NINETEEN
I wring myself out against him, helpless to stop myself from being such a sad spectacle. Years of anger, hurt, and loneliness pour out of me like a tap has been opened. I cry until I’m exhausted, sniffling and hiccupping, trembling with shame.
Then Cam performs a miracle and picks me up in his arms.
I’d protest, but I’m too tired, so I allow him to carry me over to the sofa while I marvel at how effortless he makes lifting the weight of a baby elephant seem.
He settles me onto the sofa, props a pillow behind my head, pulls a blanket up to my chin, and strokes a lock of hair off my damp forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
When he leaves, I burrow under the blanket, tucking my legs up and hiding my face. My wet, undoubtedly splotchy and swollen face.
Some women can cry prettily, with dainty little feminine tears and elegant noises of distress, but I am not one of those women. I cry the same way I eat: messily, loudly, and with total abandon.
I am unruly in emotion and appetite. I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to not be unruly, to be smaller, more contained, more acceptable, but underneath it all I’m still myself. All the passions and desires and tempestuous needs, all the wants and hurts and sorrows, all the ugly and wonderful things. I am just unruly, peculiar me, and I’m so tired of pretending otherwise.
At least with Cam I don’t have to.
He returns from his apartment after a few minutes, bearing gifts.
He lifts my legs, sits on the sofa, and places my legs over his lap. “C’mon out, lassie. I’ve got treats.”
I flip down an edge of the blanket and peek out. Cam is looking at me expectantly, holding a white ceramic bowl and smiling.
“Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.
“Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”
My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”
“No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.
I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.
“S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”
“That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”
He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”
“I know.”
We smile at each other.
“But am I a good kisser? That’s the real question, lass.” He eats more ice cream, waiting for my response with lifted brows.
“You waited until I was in a vulnerable state to ask that, didn’t you?”
“I’m not that stealthy. Here.” He holds out the spoon.
I savor the mouthful of creamy goodness, trying to make it last as long as possible as I wrack my brain for a neutral answer that doesn’t reveal just how thermonuclear I thought our kiss was. I decide on, “You seem very experienced.”
He makes a face. “That’s awfully clinical.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego throwing a tantrum because I didn’t say it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had?”
He’s about to put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth but pauses, holding the spoon to his lips. “Was it?”
Those damn piercing hazel eyes. I look down at the blanket, picking at a frayed bit of yarn. “It might . . . be up there.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him under my lashes and find him grinning at me.
“Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter.
He wolfs down the bite of ice cream, smacking his lips. “For the record, it might’ve been up there for me, too.”
I’m startled and commence blinking rapidly like a crazed owl. “Really?”
“Really.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Am I?” He takes another bite of ice cream, smiling around the spoon.
I flop backward onto the cushions and pull the blanket up over my face.
I hear a chuckle, low and pleased. “I’m tellin’ the truth, lass. You’re a champion kisser. Very fine. And not fine the way you Yanks use it—fine as in excellent.”
I flip the edge of the blanket down and peer at him.
“I don’t mean to make it sound like I don’t have anything else I could teach you,” he says casually, licking the spoon. He glances sideways at me. “For Michael, of course.”
I chew the inside of my lip. “Like what?”
“You want a list?”
Now I’m indignant. “A list? There’s that much to improve on? I thought you said it was fine as in excellent!”
He lifts a shoulder, nonchalant as can be. I’d like to smash my pillow into his face, but that would probably send the bowl of ice cream flying. His stupid face isn’t worth a wasted bowl of ice cream.
I sigh and sit up, pulling my legs off his lap. “Okay. Hit me. And don’t leave anything out. I want to hear the whole ugly truth.”
He looks at the ceiling, lightly tapping the spoon against the side of the bowl. “It’s not really one of those things you can talk someone through.”
Getting more and more worried, I furrow my brow. “So how am I supposed to improve?”
He turns his gaze to me. His expression is solemn and regretful, like a doctor about to inform me of the inoperable tumor in my brain. “Practice.”
Without waiting for a response, he scoops me more ice cream and holds it to my lips. Then he watches with his wolfish eyes as I suck the spoon into my mouth and swallow.
After I work up the nerve, I venture, “So you’re saying . . . you want to kiss me again.”
“I wanna help you get your heart’s desire, lass,” he counters briskly. “Which is Michael, right?”
Those wolfish eyes again. I’m getting confused. “Um. Yes. It’s . . . Michael.”
