“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks between nips at my skin as I watch him devour my breasts.
“Of course,” I tell him, my breath heavy with the pleasure of him serving my body.
“Good.” He slides a hand underneath my skirt and over my panties, grazing me in all the right ways causing me to moan out into the night. “Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since Tybee.”
“You better not ruin my skirt,” I whisper, latching on to his neck.
“If I do, I’ll buy you another one. A better one,” he growls, catching on to my game of ignoring the infatuation even though I feel it, too. “The best fucking skirt money can buy.” He unzips me at the back and guides it down and around me, running his rough hands the length of both of my legs causing me to hum in satisfaction. “I love hearing you.” After he lays my skirt at the bottom of the bed, he slips a finger under the fabric of my panties, teasing me. He knows I can’t take it much longer. “These need to go, sweetheart.” he growls, now sliding his fingers around the waistband of my gray lace panties. And though these are my favorite pair, I suddenly want him to rip them off of me. Animalistic. Primal.
“Take ‘em off then,” I whisper in challenge, my heart thumping like the gallop of a wild horse against my rib cage. And I mean every word of it. Tonight, I’m untame as a Cumberland Island horse.
“Yes, ma'am,” Cameron purrs, his voice low and scratchy with unbridled passion. His hair is nearly black in the dim of the bedroom light making him seem mysterious. Inexplicably sexy. Lifting my buttocks off the bed, he slides my panties off in one quick motion like this isn’t the first time he's done it. And strangely, I love this about him. That he knows how to handle a woman in bed. And not just any woman. He knows how to handle me. So I don't have to think. I can just let myself be in the moment and experience him to my fullest capacity tonight.
“You're so wet for me already,” he growls, sliding his fingers inside me with soft, calculated strokes. “Look at how turned on you are. Are you ready for me?”
Nodding with a dangerous moan, I feel the back of my hair frizz against his pillows, and I can't take my eyes off of him tonight. Pulling me to the edge of his bed, he drops to the floor and spreads my legs like he had on the couch. When he presses his mouth to me, I feel white-hot electric, and I reflexively buck my hips against his mouth with a whimper, wanting all the contact I can get. Bolts of time and space, and a heat so hot that it feels cold courses through my limbs. I'm a live wire tonight, and he has me exactly where he wants me.
“You taste like honey,” he growls to the chorus of his own guttural moans, causing me to sigh out in pleasure for him. Over and over and over again. “I've gotten myself off to this for years, sweetheart. I hope you realize that.”
The idea alone makes me grow silly with bliss. I thread my fingers through his dark hair as he works on me, tasting me, sending me into a perpetual overdrive with the swirling of his tongue against my bundle of nerves. And it's not long until I come for him, crying out his name like it’s a poem I’ve hoarded since high school.
Looking up at me from between my legs, he smiles. “Is that good, sweetheart?”
Not being able to form words, I moan with a nod, my breath heavy with desire. Our first time around the sun had been clumsy and calculated, two teenagers going through the motions back in high school. Motions that they didn’t actually know, were just making up along the way. But this, being here with Cameron, is different. It’s something fuller rich and absolute, marred only by passion and marked by pure existence next to one another. Human to human. Man to woman. Skin to skin, breath to breath.
As he unzips his jeans and drops his pants and briefs in the dark, I find myself falling into a deep, slow burn underneath him. Climbing onto the bed, he lifts me, laying me toward the middle of the bed where I was at the start and crawls on top of me.
“You're an angel,” he says, kissing my collarbone, working his way down to my breasts once more. When he kisses my breasts again, I feel electric. Exotic. Warm and full of life. But calm and steady as a waterfall.
He moves his way down my tummy leaving a trail of careful kisses to show me he's in control tonight. With wide and eager eyes, I watch him grab a condom from the drawer of his bedside table. Running a hand over his cock a few times, he slides it on looking like some sort of Greek God, an important statue towering over me like he belongs on the Gaston Street side of Forsyth Park.
