33. Jules #3
The bond fills with her pleasure at my reaction. Not satisfaction at completing a task. Desire. Heat. The sharp, private thrill of knowing she can make me lose control.
There you are.
I brace one hand against the wall while she works me slowly, two fingers sliding through my folds before pressing inside my pussy.
“Oh, fuck.”
Camille’s gaze darkens.
She curls her fingers, and my head drops forward against her shoulder. Pleasure pulls through me, deep and steady, nothing like the frantic urgency of Barcelona. There is no need to outrun the morning. No need to pretend this means less than it does.
Her thumb strokes my clit while her fingers move inside me.
I kiss the side of her neck, breathing her in between broken sounds.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” she says.
“The only thing hurting me right now is your commitment to conversation.”
Her fingers stop.
I lift my head immediately. “I’m kidding. Please continue. Huge fan of your work.”
“Then answer.”
“Nothing hurts,” I insist.
“Your ribs?”
“Fine.”
“Knee?”
“Fine.”
“And this?”
She pushes deeper and curls her fingers against the spot that makes my entire body tighten.
I gasp. “Extremely fine.”
Camille kisses me before I can produce a worse answer.
She takes her time. That might be the most unbearable part. She knows exactly how to bring me close, then ease back before the pleasure crests. Every time I start chasing her hand, she steadies my hips and forces me to accept instead of rushing.
“Camille.”
“Yes?”
“I swear to God—“
“Be specific.”
“You’re evil.”
“That is not useful feedback.”
“Make me come already.”
Her expression changes.
The control remains, but something hungry moves beneath it.
“Ask properly,” she says.
I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
Heat burns through my face and the bond alike. She feels exactly how much the demand affects me.
Camille’s mouth curves.
Oh, she likes this.
“Please,” I say, leaning closer until my lips brush hers. “Please make me come, Cami.”
Her fingers move harder.
The sound that leaves me has no dignity in it.
She pins me carefully between her body and the shower wall, avoiding my injured side while her hand works between us. Her thumb presses firm circles against my clit. Her fingers curl inside me again and again, finding the rhythm that turns my legs weak.
I hold on to her shoulders.
The pleasure builds fast now, sharpened by the bond. I feel her arousal alongside mine, the ache between her thighs, the love wrapped around all of it.
It is too much and somehow exactly enough.
“Look at me,” she says.
I open my eyes.
Camille is watching me like there is nothing else in the world worth seeing.
That is what breaks me.
I come around her fingers with her name in my mouth. My body clamps tight as pleasure tears through me, bright and overwhelming. Camille holds me through it, one arm around my waist, the other still moving gently until every last tremor passes.
For a few seconds, I can only breathe against her neck.
“Still upright?” she asks.
“Debatable.”
Her lips touch my temple.
I smile against her skin. “That was very wife of you.”
“I’m relieved you approve.”
I pull back enough to look at her.
Her composure is already returning, but the bond tells the truth. She is aching. Wet. Trying to make this entirely about taking care of me.
Absolutely not.
I slide my hand between us.
Camille catches my wrist. “You do not have to.”
“I know. I want to. I want you.”
Her grip loosens.
I kiss her slowly while my fingers move lower, slipping between her thighs. She is slick against my hand, and the first stroke over her clit makes her breath catch.
“There she is,” I whisper.
Camille’s eyes narrow. “Do not narrate.”
“You love when I narrate.”
“I tolerate it.”
The bond flashes with a pleasure sharp enough to expose the lie.
I grin. “Liar.”
I guide her backwards towards the stone bench. Camille sits, and I step between her knees, careful not to kneel or twist my ribs.
Her thighs open for me.
The sight alone makes me want her all over again.
I kiss her as I slide two fingers inside.
Camille grips my hip.
She is quieter than I am. Of course she is. Even now, every sound seems to require permission. I move slowly at first, learning the rhythm she wants from the tension in her body and the pulses moving through our bond.
“Let me hear you,” I murmur.
Her eyes open. “You can feel me.”
“Not the same.”
I curl my fingers.
A low moan slips free. The sound goes straight through me.
“Again.”
“Jules.”
“Please.”
Something in her softens at that.
I move my thumb over her clit while pumping my fingers inside her, watching her control unravel one careful piece at a time. Her head tips back against the tile. Water runs down her throat, between her breasts, over the stomach I cannot stop touching.
She looks beautiful like this.
Not polished. Not contained.
Mine, but only because she keeps choosing to be.
I lean forward and take one of her nipples into my mouth.
Camille’s hips lift against my hand.
“Yes,” I whisper against her skin. “Like that.”
Her fingers tangle in my wet hair. She pulls me back up for a kiss, harder this time. Her tongue meets mine while I work her faster.
The bond fills until I cannot tell where her pleasure ends and mine begins.
“I love you,” I say against her mouth.
Camille freezes for half a second. Then her entire expression breaks open.
“I love you,” I repeat. “Not because you saved me. Not because we’re bonded. Just because you’re you.”
Her hand cups the back of my neck.
“Jules.”
“That’s not a full sentence.”
“I love you too.”
There it is.
Not shouted across a stage. Not forced out by fear.
Quiet. Certain. Ours.
I kiss her as she comes.
Her body tightens around my fingers, and the sound she makes disappears into my mouth. Pleasure bursts through the bond, warm and powerful enough to make my own thighs shake.
I hold her through it.
Camille’s forehead rests against mine when the tremors finally ease. Her breathing is uneven, her eyes closed, one hand still tangled in my hair.
I smile. “Very emotionally significant shower.”
Her eyes open.
“I regret moving in already.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”
We stay beneath the water until it begins to cool. Camille washes my hair because apparently orgasms do not suspend her commitment to completing tasks. I wash hers in return, which takes longer because I keep kissing her neck and distracting us both.
Eventually, she turns off the water and wraps me in a towel before taking one for herself.
She guides me back towards the bed, still monitoring my knee despite the fact that I have just demonstrated several advanced mobility skills.
I slip beneath the covers while she retrieves one of my oversized shirts from the drawer.
She looks at the shirt, then at me.
“I know it violates every tailoring principle you hold dear,” I say with a grin.
“It has a cartoon dog wearing sunglasses on it.”
“Angel picked it.”
“Angel cannot shop.”
“You underestimate her.”
Camille puts it on. The shirt hangs loose on her, the cartoon dog stretched across her chest. I stare openly.
This is the best night of my life.
She joins me in bed, settling carefully along my uninjured side. Her arm slides around my waist, and I rest my head against her shoulder.
The room is quiet again, but the silence no longer feels empty.
Tomorrow, we plan how to find the woman who escaped Eon.
Tonight, my wife moves in.
“We’re still here,” I whisper.
Camille presses a kiss to my hair. “Yes.”
Simple.
Certain.
I close my eyes and let the bond settle around us.
We did not win yet.
We only learned what we are fighting.
But with Camille’s hand resting over my heart, I know exactly what I am fighting for.