Tristan just looks at me, his silence more damning than any words could be.
Our food arrives, saving me from having to defend myself further. I stab at my salad, appetite gone. The conversation shifts to safer ground—business, investments, the Park Avenue project. But underneath it all, I feel Tristan's judgment.
Back in my office, I can't shake the image of Julian at Camille's door, soup in hand, his grand gesture working its magic on her. Would she fall for it? Would she let him touch her the way I did? Kiss her? Fuck her?
The pen in my hand snaps, ink spilling across important documents. "Shit!" These fucking cheap pens. Where the hell is my Mont Blanc?
My assistant rushes in at my outburst, eyes widening at the mess. "I'll get something to clean that up, sir."
"Just—" I take a breath, forcing my voice to level out. "Just leave it. I'll handle it."
She hesitates, clearly concerned by my uncharacteristic behavior. "Is everything alright, Mr. Kingsley?"
"Fine," I snap, then immediately regret it. She doesn't deserve my temper. None of my staff do, but they've all been walking on eggshells around me for weeks. "I'm fine. Thank you."
When she leaves, I drop into my chair, suddenly exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well. Can't stop my mind from replaying moments with Camille—her smile when I surprised her with the sunset cruise, her body wrapped around mine in the hot tub, the soft vulnerability in her eyes the last morning I saw her.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to her name in my contacts. One call. That's all it would take to hear her voice again. To see if there's still something there, something worth exploring despite all my reservations.
But what would I say? Sorry I abandoned you without a proper goodbye? Sorry I've been ignoring your messages? Sorry I can't be the man you deserve?
She deserves someone else. Not me.
But as I turn back to my work, the thought of Julian or Tristan being that someone burns like a brand against my skin.
She's underneath me, blonde hair fanned out across white sheets, blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure. "Alex," she gasps as I thrust into her, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders. The Caribbean breeze drifts through open windows, cooling our sweat-slicked skin. She feels impossibly tight, impossibly perfect around me. I'm close, so close...
I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs. For a moment, I'm disoriented, still half-trapped in the dream. My body thinks she's here with me, and I’m rock hard and aching.
"Fuck," I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes.
Even in sleep, I can't escape her. It's been like this for weeks—fragments of Camille haunting my dreams. Sometimes we're back in my office, her bent over my desk, skirt pushed up around her hips. Sometimes we're in the hot tub, and she’s straddling me. Sometimes it's just her face, her smile, her eyes looking at me like I'm everything she wants instead of the cold bastard who left her.
I glance at the clock: 4:37 AM. Too early to get up, too late to hope for any decent sleep. My cock throbs, demanding attention, the images from my dream still vivid and electric. I groan, kicking off the sheets. The cool air of my bedroom raises goosebumps on my overheated skin.
My phone sits on the nightstand, its dark screen like a challenge. I reach for it before I'm fully conscious of the decision, unlocking it with face recognition. I pull up her name in my contacts and my thumb hovers over her number.
What would I even say? I'm hard and thinking about you? I made a mistake? I miss you? I can't stop dreaming about fucking you?
Jesus Christ, Kingsley… get it together.
I drop the phone back onto the nightstand. This isn't me. I don't pine. I don't obsess. I make decisions and I stick to them, consequences be damned. It's how I live my life. It's how I survive.
But I can't deny the physical reality of my need for her. My cock lies heavy against my stomach, pre-cum beading at the tip. Maybe if I just take care of this, I can clear my head of her, at least temporarily.
I wrap my hand around my shaft, closing my eyes as I begin to stroke. Immediately, she fills my mind again—Camille on her knees in front of me, those blue eyes looking up as she takes me into her mouth for the first time. The memory is so vivid I can almost feel the wet heat of her tongue, the tentative way she explored me before growing bolder.
"Shit," I hiss, increasing the pressure, the speed. In my mind, I'm back in Antigua, Camille beneath me on the terrace lounger, her legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her. No condom. Nothing between us. The way she clenched around me when she came, pulling my own release from me.
My breath comes faster now, matching the rhythm of my hand. I remember the taste of her skin, salt and sweetness. The sounds she made when I hit just the right spot inside her. The way she moaned my name.
I twist my wrist on the upstroke, imagining it's her hand. The pressure builds, tension coiling tighter with each stroke. I'm close, so close, just like in the dream.
"Fuck," I groan into the darkness, hot streaks of cum shooting across my stomach and chest. The release is intense but hollow, physical relief without emotional satisfaction.
For a few moments, I lie there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. The sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, my skin cooling rapidly under the ceiling fan. The momentary clarity that follows orgasm brings with it a feeling of self-disgust. Is this what I've been reduced to? Jerking off to memories of a woman I deliberately walked away from?
I clean myself up with tissues from the nightstand, then fall back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted yet knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep. My mind drifts to what Tristan said at lunch about Julian stopping by Camille's place. Bringing her soup because he’s worried about her.
