7. Camryn
Seven
Camryn
I’m pulled from sleep by a seemingly never-ending rumble of thunder, so loud and close that I can feel it rattling the building. Rain pelts the windows in a sheet, and as I slowly open my eyes, I can see lightning flicker between the gap in the curtains.
I love a good storm.
I swing my feet over the side of the bed and cross my bedroom to the window, pulling back the curtains.
It’s raining so hard that all I can see are blurred lights and a sudden white-blue streak of lightning across the sky.
With the penthouse being so high up, it’s as though the storm is happening not above me, but all around me.
When I lived here in my teens, I used to watch storms from the living room. The massive windows face towards the lake, giving a completely unobstructed view of the rain or snow.
A grin spreads across my face as I step away from the curtains and decide to head for the living room now, just like old times.
The penthouse is dark as I move through it, only a faint glow coming from the recessed lightning in the hallway.
Another dim light shines in the kitchen, just enough to see my way.
I can hear the rain drops hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows, calling me towards the living room.
Lightning flashes again, casting the space in sharp, white light for half a second.
Thunder booms all around me, making my bones rattle, and my grin from earlier returns.
I grab the plush throw tossed over the back of the couch and settle it around my bare legs, snuggling into the cushions.
The storm outside picks up even more, rain hitting the glass in loud splatters, thunder rumbling in the distance as lightning strobes.
I love the feeling of being safe. Of being tucked up here in this penthouse, on this couch, as a wild thunderstorm drenches the city. There’s a coziness to it. A hominess.
I realize that I’ve had elements of that feeling ever since I showed up here almost a week ago. Being here with him makes me feel safe. Cozy. Like it doesn’t matter how wild the rest of the world gets, as long as I’m here, with him, I’ll be fine.
But am I fine? I trace my fingers along the edge of the ridiculously soft blanket as I watch the storm and let my thoughts filter through my mind. I’m technically homeless, and staying with my former stepfather. My former stepfather who I want to do filthy, unspeakable things with.
What I feel for Jacob—it feels wrong to call it a crush, because it’s more than that—is consuming and intense and most likely impossible.
But…I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when I was trying on clothes for him.
When I stepped out in that emerald dress, I saw the way his eyes went all dark and melty.
I saw the way he clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists.
Like he was barely holding himself back.
I might be inexperienced, but I didn’t imagine that. I know I didn’t.
But what the hell do I do with that?
Because there’s a vast difference between looking and…more. Just because he looked doesn’t mean anything. He’s far too controlled to let anything inappropriate happen between us.
So I should just stop thinking about this, because regardless of the eye-fucking he gave me the other day, it’s never going to go anywhere.
I chew on my bottom lip, uncertainty and frustration coiling low in my stomach.
What if I’m just some silly, inexperienced, naive girl to him? What if I’m reading everything wrong? Given my lack of experience, it’s entirely possible. I hate that I can’t trust what feels right and natural in this situation. Because what feels right and natural is also…well, pretty taboo.
You’re killing me, Cam.
Those delicious words replay through my mind, because they don’t feel like I’m reading things wrong. Especially not the way he said them, all anguished and sexy. Like he knows it’s wrong to want me, and he just can’t help it.
My stomach does a fun little flip at that thought.
Lightning flashes and thunder cracks, so loud it rattles the windows slightly.
It makes me jump a little, pulling me out of my Jacob fantasies.
I take a breath and snuggle back into the couch, and that’s when I hear the sound of a door opening somewhere in the penthouse, followed by slow, measured footsteps.
I feel it more than hear it when he steps into the living room, and I can’t stop myself from turning and glancing at him over my shoulder.
He’s already looking at me.
“Storm woke you up too, eh?” he asks, his voice rusty with sleep.
But I can’t answer. My tongue feels like it’s fused to the roof of my mouth, and my heart has transformed into a hummingbird that’s dive bombing my stomach.
Why? Because Jacob is shirtless.
His chest is broad and roped with muscle, his shoulders hard and round as boulders.
A faint dusting of dark hair covers his thick pecs and trails down the ridges of his abs—actual defined, countable abs, like he’s carved out of stone.
