Chapter 5
Chapter Five
TALLY
Holy shit, last night was volcanic. The pain in my body vanished the moment Cameron's hands gripped my hips, replaced by a hunger that clawed at my insides.
That man doesn't just fuck—he devours. His body is sculpted perfection, all hard planes and raw power like some Kensington family birthright, and Christ, when he finally thrust inside me—let's just say "generously endowed" doesn't begin to cover it.
I lost count of how many times I shattered, each orgasm more violent than the last until I was practically sobbing, begging him not to stop.
Therapeutic? It was fucking transcendent.
Now I'm waking up to cold sheets and his scent lingering on my skin.
The clatter of pans and soft footsteps from my kitchen wake me up.
Minutes later, Cameron appears in the doorway with something I've only seen in movies—an honest-to-god breakfast tray complete with a tiny vase holding a single red rose.
Where the hell did he find a tray in my apartment?
And the vase, not to mention the rose? And this fancy China plate? Did he conjure all of it from thin air?
He slides onto the bed beside me, balancing his creation.
My stomach growls as I take in what he's made: Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon, a puffy Dutch Baby pancake drowning in lemon curd and fresh berries, and a bowl of plump strawberries.
After last night's... workout, I could eat the entire tray, silverware included.
I take one bite of the Eggs Benedict and nearly moan. "Holy shit, did you actually make this Hollandaise from scratch?"
The sauce is silky perfection—lemony, buttery, with just the right amount of tang.
I've watched enough cooking shows to know this isn't some packet mix or blender shortcut.
This is the real deal—the kind of sauce that requires whisking your arm off while praying to the culinary gods that your egg yolks don't scramble.
The kind of sauce that gets chefs Michelin stars and makes home cooks cry.
He kisses my forehead. "Of course."
I shoot him a side-eye. What the hell does he think this is?
I didn't sign up for some fairy-tale bullshit with him.
We're not Celeste and Max playing house.
This is about scratching an itch—a really good, toe-curling, back-arching itch that he happens to be phenomenal at scratching.
Multiple times. But forehead kisses? That's crossing a line.
I stare at the Dutch Baby pancake, its golden crust puffed up like a cloud around the edges and sinking into a buttery crater in the middle, dusted with powdered sugar that's melting into the heat.
"What are you eating?" I ask, cutting into the eggy goodness with my fork.
"And where did you get all this fancy shit?
The silver tray with these little scrolly handles, that blue glass vase with the single rose, and especially the heavy-ass cast iron skillet you needed to make this phenomenal—and I mean fucking phenomenal—pancake? "
I know the groceries came from the Instacart dude—I saw the paper bags. But the rest? My cabinets are as empty as my bank account at the end of the month. My fridge typically contains nothing but half-empty takeout containers and a six-pack.
Cooking is against my religion. No mom in my rearview to teach me, and I never gave a damn about learning.
I was too busy with charcoal-smudged fingers, hunched over whatever scrap of paper I could find, or molding creatures from Play-Doh until my knuckles ached.
Some foster homes got it—they'd see me drawing on napkins and spring for those cheap watercolor sets, the kind with the neon-bright colors that kindergarteners use. I once had a friend who’d eat the paint, just took it out of the tray and bit right into it.
That’s the kind of watercolors I’d get, the kind that kindergarteners eat, but I’d make beautiful portraits out of that shit.
I'd make clay from flour stolen from the pantry, water from the tap, and whatever else I could swipe.
Art from nothing—that was my superpower.
Cameron shakes his head. "Already had breakfast. I'm one of those ungodly early risers—4 AM. Been that way forever, which is perfect for my hospital schedule. Start at five, done by two.” He gestures to the table setup.
"Swung by my place for supplies. Cast iron's non-negotiable for a proper Dutch Baby. But good on you for knowing how to make a Dutch Baby pancake and for knowing it requires a cast iron skillet.”
He nudges my arm, and I can't help but nudge back. “So, you ate?” I ask. “When did you do that?”
"At four this morning. Just had my usual protein shake. Berries, spinach, avocado."
Figures he's a health nut. Though I'm hardly one to talk—my breakfast routine is basically the same.
Frozen blueberries, chocolate collagen powder, peanut butter, and kale when I remember to buy it.
Right now, though, out of all those things - meant to go to the store, but got into an accident instead, so no store.
But blending is the extent of my "cooking" skills.
I feign offense about his comment about my knowing that a Dutch Baby pancake requires a cast iron skillet.
"I'm not completely clueless about cooking. Dutch Babies are just oven pancakes, so of course you need a cast iron skillet.” I try to look indignant, but my eyes keep drifting back to his face. Damn, he's beautiful.
“So,” he says as he gently clears my bangs off my face.
Again with the intimacy bullshit. How do I put this to him?
I’m not here for romance. Just pure analgesic, therapeutic, mind-blowing sex that makes me forget my own name let alone my painful back.
Cameron’s right - orgasms are nature’s painkillers.
I don’t feel a single twinge in my back right now, mainly because I came so many times last night that I lost count.
Cameron is amazing in bed, as I knew he would be, because he’s so damn good at oral.
He knows how to please a woman, and, right now, I’m extremely pleased.
