She shifted her position so I could get a better view of her, and started massaging her leg with it.Exactlylike Scarlett. The exact position. The exact movement.
She looked up through the window directly at me and held my gaze for a long moment. Then she smiled. Or rather, smirked, and looked back down at her leg.
I gripped the window ledge.
She was extraordinary. She was devastating. She knew just how hot and sexy she looked, and she knew what that was doing to me. She was doing everything with deliberate confidence, she wanted me to get horny, she wanted me to lust for her, and she was doing it without apology by replicating Scarlett’s moves.
She knew I wanted her. I wanted to feel her slick, sexy body. I wanted to kiss every inch of her and make love to her right there.
I couldn’t control myself anymore. I couldn’t watch her do things to me. The rain was lashing down on me, mocking me as I stood on the ledge of the window of the only woman I’d ever love, but not even able to touch her.
Camila was rubbing the oil sensuously all over her body now. She stopped abruptly, and looked at me. She slowly raised her right hand, showed me her middle finger, and very slowly mouthed the words: fuck off.
And exactly at that moment, I decided to shift my weight, slip over the wet ledge, and fall off her window on the wet ground with a loud thud. Pain shot up through my back, and I realized, with something like relief, that my boner was gone.
And something in my heart told me at that moment that Camila’s punishments had only just begun.
CHAPTER 20
CAMILA
The morning after the storm was unreasonably beautiful.
Paradise Island did this — punished you with rain and then acted completely innocent the next day, all blue sky and washed-clean air like nothing had happened. I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee and looked at the garden, which was damp and glittering and looked like a postcard.
And at the tent in the corner of it, which looked significantly less postcard-worthy.
It had survived the storm, I’d give it that. Jason had apparently done something right with the stakes, because it was still standing and appeared structurally intact, which was more than I’d quietly hoped for at around two in the morning when the rain was at its worst. Not that I’d been listening for it. Not that I was awake in my comfortable bed thinking whether he was getting rained on in my garden.
I hadn’t.
The tent flap opened.
Jason emerged in a black t-shirt and blue jeans, his hair slightly damp, holding a coffee cup I recognized immediately as one of Dog-Eared’s takeaway cups. He’d apparently been up earlyenough to walk to the café and back before I came downstairs. He settled himself on a stack of equipment boxes with the unhurried ease.
He looked, infuriatingly, content.
Not miserable. Not cold. Not a man suffering after a night of relentless rain in a wet garden. He looked like someone sitting outside on a Saturday morning, drinking coffee, perfectly at peace with where he was.
I had expected more obvious suffering.
He glanced up at the kitchen window and saw me. He smiled. Just a straightforward, morning smile. And waved.
I did not smile back.
He chugged the last of his coffee, stood up, and walked around to the front door.
The bell rang.
I opened it.
“I was waiting for you to come down,” he said.
“What do you want, Jason?”
“Two things.” He held up one finger. “I need to connect the security monitor to a screen inside your house, ideally in the kitchen, somewhere you can see it easily.” A second finger. “And,” a brief pause, something almost sheepish crossing his face, “could I use your shower?”
I looked at him.
