by Max Monroe
Slow and steady, I took the hint and pushed in the rest of the way, controlling the speed with a hold on her hips to keep a leash on my climax.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, settling my forehead on hers and bending my fingertips into the soft cushion of her flesh.
Breathy and wanton, her head fell back in pleasure. “For what?”
Wanting her eyes—needing them—I gave up the hold of her hip with one hand to reach up and tilt her head forward again. “For fucking you with a purpose,” I growled against her red, tortured lips.
She gasped, so I pushed forward, both with my hips and my words. “Either to get you out from under my skin or to burrow myself under yours, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
She moaned. Clenched around me.
I nipped at her bottom lip and groaned my truth. “One way or another, the torture of the last couple weeks has to end.”
And that was the truth. I knew I couldn’t take the ambiguity anymore—I had to move us in a direction, no matter if it meant forward or back.
Our breath mingled, and she took over, her teeth biting down on the flesh of my lip, and I lost all consciousness.
I mean, I didn’t actually pass out, but I might as well have for all the details I managed to focus on as we came together over and over again after my admission.
Fast strokes, slow strokes, calm or greedy, I couldn’t tell you where I began or where she ended or whether the world still turned on its axis.
All I knew was that I’d found the answer to my longing, the cure to my emptiness—the someone I’d been searching for—and I couldn’t see myself ever wanting to leave.
Vivid visions of a heavy body straining over mine, a heart-stopping face contorted in hopeless pleasure, reeled through a jagged film-stock montage in my mind.
Moans, unsteady breathing, and the symphony of sweat-slicked skin brushing together played in the background like a soundtrack.
I woke with a start, the brilliant authenticity of the dream lingering well into conscious awareness. When the dark curtains of my Hoboken loft weren’t the first thing I saw, a jolt of insecurity ran through me.
Had I come home to my house by accident last night?
I blinked several times to take in my current surroundings.
The room was completely foreign—discounting the possibility of a slip in my cover fairly quickly, thankfully, but the reality still taunted through my sleepy haze.
I focused on the details. It was spacious—more so than any bedroom I’d slept in before—and the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the back wall let in a lot more sunlight than I was used to being greeted by.
But the heat of another body brought it all rushing back more quickly than the rest, and the rich visions of my dream leaped to life.
The hard body. The soreness between my legs. The look on Cam’s face as he’d come inside me for the fourth time last night—it was all real. It wasn’t a fantasy at all.
And maybe the worst of it all—I’d done it to myself.
I wasn’t sure what had come over me as we’d stood there looking at the pool, but I knew by the way my body ached with overuse, it was more powerful than any drug.
I’d been tortured—desperate, even—to get my hands and lips and tongue on every part of Cam’s body he’d allow, as many times as our bodies would tolerate.
I couldn’t even say he’d taken the lead and I’d run with it, because now that I was awake, the moment he’d offered me an out—the moment he’d let me decide how far we took it—stood out in stark relief.
Cam turned to his side, and when he opened his eyes and met my gaze, all drive to berate myself for being so stupid last night fell away.
The brown swirl of his eyes was a haven of solace and assurance, and an undeniable sign of a good guy if ever I’d seen one.
He was one of the good ones. One of the ones women dreamed and prayed for.
Definitely not the kind of man who had any business being mixed up with someone as complicated and unavailable as me.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have been there. And I definitely shouldn’t have engaged in an all-night sex marathon with a guy who probably had more followers on Instagram than there were actual people in NYC.
“Mornin’.” His raspy, sleepy voice raked across my skin in the most delicious way.
“Hi,” I said for lack of anything else to say, and he smiled at my awkward greeting.
Leaning up and out toward me on an elbow, he reached out to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered and I blushed. The cause could have been any number of things—I was feeling all sorts of embarrassment, regret, and sorrow at the reality of how much I’d fucked up—but he didn’t see any of it.
Somehow, no matter how awful I was starting to think I was, he could only see beauty. “I honestly don’t think you realize just how fucking gorgeous you are, Lana.”
Lana. My name had never sounded so good—and excruciatingly terrible all at once—on someone else’s lips before.
I knew I shouldn’t have told him my real first name last night. He would have been satisfied with anything but Trixie—because he didn’t know any better.
But God, when he’d asked me, I just hadn’t been able to muster the strength to lie to him.
Hell, as dangerous as it was, I’d been completely incapable of being anyone but myself with him last night.
Every touch. Every kiss. Every emotion. Every single fucking word.
It had been real. It had been me.
With his big brown eyes gazing deliberately into mine, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to my lips. He didn’t even bother to pull fully away before gifting me with precious, heartfelt, agonizing words. “I’m glad you stayed.”
“Me too.” The words left my lips before I could stop them, and they were the truth. But accuracy should have been the very last priority on my to-do list this morning.