“Let me run you a bath. Epsom salts and Peppermint oil will help loosen up your sore back.”
I bite my lower lip so hard I taste blood.
"Cam," I say, my voice sharper than I intended.
"This is all fucking amazing. This food, last night—Jesus Christ—I mean, my thighs are still trembling.
I have no goddamn idea how you got up at 4 AM when we were fucking till 2.
But I need you to hear me." I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table.
"I'm not just allergic to romance, I'm fatally allergic.
Like anaphylactic shock, dead-in-minutes allergic.
You do not want to get tangled up with me.
I'm not a cute little storm—I'm a fucking Cat Five that levels everything in my path.
" I jab my finger on the table. "Just so we're crystal fucking clear. "
A look crosses his face, there and then gone.
He's hurt. But he needs to know the score.
I don't do relationships. Not after watching my mom's love life play out like a horror movie on repeat.
She collected men like trading cards while collecting her daily dose of prescription pills.
Every new guy was “The One"—until he wasn't. They'd stick around a week, maybe a month.
Pepper—seriously, who names their kid Pepper?
—lasted a whole year, setting the record.
In college, when I nearly got expelled for my drinking and landed in mandatory therapy, my shrink connected the dots.
Mom wasn't just hooked on opioids; she was hooked on men.
Couldn't breathe without one. When they inevitably split, she'd turn into this desperate creature—driving past their houses at 3 AM, blowing up their phones, creating fake profiles to stalk their Facebook pages.
Then came the depression, the threats. "I'll swallow these pills.
" "I'll slit my wrists." "I'll drive off the bridge by the interstate.
" She never followed through, but I lived in constant fear she would.
"Co-dependent," my therapist called it. Whatever fancy label you slap on it, the lesson stuck: relationships equal destruction. And that's one family tradition I'm breaking.
He finally says, "I guess we're just having fun, then.
" He looks at me with those kaleidoscope eyes—a swirling collision of cerulean blue, jade green, and honey-gold flecks, all framed by lashes so thick and dark they look like they've been painted on with India ink—and I feel a twinge of something that might be pity.
He's hunting for a woman to love, to cherish, to wrap in cashmere blankets and protect from the world's sharp edges.
Somebody like his dead wife—Celeste mentioned she taught kindergarten, probably in some brick schoolhouse with a white picket fence where the children wore uniforms.
I can see them together in my mind—not plastic-perfect Ken and Barbie, but Cameron and Alecia, names that sound like they were embroidered onto matching monogrammed hand towels hanging in a powder room.
Him, in cable-knit sweaters the color of aged bourbon, crisp seersucker pants with knife-edge pleats, probably captained the rowing team at Harvard- where I know he got his undergrad because Celeste told me so -where he aced every class and graduated Magna Cum Laude.
Definitely belonged to one of those secret societies where they drink from silver cups and swear blood oaths by candlelight.
Her—honey-blonde hair falling in perfect waves, willowy limbs wrapped in buttery-soft cashmere twin sets in pastels, that effortless beauty that comes from generations of good breeding and expensive face creams. Sorority girl from Yale—because Harvard doesn't have sororities, and I'd bet my left arm his precious Alecia needed that sisterhood connection—who drove a sleek silver Audi with leather seats that never saw a coffee stain.
I picture them at their lake house, sipping French-pressed coffee from hand-thrown pottery mugs on their private dock, listening to whippoorwills and bullfrogs while planning which artisanal bakery in Bridgehampton they'll visit for fresh scones before their couples' tennis lesson.
At any rate, whatever white-picket-fence, Sunday-dinner-with-the-in-laws life he's imagining, he won't find it with me.
I'm a hot mess—the kind who eats cold pizza for breakfast, has more tattoo ink than clean laundry, and considers tequila a food group.
I'm the kind of woman who has her electricity cut off because she forgot to pay the bill three months running, who eats cereal straight from the box at midnight, and who has seven unfinished tattoo designs scattered across her coffee table right now.
My Jeep was held together with bumper stickers and prayer.
I'm as far from that Yalie Alecia with her willowy blonde goodness, trust-fund smile, and cashmere-soft life as anybody can get—with my ink-stained fingers, colorful vocabulary, and body that's basically a walking art gallery—so Cam just has to be set straight before he gets any more stupid ideas.
“Yeah,” I say. “And last night as hella fun.”
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I'm off today and tomorrow too. So, there's lots more fun to be had.
" His lips brush mine, soft at first, then hungrier.
I sink into the sheets, my body already humming with anticipation.
Yes, this is exactly what I need. Nothing but mind-blowing sex that makes my toes curl and my spine arch, that drowns out the constant throbbing ache I now carry everywhere.
His fingers trace my collarbone, then drifts lower, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Every touch ignites something primal in me, like he's flipping switches I didn't know existed.
And then he makes love to me. Not the frantic, sweat-soaked tangle from last night that left marks on the wall, but something deliberate and devastating in its tenderness.
His eyes never leave mine. And as much as I want to hate it—because each careful, measured thrust feels like he's staking a claim rather than scratching an itch—goddamn, I don't hate it.
Which fucking terrifies me to my core.