Chapter 4
SCOOP
B y the time we cleared the last of the downed branches and confirmed with the power company that the lines were stable, the storm had faded into nothing more than a misty drizzle.
My boots were caked in wet clay, my shirt stuck to my back, and my head wouldn’t stop replaying the moment Camille looked me in the eye and told me she was a virgin.
Jesus.
I’d worked a lot of weird shifts. I’d been called to flipped cars, backyard fires, a guy once glued to his own garage floor. But never had I walked into a cabin expecting a welfare check and ended up walking away from that.
She’d meant it. Every word. It wasn’t the margarita talking. It was her. Honest. Brave. Lit up from the inside with something I couldn’t put my damn finger on.
And I’d walked away.
I should have. It was the right thing to do. She was in no state to make a decision like giving up her virginity—not then. And I sure as hell wasn’t either.
But now…now I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her soft voice. Her wild green eyes. The way she stared at me like I was something safe, when I knew damn well I wasn’t.
I turned the corner toward Blount County Road. Gravel crunched beneath my tires. I slowed as I saw the cabin up ahead, the same low glow coming from the window.
I should go home. Instead, I parked.
The porch light was still on. There was something taped to the front door.
I stepped out of the truck, heart hammering like I’d just climbed four flights in turnout gear. My boots hit the porch heavily. Raindrops dripped from the edge of the roof.
The note was written in curvy handwriting on lined notebook paper, the edges damp but legible. Still want what I’m offering? Come in if you do. Door’s locked, but I’m not. ;) —Camille
I stared at it for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then I keyed in the code. The lock clicked open.
I stepped inside, careful not to make too much noise. The cabin smelled like grilled cheese and lavender body wash. Her empty margarita glass still sat on the table, and the sandwich plate had been cleared.
A soft light came from the bedroom down the hall. I hesitated, but not for long.
I took off my boots by the door and padded in quietly. The door to the bedroom was open. She was curled on her side, the covers pulled up to her waist. One arm was tucked under her cheek. Her long, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink.
But she wasn’t asleep.
She turned before I could say a word, eyes heavy-lidded but clearly still awake. “You came.”
I swallowed. “I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
“Camille…”
She sat up, the sheets sliding down her chest to reveal the oversized T-shirt she’d changed into. Her thighs were bare beneath the hem.
“I meant what I said,” she whispered. “And I know you did too.”
I stayed just inside the doorway, jaw tight. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet silent against the floor as she crossed the room toward me. “I’m not looking for a fairytale. I’m not asking for promises. I just want this. With you.”
My hands flexed at my sides. “You don’t know me,” I said quietly.
“Then tell me.”
I looked at her—really looked at her—and something inside me cracked.
“I’ve hurt people. Not physically. Not like that.
But I’ve left a trail of women behind me who thought I could give them something I wasn’t capable of.
I love the feeling of being needed. But I don’t…
stay. I’ve tried. And it always ends the same. ”
She reached up and touched my chest, right over my heart. “Why?”
“Because something always feels wrong after. Like I gave too much too fast. Like I said yes to something I wasn’t ready to hold onto.” I looked down, met her eyes. “I don’t want to do that to you.”
“You won’t.”
“You think that because I cooked you a sandwich and moved you onto your side like some kind of hero. But I’m not. I’m?—”
She silenced me with a touch. Her fingers slid down my chest, slow and light. Her voice was steady.
“You’re not perfect,” she said. “Good. Neither am I.”
She reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head in one slow movement. My breath caught as she stood in front of me, bare and unashamed.
“I’ve waited twenty-three years,” she said. “Not because I was afraid of sex. Not because I’m some prude. But because I wanted the first time to mean something. I wanted it to be mine. My choice.”
She stepped closer. I didn’t move.
“You don’t have to love me, Scoop. You don’t have to promise forever. But I know you’ll be kind. I know you’ll make me feel safe. And right now, that’s all I want.”
I still didn’t touch her.
Her fingers traced the waistband of my jeans, slow and deliberate. My pulse pounded in my throat as she undid the button, then the zipper, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.
I should stop her.
I didn’t.
Her hand slid inside, warm and sure, and I hissed through my teeth as her fingers wrapped around me. A groan tore from my chest before I could stop it, my hips jerking forward of their own damn accord.
“Jesus, Camille?—”
She stroked me, her touch firm but unhurried, her eyes locked on mine like she was memorizing every twitch of my expression.
I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to close my eyes, to give in completely.
But I couldn’t look away. Not when she was watching me like that—like she wanted to devour every sound I made.
She sank to her knees. My breath left me in a rush.
Her lips parted, and the first hot swipe of her tongue nearly sent me to my knees with her. I braced a hand against the door frame, my fingers digging into the wood as she took me deeper, her mouth sinfully soft, unbearably wet.
“Fuck.” The word was ragged, torn from me.
Her mouth was pure heat, velvet and fire, and every slow, deliberate stroke of her tongue sent lightning down my spine. I tangled my fingers in her hair—not to guide her, just to hold on, because Christ, I was already close to losing it.
She hummed around my erection, the vibration making my knees weak, and when her hand joined, sliding in perfect rhythm with her lips, I had to bite back a groan. Her grip was firm, her thumb swiping over the head of my cock with every upward stroke, spreading the wetness from her mouth, from me.
I was drowning with every flick of her tongue, every soft suck. She was relentless, exploring me like she had all the time in the world. Like she wanted to learn exactly how to drive me over the edge. And she was damn good at it.
My hips jerked, my control fraying. “Camille—“ I gritted out, my voice rough. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her lips slick, her eyes dark with satisfaction. “Then don’t.”
Before I could respond, she took me deep again, her throat working around me, and I swore, my fingers tightening in her hair. The pressure built, white-hot and undeniable, and I knew I was done for.
But then she stopped.
She released me with a slow, wet slide of her lips, her breath coming fast as she rose to her feet. Without a word, she turned and walked to the bed, climbing onto the mattress with deliberate grace. She looked back at me over her shoulder—a silent, unmistakable invitation.
I hesitated for half a second. Then I followed.
I yanked my shirt over my head, kicked off my pants, and crossed the room in three strides, my body thrumming with need. By the time I reached the bed, I was already pulling her toward me, my hands sliding over her bare skin, my mouth crashing against hers.
She tasted like me. Like heat and hunger.
And I was done holding back.