“Come here,” I whisper. I can’t stand being apart from this man. Reaching up to him, I run my fingers over his chiseled abs, but he intercepts my hand in the dark and brings it up to his mouth, planting a kiss on my knuckles.
“Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are? You have the best ass in town, and it’s mine tonight.”
Shaking my head, I can’t find my words. They’re stuck in my throat with all of this overwhelm. Looking down at him, I see the silhouette of his erection in the golden lamplight from the city below us. He’s perfect in size and stature. And I want him inside me.
After rolling the condom on, Cameron climbs back on top of me, and I feel him hard and ready for me as he slides himself between my legs. He goes slow first, fitting himself inside me with a shudder, listening to my body for protest. But when I don’t refuse him, he dives deeper, sending me careening off into a whole different universe of pleasure. And nothing else matters here. Not my career, not my non-committal tendencies as of late. Not my lack of behaving like every other southern woman in Savannah. It all disappears into a wavering build of friction and heat between crushing bodies.
My breath moves with him as he plunges into me, penetrating me with every ounce of passion he owns, pacing himself for climax.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, pressing his mouth to my shoulder between heaving breaths.
“Yes,” I moan, not able to stop myself from starting to climb to orgasm. And while I want to wait for him, I fear I won’t be able to hold it off much longer. His sounds take me to the edge and put an explosion of fireworks in my belly. “Cameron, are you gonna—”
“Come for me,” he hisses, tucking his face between my tits as his thrusts grow quicker and harder.
And as if on command, I do. And I’ve never come so hard in my entire life as I do with Cameron right now. As if our romp in his car on Tybee was merely foreplay. This is dangerous, and I feel the deeply mixed emotions of it in my belly. An earthquake inside me, my entire body trembling with its elated release.
And four pumps later, Cameron lets out a guttural groan to let me know he’s coming, too. And the way he moans my name like it’s sacred poetry, tasting of honeyed whiskey. A swan song of lovers in the dark until he’s emptied himself, flooding me with intimacy. And only after his release does he collapse on top of me. Rolling over, he pulls me into the crook of his arm and brushes my wild hair out of my face with the most genuine smile I've ever seen on him.
Closing my eyes, I work to catch my breath next to him, all of my energy zapped by his lovin’ ways, and I hadn’t even done the work. I feel him pull his condom off next to me, and I guess he finds a trashcan to toss it in. When he returns, I crave closeness. We lie in silence for a few minutes to recover, him kissing my forehead, cheek, nose every few seconds to let me know he's still here. Pressing my cheek to his bicep, I fall into a quiet daze next to this man I've known for over half my life.
“Your brother would hate me right now,” Cameron finally says, looping his arm around me. “If he knew what I just did to you.” And I feel like I can feel him frown against me. “He’ll be in town soon.”
I groan, because all I’m hearing is a way for Cameron to dip out of this thing gracefully. But also, gross. Not who I want to be thinking about right now. “For Thanksgiving. But can you not bring him up right after we’ve—”
“Made love? Sure. But it’s true,” Cameron says, his voice buzzing against my forehead. He brings his hand up to my neck, caressing me until he feels my pearl drop necklace. “How lon
g have you had this?” he asks, running his fingers along the silver chain, tracing it to the single pearl the rests on my clavicle. I feel him roll the pearl between his thumb and finger.
“Since high school. I got it for my sixteenth birthday,” I whisper, growing sleepy.
“You wear it all the time. What’s it mean?”
“No meaning behind it. It’s just my favorite.”
As if pondering my words, he kisses my forehead once more and leaves his mouth there. “You know what’s my favorite?”
Blinking open, I pull back from him and look into the darks of his eyes. “What?”
“Being with you is my favorite.”
Furrowing my brow, I can’t comprehend what, if anything, he’s trying to tell me. Being with me is his favorite? Like a favorite meal or a favorite book? One and done. You love pizza one month, but then you taste the steak. And nothing, no matter how good that pizza/cake/macaroni and cheese is, you compare everything to that heavenly steak. I’m an on-to-the-next type of favorite. A second-best once he tastes something better. “You’re just saying that. It’s your whiskey talking,” I sigh, trying to make less of his words. Offend before you become the offended, right?
