Chapter 11 #2
As I come down from the high of my orgasm, I become aware of Cam's hard length pressing against me.
I reach for his belt, my fingers trembling slightly as I unbuckle it.
His breath hitches as I unbutton his pants and slowly pull down the zipper.
I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of my own excited pulse.
"My turn." I slide my hand into his boxers, wrapping my fingers around his thick, hard shaft.
He groans softly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I stroke him gently, feeling the smooth skin and the rigid heat beneath.
His hips jerk forward, seeking more friction, but I take my time, teasing him just as he teased me.
I sink to my knees, never breaking eye contact.
His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted as he watches me with an intensity that sends another rush of heat through me.
I lean in, running my tongue along the length of his shaft, from base to tip.
He hisses, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder, gripping lightly.
I take him into my mouth, inch by inch, swirling my tongue around the sensitive head. He tastes salty and masculine, a flavor that is uniquely Cam. I relax my throat, taking him deeper, until he hits the back of my throat. He groans, a low, feral sound that vibrates through his body.
I begin to move, bobbing my head up and down, creating a rhythm that has his hips moving in sync. I use my hand to stroke the part of his shaft that I can't reach with my mouth, twisting and pumping in time with my movements. His breath comes in quick gasps, his fingers digging into my shoulder.
"You're going to kill me."
I can feel him getting closer, his cock swelling in my mouth, his hips moving faster.
I look up at him, our eyes locking, and the raw, primal need I see in his gaze sends a surge of power through me.
I double my efforts, wanting to push him over the edge, wanting to feel him come undone because of me.
His hand moves to the back of my head, guiding me, but not forcing.
I can feel his thighs trembling, his body tensing.
I know he's close. I take him deep one last time, and he explodes in my mouth, his hot release pulsing down my throat.
I swallow, taking everything he gives me, until his body finally stills.
I release him slowly, licking my lips as I look up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded and sated. He reaches down, pulling me to my feet, and kisses me deeply, not caring that I just had him in my mouth.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head. "I don't have words."
"Good thing you're better with actions," I tease, helping him straighten his clothes while he does the same for me.
We emerge from the closet looking only slightly rumpled, and I'm congratulating myself on our stealth when Tyler appears around the corner, takes one look at us, and grins.
"Supply run?" he asks valiantly innocent.
"Inventory confirmed," Cam replies, not even having the decency to look embarrassed.
I, tragically, feel my face flame red.
"Back to work," I mutter, smoothing my hair and trying to pretend I wasn't just on my knees in a closet.
The bistro door chimes. I look up to see a courier in a crisp uniform approaching the counter, a long, flat box in his hands.
"Tara Haynes?" he asks, checking his tablet.
"Yes," I smile at him.
He hands me the box and tablet for signature. My hands shake slightly as I sign, and I see Cam notice. The courier leaves, and I'm left staring at the elegant black box tied with silver ribbon.
There's no return address, and the quality of the packaging screams expensive. This isn't Prime.
"You going to open it?" Cam asks, but his voice has changed. Gone is the playful tone from moments before. He's alert now, protective instincts engaged.
Cam slides his phone out, snaps the label, the ribbon, my hands. ‘Chain of custody,’ he says, already texting the images to Chief Alvarez.
I untie the ribbon with careful fingers, lift the lid, and my oxygen burns its way down.
Inside is a silk scarf—exquisite, ridiculously expensive, the kind of designer piece that costs more than most people's monthly rent. The fabric is gorgeous, a deep burgundy that would complement my skin tone perfectly.
Tucked beneath the scarf is a note on heavy Delacroix letterhead. The handwriting is elegant, familiar.
Fall's coming, ma chérie. Time to come home. ~ J
The French endearment hits like a slap. My father always called me that when he wanted something—his little darling, his perfect daughter, his living memory bank.
It's a leash disguised as a gift.
"Tara." Cam's voice seems to come from very far away. "What is it?"
