18. Two A.M. #2
“Camila.” She kissed him.Chris lasted approximately two seconds before kissing her back.Then he pulled away.“No.”Camila laughed.“What?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently Mateo patrols his kitchen at two in the morning.”
“He wanted water.”
“He almost got a considerably different beverage.”Camila burst out laughing.Chris shook his head.“That wasn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“It was horrifying.”
“You handled armed men better.”Chris stopped.She caught it.Again.Her eyes searched his face.“You did.”Chris looked away.“Different situation.”
“You’re more afraid of Mateo catching us kissing than you were during that attack.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the attackers wanted to kill me quickly.”Camila smacked his chest.“Chris!”
He caught her hand, laughing.She tried hitting him again.He caught that one too.
Then she was against him.Their laughter faded.He reached for something on the counter — the whipped cream canister she’d left out from dessert earlier.
He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, and looked at her with an expression that shifted from tired to dangerous in about half a second.
“Chris —”But she was too late, and too busy laughing to dodge.
He sprayed a line of whipped cream across her collarbone, cold and sudden against her skin.
She gasped, her laugh breaking into a startled squeal. “You did not just —”
“I did.”She grabbed for the canister, but he held it out of reach, one arm braced against her shoulder to keep her back.
She lunged, and he sidestepped, and she caught him around the waist with her legs, locking her ankles behind him.
The move pulled him forward, flush against her, and suddenly the laughter thinned into something else.He was warm.
She could feel the heat of him through his shirt, the hard plane of his stomach against her inner thighs.
Cedar and coffee and something underneath that was just him — the smell she’d missed in her room, the one that made the mansion feel like home instead of a place she happened to sleep.Her legs tightened around his waist.He looked down at her.
The whipped cream was melting on her skin, sliding slowly down toward the neckline of her tank top.
His breathing had changed — not labored, just…
aware. His hand was still holding the canister, but his fingers had gone slack around it.
“Truce,” she said softly.“No.” His voice was low. “You laughed at me.”
“You sprayed me.”
“You started it.”She tilted her head, studying him the way she always did — not staring, just reading.
The tension in his neck. The way his free hand had settled on her thigh, thumb resting against the inside of her knee.
He looked exhausted, like he always did, but there was something else now.
Something that looked like hunger wearing a mask of restraint.
“Fine,” she said. “Finish what you started.”He raised an eyebrow.She gestured to the whipped cream on her chest. “You made the mess. Clean it up.”For a second, she thought he’d deflect.
Make a dry comment, step back, return to his war with the espresso machine.
That was Chris — always one step away from retreating into himself, into the weight he carried that she could feel but never fully see.Instead, he set the canister down.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her collarbone, right where the whipped cream had pooled.
His tongue moved slow, deliberate, tracing the line of cream across her skin.
She felt the warmth of his breath, then the wet heat of his mouth, and a shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cold.He worked his way along her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, licking the cream away in slow strokes.
Her fingers found the back of his neck, sliding into his hair.
He groaned softly against her skin — a sound she felt more than heard — and pulled back just enough to look at her.
“More?” he asked.She nodded.He picked up the canister again.
This time, he pulled the strap of her tank top down off one shoulder and sprayed a line along the top of her breast. The cold hit her skin and she inhaled sharply, her nipples tightening beneath the thin fabric.
He bent to her, mouth following the line of cream, tongue circling slowly down to the edge of her nipple.
He pulled the fabric lower, took her into his mouth, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.His tongue was warm and deliberate, moving in slow circles, then flattening against her.
He sucked gently, and her hips shifted forward on the counter, pressing against him.
She could feel him now — hard through his jeans, the length of him pressing against her where her legs were wrapped around him.
“Chris,” she breathed.He pulled back, eyes dark, lips still glistening.
He sprayed another line of cream — lower this time, down her sternum, following the path his mouth had mapped.
He licked it away, inch by inch, hands sliding up her ribs.
His thumbs traced the underside of her breasts, and she arched into him, her head tipping back.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.“Your fault.”
“Good.”He tugged her tank top over her head and tossed it somewhere behind him.
The kitchen air hit her bare skin, cool against the warmth his mouth had left behind.
He sprayed cream across both breasts this time, covering her nipples, and then bent to clean it away with the same unhurried attention.
She bit her lip, fingers tightening in his hair, her body responding in ways that made it hard to stay still.His mouth moved lower.
Down her ribs, his tongue tracing the lines between them.
He sprayed a small circle on her stomach, just above her navel, and licked it clean, his hands gripping her hips.
She could feel her own wetness building, heat pooling between her thighs, and she squeezed her legs tighter around him.He unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them down along with her underwear, easing them over her ankles and dropping them on the floor.
She sat bare on the kitchen counter, legs parted around him, and he stepped back just enough to look at her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a line.
Like a fact he was stating, the same way he might say the machine was broken or the weather was bad.
Simple. Undeniable.She felt heat rise in her cheeks that had nothing to do with arousal.
After everything — the bathtub, the sleepless nights, the scars she’d traced with her fingers while he stared at the ceiling — he could still make her blush with that flat, honest voice.He picked up the canister one more time.
He sprayed a small dollop of cream directly on her clit, cold and shocking against the swollen heat of her, and she jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.“Chris —”
“Shh.” He looked up at her, and then he leaned in.His tongue found her, and the cold cream meeting his warm mouth created a sensation that made her legs tremble.
He licked her slowly, starting at the bottom and dragging upward in a long, deliberate stroke that cleaned the cream away and left her nerve endings screaming.
He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, then flattened against it, applying pressure that made her hips buck against his mouth.She moaned — loud, unguarded, the sound filling the kitchen.
His hand came up and covered her mouth, palm warm against her lips. “Quiet,” he murmured against her. “Mateo will hears us.”