Like he’s some kind of fitness model. My gaze drops lower, following those delicious V lines at his hips that disappear into the waistband of his very, very low slung gray sweatpants.
I can see the spot where the happy trail joins the forest. I can see the very faint outline of his dick print.
Maybe it’s the shadows playing tricks, but it looks like there’s a lot of dick in there.
I force myself to swallow.
He’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. In fact, he’s so ridiculous that I have to consciously stop myself from telling him so out loud. How is he forty-eight years old and built like this? He looks like he could bench press me if he wanted to.
Does he want to? Because I would let him.
My fingers hurt from how hard I’m gripping the blanket as I openly ogle my former stepfather. I force my eyes up, but it’s too late. He’s caught me practically drooling over him. My face flames as his lips tip up into a crooked smirk.
“Um, yes,” I finally say after what feels like an eternity. “I thought I’d come watch it out here.”
“It’s a good storm watching spot,” he says, raking a hand through his messy hair. The movement makes his skin pull taught over his stomach, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from whimpering. “When it’s not pitch black, you can see the clouds moving over the lake from up here.”
I nod. “I remember.”
He rubs a hand absently over his stomach. I really hope he doesn’t decide to go put a shirt on. I’m having such a good time.
“You want a glass of wine?”
That’s not what I was expecting him to say, but I smile and nod. “Sure. Sounds like the perfect storm watching drink.”
He bobs his head in a nod and heads for the kitchen. It’s at this moment that I remember that I’m not wearing pants. Just an oversized Toronto Thunder t-shirt and a pair of panties.
Crap.
I should go put on pants. Right? Yes. Definitely. Jacob already caught me checking him out. If he figures out I’m in my underwear, that takes my creep factor to a whole new level.
But the decision is made for me as I run out of time and Jacob returns to the living room with two generously poured glasses of red wine. Biting my lip, I tuck the blanket more firmly around me. It’ll have to do.
The leather of the sofa creaks softly as he sinks down beside me, handing me one of the glasses. I take it with a small smile, and the glass is about halfway to my lips when he stops me.
“Wait.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and he tips his head. “We should have a toast.”
“A toast?”
He nods.
“To…storms,” I say, raising up my glass.
“To the unexpected,” he adds, then clears his throat.
I clink my glass against his and actually take a sip this time.
“Sorry if I’m…encroaching,” he says, his deep voice wrapping around me just like my modesty blanket.
I look at him, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs. “You seemed quite cozy out here.”
At that, I shake my head and take a sip of my wine.
It’s smooth and velvety, with a hint of fruity sweetness.
It tastes expensive, not at all like the twelve dollar bottles my friends and I buy.
“You’re not,” I assure him, and then huff out a quiet laugh.
“I’m the one who should be saying that, not you. ”
He looks over at me, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light as rain slaps rhythmically against the windows. Thunder rumbles in the distance. “It’s nice to have someone to watch the storm with.”
“It is,” I say, wondering if he’ll notice if I scoot closer to him on the couch.
I can feel the heat from his skin, and I want more of it, even though I shouldn’t.
There are so many things I shouldn’t want from Jacob, and yet…
I do. I can’t deny it, even if it’s wrong, given our age gap and our connection.
Lightning flashes and thunder cracks and for a moment, we sit in silence, taking in the symphony in front of us.
“I love the smell of rain,” he says offhandedly after a moment, and I get the sense that I’m seeing a side of him right now that not many others do. He’s not the cold, billionaire banker right now. He’s more real. More human.
Which is very bad for me, because I like this side of him even more than what he shows the world. I like it too much.
“Me too. That wet pavement smell, especially in the summer.”
“There’s a word for it,” he says, sipping his wine. “Petrichor.”
“Why am I not surprised you know the word for it?” I tease, bumping my shoulder against his. He’s like a furnace, giving off a ridiculous amount of heat.
“Because I seem like the type of man who has a big vocabulary?”
“Because you seem like the type of man who learns everything there is to know about things that interest him, which, apparently, includes the rain.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”
“It is,” I say quickly. “What’s your favourite thing to do when it’s raining?”
His gaze goes dark and hot, and he looks away quickly. He clears his throat, takes a sip of wine, does it again. “Uh. Read, I guess.”