His eyes flash, but he nods, apparently satisfied he’s made his point. “Right. Think of it as trainin’. Like if you were gonna run a marathon, you wouldn’t just run twenty-odd miles in one go. You’d work up to it a bit at a time. Day after day, week after week, a wee bit at a time, until you’re in prime shape for the big event.”
When I sit in silence for too long, just looking at him, Cam shakes his head.
“You’re right. It’s a bad idea. You’ll get all attached, and it’ll be funny between us. You’ll be heartsick. I’ll be uncomfortable. You don’t know this, but it’s not easy for me to break a lass’s heart. I can only stand so much beggin’—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, McGregor!”
He looks taken aback at hearing me curse. “I’m just tryin’ to spare you a broken heart, lassie. I’m agreein’ with you, it’s a terrible idea.”
“I’m not going to fall in love with you, McGregor. Not from kissing you or from anything else.”
Unmoved by my outburst, he casually consumes more ice cream while looking at me from the corner of his eye. “Oh, aye, now I remember. You said I’m not your type.”
“Exactly.” I say it emphatically, unsure if it’s him I’m trying to convince or myself.
Cam nods. “Exactly. So then there’s no problem.”
I sigh, remove my glasses, and scrub my hands over my face. I go into the kitchen, run the tap, splash water on my face, dry it with a dish towel. Then I put my glasses back on, turn, and look at McGregor on my sofa with his feet up on my coffee table, eating ice cream like he’s on friggin’ vacation at a seaside resort, and sigh again.
“Fine. But this is purely . . . educational. And I don’t want to talk about it after tonight. Deal?”
Cam doesn’t even turn around when he shrugs. “Whatever you say, lass. I’m just here to help.”
It’s the nonchalance in his aspect and voice, the total indifference, that finally convinces me. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t budge from the sofa.
“Are you coming in here or what?”
“I’m comfortable right where I am.”
“Oh. Um. Okay.” I return to the living room and perch on the edge of the sofa with my hands folded between my thighs. I never know what to do with my hands when kissing a man, so it’s safer to have them trapped.
Cam says, “Well, hop on, then.”
“What?”
He gestures to his lap with the spoon.
“Dude! No way! I’m not straddling you!”
He smirks. “Afraid you’ll get too hot and bothered and rip my shirt off, lass?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Oh, so you’re worried I’ll get aroused.”
Visions of his monster manhood swim into my brain. I sputter, “W-what? No! Geez!”
“Good, because I won’t. Stop stallin’. I’ve gotta get to bed soon. I’m meetin’ someone for a run early in the mornin’.”
I’m irrationally hurt, both by the implication I’m not boner worthy and that he’s made plans to work out with someone other than me. “Who?”
Cam inspects my expression with one corner of his mouth quirked, a strange look of satisfaction in his gaze. “You.”
“Oh. Right. I mean . . . I know.”
The other corner of his mouth lifts, and now he’s smiling at me. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”
I gasp, loudly and with vigor. “I am not jealous!”
Cam leans forward, sets the bowl of ice cream on the coffee table, grasps my upper arms, and drags me onto his lap, where I gasp again, because how could I not?
It isn’t every day a girl gets to straddle Godzilla.
Cam says gruffly, “Good. It’s sorted. You’re not jealous, I’m not your type, and you don’t have eyes for anyone but pretty boy Michael. Now quit yammerin’, woman, because I’ve got other plans for that mouth.”
And oh God, does he.
He takes my mouth almost angrily, one hand around the back of my neck and the other curled around my upper arm, his lips hot and demanding. When his tongue breaches my lips and touches mine, a shudder of electricity runs through me, like I’ve stepped on a live wire.
My hands flattened over his broad chest, I shove him away. “Wait!”
He stares at me with a hard jaw, breathing erratically. “What?”
I remove my glasses and set them on the cushion beside us.
This time he comes at me slower. More deliberately, more controlled. He slides his hands into my hair and bends me to him, hesitating with a hair’s breadth of space between our mouths.
“Remember to breathe,” he whispers.
“Just kiss me already,” I whisper back, surprised by how much it sounds like a plea.
“Your eyes are still open.”
I immediately shut them.
His soft laugh sends a thrill up my spine. “If only you were that obedient all the time, lass.” He lightly nips my lower lip, a dark, delicious little promise.
My hands. What do I do with my hands? They’re flattened against his chest again, but that seems lame, so I slide them up around his neck . . . and discover his hair. Good Lord. Thick, glossy strands of hair slide like silk between my fingers. His hair is longer than any of the men’s at the office, much longer than Michael’s, past the collar of his shirt, dark and waving, exquisitely soft.