“No. Whiskey doesn’t have a thing to do with it.”
“Not even a little?” I tease, tracing his abs with a tired finger. “Word on the street is you’re made of whiskey now. All the way down.”
With a chuckle, he intercepts my finger and kisses the pad of it and presses it to his heart. “That may be. But my whiskey heart wants you.”
My chest swells at his words. For a minute, I begin to think I might actually mean something to him. That this is his way of telling me he wants more. Not able to respond for my sleepy delirium, I press my lips together. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t find the words.
“Can I ask you something?” He runs a strong thumb down my jawline.
“Sure,” I say, my voice small and balled up in the back of my throat like it’s hiding.
“Can we try this?” He presses his lips to my bare shoulder, and I swear I can feel him nip me without teeth. “You and I? Being a couple?”
Giggling at his ridiculousness, I shake my head against him. “Are you coming on to me, Alden?”
He chuckles, his chest moving under me. “I am definitely coming on to you, sweetheart. So, what do you say?”
“Wait.” His words just now register to me, the severity of them. He isn’t joking, no sexual innuendos or playful voices, just him wanting us to give it a go. “Are you serious, Cam?”
“Absolutely. I've missed you a ton.” Pulling my naked body closer to his, he interrupts my thoughts. “Not seeing you for all those years was rough, and I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“Realize what exactly?”
“Realize what I was missing in you. We’ve just connected so well. I’d like to pursue this.” He clears his throat. “If you’re willing.”
Lying there, I grow tense under his touch. His words feel heavy and nostalgic. Like I've miscalculated this man for years. Wrongly accused him of not being the caring, kind human that he is. When I pull myself from my thoughts, I smile against his arm knowing he can't see me. “I missed you, too,” I whisper, sliding my hand over his stomach to the warm part of his side. He feels like a sun lying next to me. Hot and vivid. And I feel full with him, drunk on this closeness we share. Ready for anything coming my way. And though I don’t tell him yes immediately. I know he feels it in the way that I kiss his chin and tuck my face into the crook of his neck.
We fall into a peaceful rest, Cameron having worn me out giving me everything I could’ve wanted from him tonight. But then a bright blue-white light is popping up from the bedside table across from me. When I open my eyes, I notice his breath has grown steady with sleep. Carefully lifting my head to not jostle him, I notice that it’s his cell phone on the table. And then, it hits me like a brick wall as a certain kind of dread sets in. Could it be his mom calling, trying to reach him? Searching the walls and his dresser for any type of a clock, I can’t find one. It must be after nine, but it’s possible his mother could need him, right? An emergency or something?
Slowly crawling out from underneath his arms, I walk around the bed and pull his phone from the table. It’s not phone calls, but text messages rolling in from someone named... Mary-Grace? My stomach drops to my bare feet. I know I shouldn’t, but I press the home button on his phone screen to see previews of all the texts.
Mary-Grace: Hey, Cam! Are you around this weekend?
Mary-Grace: I’m in town and want to see you again.
Again? My heart tightens, and I feel a knot of guilt and heartache pool at the back of my throat.
Mary-Grace: Want to meet at Arabella’s?
Mary-Grace: I’m out at the bar. Come meet me!
As I realize this is probably one of the girls he’s slept with texting him, I feel my eyes start to sting with the onset of emotion. Surely he hasn’t changed so much that he would let a text like this, from some over-eager chick who he’s fucked before go unanswered. I can bet on it. Replacing his phone on the bedside table, I gather my clothes as quietly as I can and tiptoe to the living room where the television is still showing How I Met Your Mother reruns. How superbly fitting.
As I slip into my blouse and skirt as quick as humanly possible, I whisper to myself like I’ll completely lose it if I don’t. “It’s fine, Riley. It’s casual. Just keepin’ it real. Nothing more, nothing less. You knew this going in to it.” Three. deep. breaths.