I needed to create some distance. To put the world back to rights. To figure out how I was going to get Trixie and Detective Simone out of the mess Lana had created.
God, there was something about this guy.
Something that drew me to him.
Something that turned my brain stupid and superseded years of training experience for the jolt of a quick thrill.
I’d never had much time for dating, but all of the relationships I’d ever had went a minimum of four dates before progressing past a kiss.
And then last night…at the very last time I should have ever compromised…I’d jumped headfirst into the pool of my feelings and gone all the way. A goddamn touchdown. A home-fucking-run.
I wasn’t even into sports, but when it came to Cam, apparently, I turned into quite the little competitive sexpot.
“How about some breakfast?” Cam asked as he slid out of bed and to his feet.
I’d like to say I didn’t gawk, but that kind of lie would make me a monster.
His toned, bare ass and big, muscular body weren’t the kinds of things you ignored, no matter how far up shit’s creek you’d drifted without a paddle.
So comfortable and casual in his own skin, he made it nearly impossible to keep the length of my gape to anything short of rude.
“Breakfast?” I asked, transfixed, and he grinned at me over his shoulder.
“Yeah, you know, breakfast,” he teased. “The first meal of the day. Most people like eggs or bacon or pan—”
“I know what breakfast is, thank you very much,” I cut him off with a laugh, pulling my eyes away and focusing intently on the comforter to gather my wits again. “I’m just trying to figure out who’s preparing this breakfast?”
“I know it might be hard for you to believe, but I’m not just a pretty face,” he said, and I couldn’t not smile at his words, even if the surface of his bed was my only audience. “Not only can I play football, I can also cook a mean omelet.” I looked up in time to see him wink and walk inside the big, walk-in closet of his bedroom.
Specific cravings? Jesus. With the vision of my teeth sinking soundly into the plump, round flesh of his ass freshly in my mind, I refused to let my brain tread that dangerous path of thinking.
“Surprise me.”
Cam walked out of the closet with a pair of jeans on, but his feet and chest were still bare. Between the muscles, smooth skin, and his gorgeous eyes, I wasn’t sure whether to eat him with a spoon or pull out my phone and take a picture just for memory lane’s sake.
“Surprise you?” he asked with a little smirk. “Oh, baby, don’t you worry. I’ve got more than a few tricks up my sleeve.”
After last night, and the numerous, mind-blowing orgasms he’d bestowed upon me, I didn’t doubt that for a single second.
“Take your time and get dressed. Take a shower if you want. And I’ll work on wowing you with my culinary skills downstairs. Sound good?”
I smiled to cover my nerves and gave him the most disheartening understatement of the century. “Sounds perfect.”
Too bad I know I can’t keep it.
“My compliments to the chef,” I said after taking the last bite of my ham and cheese omelet.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said with a grin before taking a sip of coffee.
“You know, my aunt Beth used to make the best omelets, and believe it or not, you would’ve given her a run for her money.”
“Used to make?” Cam said carefully, looking down to his plate to give me some room to breathe through the uncomfortable question.
My voice was soft, but my heart was full as I took note of the keen observation he’d used to notice the distinction in the first place. So many men didn’t bother to listen to the details. “She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, and I nodded. I was sorry too. Unfortunately, being sorry never brought her back, no matter how badly I wanted it to.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and set it beside my dish, wondering if the conversation would stop there. There wasn’t a whole lot that could kill a mood like talk of a dead relative could.
But with only a few seconds’ pause, he picked up the conversational volley again and surprised me.
“My little sister’s name is Beth.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and a soft smile covered his lips. “She’s nineteen, stubborn as hell, and a total pain in my ass, but I’d do just about anything for her.”
“That’s really sweet. She’s a lucky girl.”
The idea of this larger-than-life man being protective of his little sister warmed my heart a little too much for my rational liking. Cam Mitchell had already given me more than enough pros, and I really needed him to work a little harder at filling the con column if my heart had any chance of surviving the mess I’d created for us both.
“Maybe one day I should have you remind her of that fact,” he teased with a playful grin. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Nope. Only child.” The answer came easily enough, and perhaps, that was what startled me. Suddenly, our conversation felt way too personal. I shook my head and busied myself with a sip of coffee to distract myself from the need to retreat.
Since a hasty run from the table while I feigned food poisoning seemed a little like overkill, I settled for changing the focus to something a little less invasive.
“So, is this the off-season right now for you?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I’m still training five days a week, but there’re no mandatory practices to attend.” He stood up to take our empty plates and used cutlery to the sink, never even blinking at the force he had to use to rip mine from my hands when I tried to do it myself. “So, I take it you don’t really follow the Mavs or football?”
I shook my head, unsure what to do with my hands once again, and clasped my fingers together tightly under the cover of the table. “I don’t, but my dad and Uncle Joe definitely do.”
