Chapter 10 #2
He began to move.
It wasn't gentle. It was primal. He held my hips in a vice grip, slamming into me with a rhythm that shook my entire body. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the tiled room.
"Look in the mirror," he commanded again.
I turned my head. I watched us.
It was erotic. It was pornographic. The way he dominated the space. The way I clung to him.
"You like that?" he asked, thrusting deep and hitting a spot that made my vision blur.
"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, Sir."
He froze for a second. The honorific. Sir.
A growl ripped from his throat.
"Fuck," he swore.
He increased the pace. He was pounding into me now, losing the precise control he prized so much. He was messy. He was desperate.
"Mila," he panted against my ear. "I can't... I can't hold back."
"Don't," I cried. "Give it to me. Give me everything."
"I'm going to fill you," he promised. "I'm going to make sure you can't walk right for a week."
He grabbed my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. He bit down on the sensitive skin, marking me again.
I felt him tense. His muscles turned to rock under my hands.
"Cam!" I yelled as the second wave hit me.
He groaned, a long, guttural sound of release. He thrust three more times, hard and fast, and then buried himself deep inside me, shaking with the force of his climax.
We stayed like that for a long time. Him buried inside me, his face in my neck, me clinging to him like a lifeline.
The silence returned to the bathroom. The only sound was our harsh, ragged breathing.
My heart was beating so hard it hurt.
He slowly pulled back. He looked at me. His eyes were blown wide, vulnerable and terrified.
He pulled out gently. He grabbed a towel and cleaned us up with shaking hands.
Then he lifted me off the counter. My legs wobbled.
"I told you," he murmured, catching me. "Can't walk."
He picked me up bridal style. He carried me back to the bed.
He lay down and pulled me into his arms, pulling the duvet up over us.
We lay in the tangled sheets, the morning light fully illuminating the room now. There were no shadows to hide in.
"That was..." I started, but my voice failed.
"Yeah," he agreed.
He ran a hand down my spine. It was a possessive, heavy touch.
"Mila?"
"Hmm?"
"The contract," he said quietly. "The part about no emotional attachment."
My stomach dropped. Was he regretting it? Was he going to quote the rules to me now?
"What about it?" I whispered, bracing myself for the rejection.
"I think I breached it," he said.
I lifted my head to look at him. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight.
"Breached it how?"
"I don't think I can fake this anymore," he said. "The dating. The protective act. None of it feels fake. It feels... necessary."
My heart soared, then immediately crashed.
"Necessary," I repeated. Not love. Necessary. Like oxygen. Or hockey.
"You're a distraction," he said, turning to look at me. "But you're the only distraction I want."
"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me," I teased gently, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
He didn't smile.
"I'm serious," he said. "You have power over me, Camila. And I don't give people power. Ever."
"I won't hurt you, Cameron," I promised, placing my hand on his chest.
"You will," he said with certainty. "Eventually. Everyone leaves. Everyone disappoints."
"I'm not everyone," I said fiercely. "I'm the girl who sat in bleach with you."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then, he kissed my forehead.
"Go back to sleep," he whispered. "We have to study later."
He closed his eyes.
I watched him drift off, his breathing evening out.
I lay there, wide awake.
He was right. I had power over him. But he had it wrong. He was the one with the power.
Because as I lay there in his arms, smelling his scent on my skin, I realized the truth.
I wasn't just in love with him.
I was completely, terrifyingly dependent on him.
If he decided tomorrow that I was too much of a liability... if he decided to put the Wall back up... I wouldn't just be homeless.
I would be heartbroken.
And unlike a declined credit card, that was something I couldn't fix.
Two hours later, I woke up alone.
The spot beside me was cold.
I sat up, panic flaring in my chest. Had he left? Had he regretted it and gone to the rink to punish himself with exercise?
I scrambled out of bed, grabbing his discarded t-shirt from the floor. I pulled it on and ran out into the living room.
He was there.
He was sitting at the kitchen island. He was dressed—jeans and a hoodie.
He was on the phone.
His back was to me. His posture was rigid.
"I understand," he was saying. His voice was cold. "Yes. I saw the article."
I froze. Article?
"No," Cameron said. "It's not true. She's not... she's not a paid escort, for Christ's sake. She's my girlfriend."
My blood ran cold.
I remembered the reporter outside the arena. The flash. The question.
How much is he getting paid to touch you?
"I don't care what the rumor mill says," Cameron snapped. "If you print that, I'll sue. I'll... what?"
He went silent. He listened.
His hand gripped the edge of the marble counter so hard his knuckles turned white.
"The Commissioner confirmed it?" he whispered.
My heart stopped.
My father.
Cameron turned around. He saw me standing there.
His face was a mask of betrayal.
"I have to go," he said into the phone, and hung up.
He stared at me. The warmth from the bedroom was gone. The intimacy of the bathroom mirror was a million miles away.
The Wall was back up. And this time, it was reinforced with steel.
"Cameron," I whispered. "What happened?"
"Your father," he said. His voice was dead. "He just gave a statement to The Athletic."
"What did he say?"
"He said he's happy I'm finally 'taking responsibility' for you," Cameron said. "He implied that our relationship was part of a negotiation for my draft eligibility."
"He... he lied," I gasped. "He's trying to control the narrative."
"Is he?" Cameron asked. He walked toward me. He stopped three feet away. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm the idiot who fell for a trap."
"It wasn't a trap!" I cried. "I didn't know!"
"Didn't you?" he asked. "You needed a place to stay. You needed money. You needed a way back into the inner circle. And I was the perfect ticket."
"That's not fair," I said, tears springing to my eyes. "After what we just did... how can you say that?"
"What we just did," he said coldly, "was sex. Don't confuse it with leverage."
He walked past me. He grabbed his keys from the bowl.
"I'm going to the rink," he said. "Don't wait up."
"Cameron!" I grabbed his arm.
He flinched. He pulled away from me like I was contagious.
"Don't," he warned. "Just... don't."
He walked out. The door slammed shut.
I stood there in the silence of the penthouse.
I looked at the kitchen island where we had studied. I looked at the hallway that led to the bedroom where we had made love.
It was all tainted now.
My father had won. He had turned the one pure thing I had found into a transaction.
And Cameron believed him.
I sank to the floor, pulling his t-shirt around my knees.
I didn't cry. I was too empty to cry.
I just sat there and watched the snow fall outside the window, covering everything in white.
Cold. Silent.
Just like him.