The pressure is too much, his body too warm, and it frays meat the edges.
Every snap of my hips is brutal, each pant of breath, harsh and ragged, as I lose myself inside him. Lose myself in everything about this moment until my climax finally shoots down my spine like a lightning rod, causing my hips to stutter before burying myself to the hilt.
My release spills from my body into his, the pulsing aftershocks of his own orgasm dragging out my own. And it’s an ecstasy I’ve never felt, overwhelming my senses with blissful pleasure and all things Camden.
I sink backward, pulling from his body and lowering his legs back to the floor. My cum slowly begins to seep out of his ass a few seconds later, pooling in his crease, and while it’s one hell of a view, I’m too exhausted to enjoy it. Hell, I can barely remember my own name as I fall to my back beside him, hoping to catch my breath.
Cam, on the other hand, is already moving, leaning over to grab something to wipe off his chest; a shirt, from the looks of it. He tosses it away when he’s done, and rolls to face me, a little smile on his lips while his gaze traces over my face, then down my body.
I’ve never been self-conscious about my body or anything like that, but something about the way he looks at me when I’m naked is so unnerving. Like he’s seeing more than just my physical being splayed out beside him.
Like he’s seeingme.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, awe and reverie laced through the declaration.
“Right,” I say with a strained laugh. “Coming from a fucking Greek God. What are you, the human incarnate of Apollo, Mr. Sunshine?”
It’s teasing, but there’s a hint of truth to it too. Every part of me wishes realism was my preferred style of art, if only so I couldcapture him with pen and paper exactly as he is right now: hard abs and sweat-glistening skin while he leans on an elbow over top of me.
Though, that is a feat I doubt Michelangelo himself could accomplish.
He continues his perusal of me, gaze illuminated by the light from the flatscreen, and his fingertips join in, following the path his eyes have already devoured.
“You’re the artist,” he finally whispers. “You should know beauty is subjective.”
I roll my eyes, still feeling the blush on my cheeks. “Okay,Plato.”
“That was Hume, actually. Plato says beauty is objective. Like the way you justobjectifiedme,” he says before poking me in the ribs.
I let out a soft chuckle. “Pass one philosophy class and you start using it against me?”
A little hum escapes him before he leans down and presses a slow kiss to my lips, only pulling back to utter, “Maybe you should’ve let me fail after all.”
Twenty-Six
Camden
March
I plop down on Logan’s mattress after yet another grueling, early-morning practice, which was immediately followed by my last midterm exam for history—that I crushed, by the way. But all the mental and physical stimulation has me feeling like I could sleep for a thousand years, and it’s only two in the afternoon.
Logan lets out a littleoofwhen I crawl half on top of him, bracketing my arms on either side of his torso and burying my face in his chest like it’s a pillow.
“I’m so tired, I think I’m going to die,” I mutter, the words muffled by his shirt.
I can hear the amusement in his voice when he asks, “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Says the one who probably woke up an hour ago.”
“It was two hours ago, actually,” he retorts without missing a beat.
Lifting my head, I find his attention no longer on the laptop on his nightstand but on me. I prop my chin on his sternum andjust stare, a sense of peace covering me like a fuzzy blanket I could stay wrapped in forever.
“Hi,” I whisper, and he smiles.
“Hi yourself. How’d your midterm go?”
“Good, I think. The extra time really helped.”
