He chuckles, the sound dark and dangerous, and positions himself between my thighs. And then he’s kissing me, deep and consuming, tongue tangling against mine in a show of dominance and desire. When he finally pushes inside me, the process agonizingly slow, I moan against his mouth. The sting is sweet as he stretches me, and when he bottoms out, I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulder blades.
He stills for a moment, both of us adjusting to the sensation.
I wrap my arms around his neck and sigh. “You definitely feel bigger than Stavros.”
“You definitely shouldn’t mention another man while I’m inside you.” He captures my lips in a searing kiss. “You okay?”
“More than okay.” I tighten my legs around him, swiveling my hips to prove my point. “Move. Please.”
He does, slow and steady at first, before setting a rhythm that’s neither gentle nor rough but in that perfect spot somewhere in between. He finds my mouth again, swallowing my groans, and I lose myself in the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between us.
“Fuck me, I’ve been waiting to hear you make those sweet little sounds again.” He slips a hand under the small of my back, holding my body to his. “Taking me so fucking well, baby.”
“Less talking,” I pant, the warmth in my belly growing hotter and more tangible with each passing moment. “More orgasms.”
He doesn’t listen to the first part. Instead, he pantingly lists filthy confessions between grunts. He tells me how perfect I am, how he wants to mark me, how he wants to hear me scream, how tight and warm I am.
“God, you feel incredible,” he grunts, one hand cupping my face with surprising tenderness even as he drives his hips forward. “So fucking perfect.”
As electricity arcs through me, I drag my nails down his back.
He hisses, the sound dissolving into a growl. I can’t form words as the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core as I pulse around him.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his rhythm steady. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I need to feel you.”
On command, I cry out his name, shattering into my orgasm.
Cameron doesn’t soften his thrusts, forcing me to ride out the waves of pleasure until I have to remind myself to breathe.
When he finally lets himself go, when he loses himself in this, in me, a strained groan escapes him, punctuated by a few choice curses. Shuddering, he collapses on top of me, his chest pressed to mine, sweat-slick and breathing heavy. I smile as I tuck my face into his collarbone, listening to the thrum of his heart as it slows.
He tenderly kisses my neck, his thumb tracing idle circles over my hip in a manner vastly different from the way he just fucked me into oblivion. “You good?”
“Never been better.”
I take a moment, clinging to the feeling, knowing reality will come crashing back in soon enough. Because whatever Cameron and I are doing, whatever this thing between us has become, we crossed a line tonight.
And the terrifying part?
I don’t want to go back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
cameron
Kennedy Caplan is a blanket hog.
Her post-orgasm snooze on my lap where she curled against me, soft and pliant andstill, was apparently a cruel trick designed to lull me into a false sense of security.
She spent most the night burrowed under the comforter like she was preparing for hibernation, taking approximately 75 percent of the blanket with her.
Even when she relocated herself, her body sprawled over mine, her head on my chest, I was still only left with a strip of fabric approximately six inches wide. She’s under the impression that blankets are a single-player resource.
I should be miserable. I should be mentally composing an excuse to leave, planning my escape, regretting every decision that led to spending the night. Instead, I’m lying here watching her sleep, studying the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the small furrow between her brows as she dreams, the way her fingers are curled into my chest like she’s holding on.
And the truly alarming part?
I don’t want to leave.