The instant the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to reach out and slam them back inside. Fuck, what was wrong with me? I had to stop telling him all this personal shit.
“So…uh…” I quickly added, “when does the season start up again?”
“Early August,” he answered, and while he put the dishes in the sink, I decided I needed to gain some fucking control, impolite and unfounded or not.
Quietly, I got up from my seat and grabbed my phone out of my purse.
A minute later, I’d successfully scheduled an Uber to pick me up.
Lord knew I yearned to spend the day soaking up all the goodness Cam had to offer, but the longer I waited, the harsher reality would be—for both of us.
I couldn’t risk the possibility of Cam taking me home or even taking me back to Skins where Trixie’s car was still located.
And I feared if I stayed any longer, I’d end up inadvertently telling him my fucking last name.
Clearly, I couldn’t trust myself around him.
Cam walked back over to the kitchen table, and I glanced down at my phone to see that my Uber driver would arrive in six minutes.
Cam wasn’t oblivious to the change in my energy.
“Shall I get dressed and take you home?” he asked, and I shook my head.
“Actually, my ride should be here soon.”
“Your ride?”
“Yeah, I called an Uber.”
A shocked laugh left his lips. “You didn’t need to call an Uber, Lana. I would’ve been more than happy to take you home.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want you to have to go to any trouble.”
He frowned. “I really wish you’d reconsider.”
“It’s no big deal, Cam,” I said breezily and stood up from the kitchen table.
My intent was to make a clean, quick escape, but before I could sling my purse over my shoulder and walk into the entryway, Cam closed the distance between us and pulled me into his big arms.
His mouth was on mine between one breath and the next.
He kissed me soft and deep and so damn good I felt it all the way to my toes.
When he was done, everything I’d spent the entire morning reminding myself of got a little hazy around the edges.
“I wish you would stay,” he whispered against my lips.
“I did stay,” I responded and leaned back to meet his eyes. “I stayed all fucking night, in fact.”
“Stay another night,” he responded with a grin, and I giggled.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“At least give me your number.” He reached into his back pocket to pull out his phone, and I searched to the depths of my soul for the resolve to turn him down.
To tell him it wasn’t a good idea and leave it all behind us right here and now.
But the longer I looked up into his big brown eyes, the less significant the pile of mistakes I’d made last night and this morning started to feel.
It wasn’t that big of a deal, right?
It was just a number. Just two phones, with two people who could decide for themselves whether to answer or not.
Before I knew it, I’d rattled off the number for Trixie’s phone, and he’d added me to his contacts.
It took an entirely too enjoyable goodbye kiss, and a five full minutes into my Uber ride, to realize I hadn’t done the right thing.
Sure, the number he now had only went to a burner phone that couldn’t be traced back to me. And it was definitely a better option than his calls to the club or random stop-ins that Marco had the pleasure of witnessing.
Still, it made me nervous.
Five minutes later, I knew why.
Cam Mitchell wasn’t going away.
And even worse—it was getting harder and harder to convince myself I wanted him to.
Unknown number: Hi, this is Magic Mike requesting lap dance lessons. If this isn’t Trixie, please disregard. If this is Trixie, when can I see you again?
I snuck a glance at my phone for the fortieth time today and scrolled through the messages I’d exchanged with Lana this morning.
Me: Hi, this is Magic Mike requesting lap dance lessons. If this isn’t Trixie, please disregard. If this is Trixie, when can I see you again?
Trixie: I’d be careful sending out messages saying you’re Magic Mike. Send it to the wrong number, and you’ll end up with a thousand women calling you looking for Channing Tatum.
Me: Are you looking for Channing Tatum?
Trixie: Hmm. Cam. Channing. It’s close, but I’m pretty sure it’s different.
Me: So it worked out for me this time. I’ve reached the right woman, and she’s answering me.
Trixie: You might not be so lucky in the future.
Me: You planning to change your number?
Trixie: You never know.
Me: Well, let me know if you do, would you? I’m kind of interested in keeping in touch.
Mr. Lancaster’s voice got louder and more severe, and Sean elbowed me in the ribs. I glanced up to see someone else was getting in trouble for being on their phone—thankfully—and slipped mine into my pocket regretfully.
“Thanks,” I muttered to Sean, grateful that he’d at least been looking out for me. The last thing I needed was to get into any more trouble with my boss, and scrolling through my phone during a team meeting was really pushing it.
I knew it.
I just couldn’t seem to stop myself from repeatedly going over the conversation we’d had. It was fun, lighthearted, and flirty, but it didn’t actually address any of the things I’d been hoping to find out.
Did she want to see me again?
Was she regretting sleeping together?
Had I been completely pathetic by begging her to stay even though I’d known I had this meeting I couldn’t miss all along?
I couldn’t tell. Except for maybe the last one. Without a doubt, I’d reached at least the baseline level of pathetic.
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