The need to be inside her overwhelms me. I position myself against her entrance from behind, the head of my cock pressing against her. "Is this okay?" I ask, even as I begin to push forward.
"Yes," she breathes, arching her back to take me deeper.
I enter her slowly, savoring the tight grip of her body around mine. From this angle, I can control the depth, the pace. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her against me as I begin to move in slow, deliberate thrusts.
"You feel so good," I whisper against her neck, inhaling the scent of her—floral shampoo mixed with the lingering trace of sex from last night. "So perfect around my cock."
Camille reaches back, her hand on my hip urging me deeper. I comply, driving into her with more force now. The position allows me to keep fondling her breast with one hand while the other slides between her legs, finding her clit again.
She gasps as I circle that sensitive bundle of nerves. "Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. I increase the pressure of my fingers, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. Her breathing grows ragged, her inner muscles clenching around me in a way that threatens to undo my control.
"That's it," I encourage her. "Let go for me, Camille."
She comes with a moan, her body shuddering against mine, her pussy pulsing around my cock. The sensation nearly pushes me over the edge, but at the last moment, I pull out, spilling onto the sheets instead of inside her.
My body screams in protest at the interrupted pleasure, but my mind knows it's the right call. Last night was reckless enough—coming inside her without protection. What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking. That's the problem with Camille. She short-circuits my brain, makes me forget all the rules I've set for myself.
She turns in my arms, blue eyes meeting mine, a question in them. "You didn't..."
I press a kiss to her forehead to distract her from the conversation I don't want to have. "Last night was risky enough."
Something flickers across her face. But she nods, accepting my explanation without pressing further.
We lie there for a few minutes, her head on my chest, my fingers absently stroking her hair. This feels too comfortable. Too right. The kind of morning I could get used to, and that's precisely why it needs to be the last.
"I should go get ready for the day," she says eventually, sitting up and gathering the sheet around her.
I watch her, taking in the way the morning light plays across her features, the slight puffiness of her lips from my kisses. "Yes, I have an early meeting I need to get to as well," I tell her, the lie coming easily.
She hesitates, then leans down to kiss me softly. "I'll see you later?"
I force myself to nod, though I've already decided there won't be a later. "Sure."
After she leaves, I lie in bed for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. The sheets still smell like her—like us—and my body still craves her even after just having her. Fuck...
I drag myself to the bathroom, turning the shower to cold in a futile attempt to wash away the lingering arousal, the scent of her on my skin. When I step out, I pause in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection.
"No more," I tell myself firmly. "It was just sex. Great sex, but still just sex."
My reflection stares back, unconvinced. There's nothing "just" about Camille, and I know it. Which is exactly why I need to keep my distance. She deserves better than what I can offer—a man who has no interest in the kind of life she undoubtedly wants. The white picket fence, the family, the forever.
I've never been that man. I never will be.
I turn away from the mirror, my decision made. It's time to do what I do best—walk away before things get complicated.
I finish getting dressed and head down to my temporary office. I throw myself into work, answering emails, signing off on proposals without my usual scrutiny. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to crush the nagging voice telling me I'm making a mistake. But I continue to feel so damn distracted.
Vince knocks on my door at eight, surprised to find me already deep in paperwork.
"Since when do you start work earlier than me?" he asks, setting a cup of coffee on my desk. He studies my face, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Thanks for the assessment," I reply dryly, not looking up from my laptop. "What's on the agenda today?"
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Meeting with the construction team at ten, lunch with the investors at noon, design review with Miss Montclair at two?—"
