13. Sal
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Sal
I didn’t want to get out of bed.
The thought surprised me. I was a man of routine, of discipline, of rising before dawn and attacking the day before it could attack me. Laziness was a weakness I’d beaten out of myself years ago.
But right now, with Camellia’s warm body pressed against mine, her leg thrown over my hip, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest that raised goosebumps in their wake... I couldn’t think of a single reason to move.
This was supposed to be revenge.
That’s how it started. Two people united by a common enemy, working together to make someone else’s life miserable. A business arrangement. A transaction. Nothing more.
So when the fuck did I fall for her?
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. Maybe it was when she’d snarled at me in the warehouse, covered in dirt and defiance.
Maybe it was when she’d laughed with my men like she belonged here.
Maybe it was when she’d touched my hand in the kitchen and looked at me like I was worth something more than the violence I was capable of.
Or maybe it was last night, when she’d fallen apart in my arms and whispered my name like it was the only word she knew.
She stirred against me. Her eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and when they found mine, a smile spread across her face. Soft. Unguarded. Real.
“Good morning,” I mumbled.
“Good morning,” she whispered back.
My heart did a fucking somersault.
What was happening to me?
I rolled, pinning her beneath me, burying my face in her neck. She shrieked, the sound dissolving into laughter as my stubble scraped against her sensitive skin.
“Stop! That tickles!”
I didn’t stop. I kissed her neck, her jaw, the spot behind her ear that made her squirm. She was laughing and pushing at my shoulders and I was grinning so wide it hurt, drunk on the sound of her happiness.
Then I kissed her mouth.
She stopped laughing.
Her hands slid from my shoulders into my hair, pulling me closer, her lips parting to let me in. The kiss went from playful to heated in seconds, her body arching up against mine, my cock already hardening against her thigh.
“Sal.” She pulled back, breathless. “We need to get up.”
“No we don’t.”
“We have part two of the plan at noon.”
Fuck.
The plan. The fundraiser. Logan’s very public humiliation.
I’d almost forgotten. Almost let myself believe we could stay in this bed forever, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world locked outside.
“Fine.” I kissed her one more time. Then I gathered her in my arms and stood, carrying her toward the bathroom.
“What are you doing?”
“Multitasking.” I kicked the bathroom door open. “We can get ready and I can have you at the same time.”
“That’s not how multitasking works.”
“It is now.”
I set her down and reached into the shower, turning the water on hot. Steam started filling the room as I grabbed her toothbrush, added paste, and handed it to her.
“Brush.”
She raised an eyebrow but took it. I grabbed my own and we stood side by side at the double sinks, brushing our teeth, watching each other in the mirror. It was absurdly domestic. Ridiculously normal. A mundane intimacy I’d never experienced with anyone.
I liked it.
She spat, rinsed, wiped her mouth. I did the same.
Then I grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shower.
The water was perfect. Hot enough to steam, not hot enough to burn. It sluiced over us both as I backed her against the tile wall, my hands sliding into her wet hair.
“Shampoo first,” she said, but she was smiling. “I have standards.”
“Fine.”
I grabbed the shampoo bottle and squeezed some into my palm. Then I turned her around, pressed her back against my chest, and started working the lather through her hair.
She moaned.
An actual moan, low and throaty, her head falling back against my shoulder.
“That feels incredible.”
“I know.”
My fingers massaged her scalp, working the shampoo through every strand. She relaxed against me, boneless and trusting, and the intimacy of it hit me harder than I expected. This woman in my arms. In my shower. In my life.
Mine.
I rinsed her hair carefully, shielding her eyes from the suds. Then I reached for the conditioner.
“You don’t have to...”
“I want to.”
I worked the conditioner through, taking my time, letting my fingers detangle the wet strands. She was practically purring against me, her ass pressed against my cock, which was very much aware of her proximity.
“Your turn.” She took the shampoo from me and turned around. “Lean down.”
I leaned.
Her fingers in my hair were heaven. Firm and sure, scratching lightly against my scalp, working the lather through. I closed my eyes and let her take care of me.
When was the last time anyone had taken care of me?
I couldn’t remember.
She rinsed my hair, then grabbed the body wash. “Arms up.”
