Chapter 3 #2
"Cameron," I say, arching my back until my breasts nearly graze his chest, "does this bruising look serious to you? Feel how tender it is." I’m pointing at the bruise across my now-bare breasts.
"I—Christ—I can't—" His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black, fixed on my skin like he's drowning in it.
I shove him onto the other end of the couch.
"You can and you will." I devour his mouth, and Christ, the taste of him—dark chocolate and sin.
My body ignites. Bruises? What bruises? Back pain?
Gone. There's only him, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, his tongue claiming mine.
He kisses me with a violence that matches my own, and I know with absolute certainty he'll obliterate every sensation except pleasure.
I need him to burn through me like wildfire, scorching away everything but this moment.
This isn't about connection—it's about consumption.
He's a feast laid out before a starving woman, and I will take, take, take until there's nothing left of either of us. Right. Fucking. Now.
His voice breaks. "Oh, god. This is so wrong." He shakes his head even as his mouth travels from mine down to my neck, then finds my tender, sore breasts. My fingers work at his buttons, revealing a chest that could have been carved from Carrara marble perched right above an eight pack.
Damn, this man is fine.
My fingers trace the ridges of his abdomen.
I've worked marble before—know the patience required, how the chisel must strike just so.
For my final art class project, I'd copied Michelangelo's David, spending hours studying the perfect proportions, the tension in the muscles, the subtle asymmetry that makes it feel alive.
That sculpture remains my favorite, though I create original pieces now.
It captures human perfection in a way few things do.
Cameron’s body rivals it.
"God, you're beautiful," I whisper as his lips trace my arms, my breasts, moving down to my stomach. "I need those endorphins flowing through me right now."
He looks up, eyes dark. "Orgasms are known to relieve pain."
"Yes, doctor," I breathe. "So get busy."
He rises suddenly, his hands gripping my shoulders as he pushes me back against the leather. His eyes darken, pupils dilating. "Your body is exquisite," he growls, voice dropping an octave.
"Right," I challenge, breath catching. "If you prefer Picasso's chaos to John Singer Sargent's Madame X."
"No." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet.
"You're perfect." His mouth descends on the purple-black bruise marking my abdomen, tongue tracing its edges before pressing against the center.
I gasp, arching involuntarily as his teeth graze my skin, his hands already tearing at the thin fabric barrier of my underwear.
The sound of ripping lace barely registers as his burning mouth claims me completely.
Oh, yes. Yes. His tongue traces slow, deliberate circles, then flicks with perfect pressure against that sweet spot that makes my thighs tremble.
I arch my back, fingers tangled in his hair as he slides one finger inside me, then another, curving upward in rhythm with each stroke of his tongue.
My breath catches when he hums against me, the vibration sending electric currents straight to my core.
God, this guy knows exactly what he's doing and I don’t want him to ever stop.
This is better than any painkiller I could ever think of.
Good god, they should bottle this feeling - there would be no more Oxycontin addictions.
His fingers curl inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes my back arch off the couch.
I gasp his name as he adds another finger, stretching me deliciously while his tongue traces hot, deliberate patterns that send electric currents through my entire body.
The pain that had consumed me before Cameron arrived dissolves into nothing—replaced by a pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
I claw his back, desperate for more, for him to fill me completely, but he refuses.
Instead, he doubles down, his mouth relentless, his fingers moving with devastating precision until I'm trembling, begging, coming apart beneath him.
He's determined to worship me this way, and God help me, I'm powerless to do anything but surrender.
I shatter into a thousand pieces, convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, but it's not enough—I need more of him.
Cameron's mouth blazes a trail up my bruised skin, his tongue leaving fire in its wake until he collapses beside me, his breathing as ragged as mine.
"This crosses every line," he says, his eyes still dark with hunger. "You're my patient."
"Then diagnose me, doctor," I gasp, my body still trembling. "I'm addicted to your touch—no prescription drug could ever compare to what your mouth just did to me. I'd swear under oath that this was purely medicinal, even as I beg you to do it again."
He shakes his head. “I didn’t come over for this.”
I cock my head. “What did you come over for?”
“I wanted to check on you. It’s my day off, and I thought about you all last night while I was on shift.
” He plays with my hair, which is now long, but is still streaked with every color of the rainbow.
“All I could think of is that you’re Celeste’s best friend and that made it personal that you were in my ER.
I thought I should personally check on you, that’s all. ”
I take a deep breath. “Well, I just took from you just now. What did you get out of that?”
He smiles. “Tally, if you only knew just what I got out of that. I made you feel better. And as much as you shattered by what I was doing, it’s safe to say that you’ll feel the painkilling effects for hours to come.”
I smile, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Dr. Kensington."
His eyes darken as he grabs my wrist. "Don't call me Dr. Kensington.
Not right now." His grip tightens. "Do you have any idea what I've risked for you?
Ten years of medical training, my license, my reputation—all of it hanging by a thread because I couldn't keep my hands off you.
" His jaw clenches. "One minute I'm treating your injuries, and the next?—"
"You're making me come so hard I see stars," I cut in, pressing against him.
"God, when you touch me, it's like being struck by lightning.
Better than any drug. You should see the way your pupils dilate when I moan your name.
" I drag my fingertips down his chest. "Forget opioids—the world needs what you do to me. "
He lays on top of me, his breath hot against my neck. "It's biochemical warfare. Pure endorphin rush straight to the brain's pleasure centers." His hand slides under my shirt. "And I'm about to give you another dose."
And he does just that. For hours. He doesn’t ever seem to tire, even as he never even considers taking even one climax for himself.