I can't answer. I'm staring at the scarf, this silken noose from a life I thought I'd escaped: wealth, control, obligation. The note paper crinkles between my fingers as my hands start to shake.
The scarf is beautiful. It's also a threat wrapped in luxury, a reminder that my father's love has always come with strings attached.
Cam moves around the counter, taking the note from my nerveless fingers. I watch his expression darken as he reads it, the playful energy vanishing completely.
"J?" His voice hardens into that low, protective growl that makes him sound like the dangerous defenseman he is. "Your father?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I guess he knows where you are; where you’re working." It's not a question.
"I suppose he's always known," I whisper. "He just... he lets me think I'm free for a while. Then he reels me back in."
Cam's jaw clenches, and I see him fighting the urge to crush the note in his fist. Instead, he sets it carefully on the counter and focuses on me.
"Hey." His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "Look at me."
I do, and see fury burning in his dark eyes. Not at me—for me.
"You don't have to go anywhere," he says firmly. "This is just paper and fabric. It can't make you do anything."
"You don't understand." I pull away from his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. "He doesn't just ask. He orchestrates. Manipulates. He'll make staying here impossible, make the people I care about—"
I stop myself before I can finish that thought, but Cam catches it anyway. And it hangs between us, heavy with implication.
“This is a power move,” I say, voice thin. “He’s showing me he can reach me anywhere. Make me feel small.”
I can't breathe.
Cam doesn’t hesitate. He takes the scarf, shoves it back in the box, and pushes it across the counter like it’s vile.
"Then we get rid of it," he says simply. “We don’t preserve it, we don’t admire it—we destroy it.”
"It's not that easy—"
"It's exactly that easy, darling." He cups my face again, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're not seventeen anymore, sitting in a library planning your escape. You escaped. You built something real here."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "And I'm not going to let anyone—not your father, not your cousin, not anyone—take that away from you."
The conviction in his voice makes my chest tight. Few days ago, this man was a cocky hockey player with a concussion. Now he's my anchor in a storm I didn't see coming.
"What if he makes things difficult for you? For the town?"
"Let him try." Cam's smile is sharp, predatory. "I've been hit by guys twice his size moving twice as fast. Your daddy doesn't scare me."
I want to believe him. I want to sink into his confidence and let him handle everything. But I know my father in ways Cam doesn't. Julien Delacroix doesn't fight fair, and he doesn't fight clean.
"Cam—"
"Nope." He silences me with a quick, hard kiss. "No spiraling. No catastrophizing. We deal with this together, remember?"
The kiss makes me feel steadier. Not safe—I'm not sure I'll ever feel truly safe—but steadier.
"What do you want to do with it?" he asks, nodding toward the box.
I look at the elegant packaging, the expensive ribbon, the weight of expectation wrapped in silk.
"I want to burn it," I say, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice.
Cam's grin is fierce, approving. "Now you're talking."
The scarf is just the opening move in a game my father has been playing for decades.
And somewhere out there, Lucien is making his own moves, for reasons I'm only starting to understand. His chaos wrapped in charm and violence.
The thought makes me shiver and Cam notices immediately, pulling me closer.
My phone buzzes against my hip. A text from yet another unknown number.Your father sends gifts. I send warnings. Careful, cousin—loose lips sink more than ships.
I hand Cam the phone before my nerves can betray me. He scans the message, lips pressing into a grim line, then exhales with a dry laugh.
“Figures. Your father plays empire-builder, Lucien plays wrecking ball. Different playbooks, same obsession with power.”
His eyes sharpen, the flash of a defenseman spotting an opening on the ice. “They might chase the same prize, but they’ll undercut each other getting to it. All we have to do is keep them skating into each other’s lanes.”
The casual observation shouldn’t feel like strategy. But it does. Because he’s right. Julien and Lucien will trip each other up trying to reach me. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like doom—it feels like possibility.
Cam’s hand brushes mine, and suddenly I don’t feel hunted. I feel like a player with the puck on my stick.
“Then let’s make them collide,” I whisper.