As his tongue slowly begins to probe my mouth, I tug on all that gorgeous hair, forgetting I’m not supposed to be enjoying this.
I arch against him, softening, expanding, breathing deeply through my nose as the kiss deepens and begins to burn. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was experienced. He knows exactly what to do, how to get my blood sizzling and my heart hammering and all the pornographic images of him nude and splayed out like the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received pulsing like neon signs inside my head.
My nipples tighten. There’s a new heaviness between my legs, but it’s not him, it’s me, flushed and aching, every pull of his lips sending a spike of heat to that hollow space inside me that I’m becoming acutely aware of, with its muted little howls of need.
I break away to check in before I lose myself completely and choke him with my prehensile tongue. “How’m I doing?” I mumble, flushed and out of breath.
His eyes drift open. Hot and dark, they pin me in place. “Jury’s still out,” he says, his voice thick. “Need more evidence.”
His mouth. I will drown in the pleasure of his mouth. I’ll die on this sofa, and Mrs. Dinwiddle will find my body, fingers and toes chewed on by the poor starving cat.
The kiss grows decadent. Sinful. I moan, a desperate sound rising from the back of my throat. It has an interesting effect on Cam.
His entire body goes stiff.
He takes my head in both hands, breaks the kiss, and turns his face away. He breathes raggedly for a few moments, his nostrils flared and his jaw like granite. With his fingers pressed into my scalp, he says roughly, “You can’t make noises like that.”
Oh God. I sound like a warthog. A donkey. A trained pig, snuffling through the underbrush in search of truffles. “Okay.”
The humiliation in my voice makes his eyes slash to mine. “It’s not bad. It’s just . . . distracting.”
Distracting?
He slightly shifts his weight, and things are clarified.
I bite my lip so hard I might have drawn blood. My heart is a hummingbird beating frantically against a cage. I whisper, “You said you wouldn’t get aroused.”
He looks at my mouth like a warlord looking over a kingdom he’s just seized. “I lied.”
A kiss again, dangerous, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking over, shifting dirt and rocks tumbling beneath your feet. My fingers twist in his hair. His hands move my head, left or right, however he wants it, a throbbing pulse like drumbeats in my ears. I’m so turned on I feel frantic, unstable, like I might break out of my own skin.
Caterpillar becoming butterfly. Chrysalis shed, wings outstretched, wind beneath my belly. Caught on an updraft. Beating, beating, flying free.
He breaks the kiss, suddenly, shatteringly, the separation like breaking glass. Dizzy, I whimper at the loss of his mouth.
“Fuck. Joellen. Fuck.”
He’s panting, his voice a desperate rasp. He radiates heat like a furnace. Even his hands on my head are hot, burning right through my skull.
With his scent in my nose and his heat wrapped around me and his heart pounding against mine, I’m somewhere else. I’m someone else. A gypsy, casting spells. A sloe-eyed singer in a smoky jazz club. A femme fatale in a film noir, all knowing smiles and long legs and a throaty voice with an edge like a purr.
“Don’t stop,” I say in my new voice. “You taste so good.”
He stares right at me, his eyes intensely aglow. Tiger eyes. Wolf eyes. The eyes of a predator about to pounce on his meal.
He growls, “You like the way I taste?”
There’s a challenge in the question. Other than his ragged breathing, he’s so still, every muscle tensed.
What’s happening?
I come back to myself abruptly, all at once aware of how far this little experiment has gone, how dangerously close it is to the point of no return, and the cat up on the kitchen table eating the remains of Cam’s dinner from his plate.
Oh shit. My face floods with heat.
I’m not a gypsy. I’m not a femme fatale. I’m an awkward, lonely woman sitting on the lap of the most famous athlete on the planet, making an utter fool of myself.
“Sorry,” I say faintly, my voice raw. I clear my throat. “I think I got a little carried away.”
I grab my glasses and fly off his lap as if I’ve been launched. I flee into the kitchen, where I busy myself with cleaning the dinner dishes and attempting to stave off a major heart attack. For a long time, I hear nothing from the living room. When I chance a glance over my shoulder, Cam has his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands, looking at the floor.
“So I’ll see you in the morning?” I try to make my voice normal.
He huffs out a breath, like a husky laugh only harder. He slowly rises to his feet. “Yup. See you in the mornin’.”
He leaves, never looking at me, an awkward hitch in his gait.
I try to convince myself that my weight must’ve cut off the circulation in his legs, but it’s a tough sell considering all the evidence. Ultimately I’m forced to face the truth.
Cameron McGregor was as turned on by that kiss as I was.
I can’t decide if that’s the best development or the worst.