Page 36

His fist stops midway along his length. “Tell me.”

"I want to improve my time," I say, my hand trailing across my breast, where my nipples have puckered and everything feels full and heavy.

His entire face shifts. The misery drains away, replaced by focus. Attention. Complete, undivided presence.

"Then show me," he says.

I pull off my leggings and hoodie. My hands shake, but I don't hesitate. If I hesitate, I'll think, and if I think, I'll stop. I kneel beside him in my underwear, and his eyes move over my thighs, my hips, the muscle of my quads. His expression is devastating — his eyes roam over me like I'm a work of art, an opponent, and something sacred all at once.

I slide my hand into my underwear and his breath catches.

"That's it," he murmurs. “Show me what you like.”

His hand starts moving on himself again, and we're both there, side by side on his borrowed bed, watching each other. The room narrows to his voice and my hand and the sound of our breathing.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, and his vowels are so thick now that I can barely understand him. "Look at you. Look at your body. Christ, Briar, you have no idea what you do to me."

My eyelids drift shut, and his voice follows me into the dark.

"No. Keep your eyes open. Look at me."

I obey. He's watching my face with a concentration that makes my toes curl. His hand moves steadily on himself, unhurried, like he could do this forever, like the only thing that matters is what's happening to me.

"You're perfect,” he says. "You hear me? There's nothing wrong with you. Whatever that piece of shit told you, he was wrong. Your body is incredible.” His voice drops. "And if you could see yourself right now — god, Briar. The way your thighs are shaking. The way your stomach moves as you breathe. You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

The heat builds. It builds faster than it did when I was alone because his voice is in the room, not in my imagination, and his body is right there — chest heaving, tattoos shifting with each breath, the evidence of what I do to him right there in his hand.

"That's it," he says. "Don't stop. You're close, aren't you? I can see it."

I nod. I can't speak. My hand moves faster as I watch his eyes. His jaw is tight with restraint, and he's hard and leaking. He won’t let himself finish before me, I realize. He's holding himself at the edge, waiting for me.

"Come for me, Briar." The words are so quiet they're almost a whisper. "You deserve this. Let go."

I come apart with a sound I don't recognize — raw and sharp, and loud in the small room. My body locks and releases, and my hand grips his arm for balance. He says, "there you go, that's it, that's perfect," in a voice that breaks on the last word, and then he follows me, groaning, his whole body arching off the mattress.

His release sprays thick and white, spurting onto his stomach, and I stare at this beautiful, erotic mess. I want to cry; I feel such intense release.

The room is quiet. Our breathing fills it. My hand is still on his arm, and his skin is hot and damp under my fingers.

I look at the clock on the nightstand. I didn't set a timer, but I know when I walked in and I know the math.

"Twelve minutes," I say. My voice sounds like a stranger's.

Cameron turns his head on the pillow. A slow smile spreads across his wrecked face. "You halved your time."

I start to laugh. It's a slightly unhinged guffaw — from relief, shock, and the absurdity of kneeling on a bed next to a man you fake-dated into synchronizing your orgasms like sprint intervals.

"Strong improvement," he says. "Really excellent progress."

"Thank you, Coach."

He laughs, the sound loose and surprised, and his eyes crinkle. He looks younger and lighter, like a person who has not been carrying the weight of everyone he's ever loved on his shoulders.

I look at the tattoos on his chest. I want to trace each one. I want to ask him what they mean. I want to lie down next to him, put my head on his shoulder, and stay in this room where nothing is fake.

Instead I lean down and kiss his forehead. "There's food in the slow cooker?"

"Beef stew," he says. "Should be ready."