Grabbing my phone from my purse, I put in a call for a car, gather my jacket and bags and head for the Whitaker Street corner to wait for my ride. And yes, I’m leaving him before he can leave me. Because I will not be the one who's being left. It’s the only way I can keep myself safe.
Chapter 11
“When will the trees be done, dear?” Selene asks, pushing her silver locks into a tight bun atop her head.
“I’ll have them here and completely set up by,” I glance down at my notebook. “November sixteenth,” I say, circling the date in the margin of my current page so I don't forget.
“That’s all three of them?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Can we make it the ninth? I’d like to spend a few extra days enjoying them this year,” she grins, patting my arm.
“The ninth. Got it,” I say, crossing out the previous date. Inwardly, I’m frantic. Because that is less than a week away. And to say I have all the trees prepared is completely false. “And just to clarify all three tree themes. You want an Abominable Snowman theme, a cocktail theme, and a reindeer theme?”
“Correct,” she says, rubbing her wrinkled hands together in excitement. “Ten feet, each of them. But make sure the reindeer are classy. None of that doe-eyed, cartoonish nonsense you see in the commercials. This is a serious tree. We want serious reindeer.”
“Classy. Serious reindeer,” I say, jotting it down on my paper. “Noted.”
“And for the cocktail tree, I want it sparkly with all the cocktails of the South. Old fashioneds, mint juleps, sazeracs, gin fizz.” She gazes out at the empty foyer where the cocktail-themed tree will go. She’s staring like she can already picture it. “Oh, and milk brandy. The milk brandy fountain will be set up at the bar, so I’d love for it to match. That’s a Christmas drink, you know. Or eggnog for all you commoners.” Looking over at me, she smirks as if she’s realized what she just said. Did she include me in that? Am I one of her said commoners?
Clearing my throat, I look down at the cream-tiled floor. “What about whiskey?” I ask before I even realize what I’ve said.
“No, dear. We’re keeping this classy. Whiskey’s too hard for me and my pals. We’ll be serving all of these at the gala, by the way. So I’m adamant about them being on the tree. It's expected.”
Nodding, I smile at her while finishing up my notes. With a kind hand, Selene escorts me to the front door. And with one last pat on the shoulder, she
shows me down the stairs of the grand stoop. “I'm really looking forward to this atmosphere you’ll be cooking up for me,” she sings, waving me off. “The gala will be dazzling if it's anything close to what I'm imagining. You're invited, by the way, dear. You and your significant other.”
The comment catches me off guard. Under my breath, I scoff. She knows I don't have anyone to invite. Brushing the comment off, I reassure her. “Yes, ma'am. The gala will be wonderful. Bye now, Miss Selene.”
No sooner than I'm about to get in my car and pull out of the driveway, my phone starts chirping at me.
“Hello?” I ask after seeing Becca's name pop up on my screen.
“Don't be mad,” she says, her southern accent a little more exaggerated this morning. “Are you near a clock? Of course you are, you’re on your phone. Do me a favor and check what time it is?” she pleads, and I can hear the sick amusement in her voice.
Hesitating, I pull the phone down from my ear and glance at the top of the screen. When I pull the phone back up, I must sound dumb. “It’s 11:56.”
“Right,” she chirps. “And what’s our rule about clients calling before noon?”
Now realizing why she’s called me, I nod as if she can see me. It's been a long morning spent with Selene, and already, I'm wanting to cut the workday short. I sigh, irritated, but grateful that someone is interested in my services. “Who is it?”
“Right, so the good news is we have a new client. Her name is Lucinda Dorchester. The bad news is she literally just called, and she's hoping you can fit in a consultation with her this evening? She requested the last appointment of the day.”
“Four o’clock?” I ask, starting the car. I crank the heat up, wanting to crawl into a ball and sleep for a few days straight. It’d be nice to turn off my mind for a while. “No more clients for today, please, Bec,” I beg.
“I promise. Though, them's your rules, boss.” She laughs. “Seriously though. Sorry about it. I know you’ve had a long week with everything—”
Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance Page 9