I raised my arms. She soaped her hands and started washing me, her palms sliding over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. Clinical at first, efficient, but then her hands slowed. Her fingers traced the lines of my muscles, the ridges of my scars, mapping my body like she was memorizing it.
“You’re beautiful,” she murmured.
“Men aren’t beautiful.”
“You are.” Her hand slid lower. Wrapped around my cock. “Especially here.”
I hissed. “Cami...”
“Shh.” She stroked me slowly, her soapy fist gliding up and down my cock. “Let me.”
I let her.
For about thirty seconds.
Then I grabbed her wrist, spun her around, and pressed her face first against the tile.
“My turn.”
My hands slid over her body, soaping every inch of her. Her shoulders. Her back. The curve of her waist. The swell of her ass. I knelt behind her and washed her legs, her calves, the sensitive skin behind her knees.
Then I stood and pressed myself against her back, my cock nestled between her ass cheeks, my hands sliding around to cup her breasts.
“Sal.” Her voice was breathless. Needy.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it.”
“Fuck me.” She pushed back against me, grinding her ass against my cock. “Please. I need you inside me.”
I reached past her, grabbed the condom I’d left on the shower shelf this morning, and rolled it on. Then I gripped her hip with one hand and guided the head of my cock to her pussy with the other.
“Hold on to something.”
She braced her hands against the tile.
I pushed inside.
The sound she made was half moan, half sob. Her pussy stretched around me, hot and tight and so fucking perfect. I gave her a moment to adjust, my forehead pressed to her shoulder blade, my breath coming hard and fast.
“Okay?” I managed.
“Move. God, please move.”
I moved.
Hard. Deep. The water streaming over us as I fucked her against the shower wall. Her moans echoed off the tile, mixing with the sound of wet skin against wet skin, my grunts of effort, her gasps of pleasure.
“Yes.” She was pushing back to meet each thrust, taking me deeper. “Yes, yes, right there, don’t stop.”
I reached around and found her clit. Circled it with my fingers in time with my thrusts. She cried out, her whole body clenching.
“You feel so good.” I bit her shoulder. “So tight. So wet. Made for me.”
“Sal.” Her voice was breaking. “I’m close. I’m so close.”
“That’s it.” I thrust harder, my fingers working her clit faster. “Give it to me, fiore. All of it.”
She shattered.
I felt her pussy clamp down on me, felt her legs give out, had to wrap my arm around her waist to hold her up as she convulsed through her orgasm. The sensation pulled me over the edge with her, my own release tearing through me, my teeth sinking into her shoulder to muffle my groan.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling. The water starting to cool around us.
“We need to wash again,” she mumbled against the tile.
“I know.”
Neither of us wanted to move.
Finally, I pulled out and turned her around. Kissed her softly. Gently. The way I’d wanted to kiss her since the moment I saw her at the bottom of those stairs in that red dress.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured against her lips.
We washed again. Quickly this time. Then I wrapped her in the biggest, fluffiest towel I owned and carried her to the bedroom.
“I can walk,” she protested.
“I know.”
I didn’t put her down.
Time for the show.
***
By noon we were dressed and in the car, and the political fundraiser was everything I hated.
Champagne and canapés and people who smiled at you while calculating exactly what you could do for them.
A crush of guests crammed into a historic mansion, all of them dripping with wealth and influence and the particular brand of hypocrisy that came from pretending to care about causes while really only caring about being seen.
But it was perfect for our purposes.
Logan was here. Rosalie too, still performing the pregnancy with her hand on her stomach, still playing the victim whenever anyone mentioned the “unfortunate situation” at the Caldwell wedding.
And the story Greta had planted was doing its work.
I could see it in the little glances, the heads bending together, the way certain women looked at Camellia and then looked quickly away.
They’d all read it. The crazy ex. The jealous liar.
The unstable woman who’d invented an affair and torched a wedding out of spite.
Camellia walked into it like she owned the room.
A silver-haired woman in diamonds peeled away from her cluster and approached us, sympathy dripping off her so fake it curdled the air. “Camellia, darling. We were all just so worried about you. After everything. How are you holding up?”
It was a knife wrapped in a smile. Are you still unwell, dear? Should we be frightened of you?
Camellia smiled. Warm. Easy. Not a crack in it.