lingering in the quiet. A flicker behind my eyes when I least expect them. I already feel them branded under my skin.
I need a drink. A stiff one. Maybe two.
And is it wrong—like morally, psychologically wrong—that while Cameron’s in the next room systematically annihilating my ex, all I can think about is how much charge my vibrator has left?
Something’s not right with me. Well—more not right than usual.
He’s literally destroying Adam in real time. Bones, ego, legacy—the works. And me?
I’m standing here flushed and breathless, haunted by the ghost of Cameron’s mouth on my skin.
What does that say about me?
Actually—I shouldn’t ask that of myself.
There’s no sound. Just stillness. A strange, suspended quiet pressing in around me—punctuated only by the soft shuffle of Boomerang, who’s apparently still hungry despite the apocalypse unfolding outside the door.
I pour more kibble into his bowl and watch him devour it, tail flicking, completely unbothered. He purrs like nothing in the world has changed. As if my ex is currently being murdered in the other room.
When he settles again, curling up with a sigh that sounds suspiciously smug, I move to the cupboards—hunting for anything strong enough to burn through the ache in my chest.
My hand lands on a dusty bottle. Some unnamed, angry-looking moonshine. I don’t sniff it. Don’t ask questions. I just pour it into one of the crystal glasses that doesn’t belong to me and throw it back in one swallow.
It scorches all the way down. Good.
I pour another.
And then another.
Now to find the vibrator.