NINETEEN
Duke
All she had to say was one little thing about a damn sofa and I lost focus of why this woman can only ever be a passing phase in my life. We’re so different, yet she selflessly offered to do something that makes me feel better, and I’m left with a burning gratitude for how effortlessly kind she is.
She gives her love without expectation of reward, offering only the best part of her. Even when that douchebag ex came over to bully her into picking an estate agent, she never faltered. She could have sliced that sharp tongue of hers across his wounds and cut him down, thrown the fact that the arsehole left her when she needed him most in his face, but she didn’t.
Because that’s not Cam.
When you’re blessed with the ability to feel love and empathy to such a level, you’re also cursed to wear the scars such connection brings. No wonder the woman guards her pain so fiercely. She’s not just unable to move on for fear of losing the last connection she has to her daughter—she’s afraid of spreading her pain to the people she loves.
She’s afraid of influencing others’ lives in a negative way.
One more reason why we’re so different. All I do is layer my anger and resentment over those around me, unsatisfied until they understand why I can never let go of the misery and hate I carry at how that one event ruined so many lives.
With my arse to the timber, I scoot my back into the junction of the sofa and the wall and do my ritual sweep of the room. How long will I be like this? Living in fear despite the fact I’m halfway around the world from where the real threat of attack resides?
This isn’t how to live. It’s not how a man behaves. Shit, if my father could see me now he’d hang his head in shame. I might have lost respect for the arsehole when he cut my mother down and left to be with his mistress, but he still stamped the basic macho beliefs in me that no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake.
Men don’t cry.
Men don’t whine about their troubles to whoever will listen.
Real men stick their proverbial middle fingers up to the world that treads on them, and battle on.
I should be battling on, but here I am, sitting in a stranger’s house, thinking about what a waste my life is. My future was in army greens. My destiny was to either die young or retire when my ravaged and beaten body couldn’t take another tour. I had purpose, an outlet for my anger. I had respect.
I had the love of a good woman to return to. A new family.
Now … nothing. I’m nothing, nobody. And worst of all, I contribute nothing to this world. I suck oxygen, I eat produce, but what do I give back?
So many bad things are happening right now, so many fights for survival taking place this very second, and where am I? Huddled under a blanket looking for the fucking bogeyman.
Goddamn fucking disgrace.
I reach across and pick up my phone—torch on as always. The light illuminates my lap as I tap out a message to Cody.
How’s that cash coming along?
Knowing the dork, he’s probably still awake playing Xbox. Sure enough, three dots dance on my screen.
Sorry, bro. Not this week.
For fuck’s sake. I tap out half a dozen replies, deleting each before I send them. There’s no point getting mad at him, because just like our old man, he doesn’t give a shit if he puts you out. It’s all for him, and all about him.
A week or hopefully less, and I’ll be out of here and on my way to doing something for me. If I only I knew what the fuck that was.
**
“Duke.”
Nudge. Nudge.
“Duke.”
Fuck me, I’ve been asleep? Feels as though I only just drifted off. “What time is it?”
“Eight. I have to leave for work, but I’ve left you some breakfast in the oven.”
Cammie stands over me, gorgeous as always in a pair of black leggings, an over-sized white shirt, and a cropped cardigan. The boots on her feet are almost as big as she is, covered in studs and buckles. I’ve never paid much mind to women’s fashion before, but this girl certainly knows how to dress to bring out her best assets: legs that go on for days, and a trim waist that’s offset by her rounded arse and full tits. She’s every man’s perfect hourglass.
“In the oven?” I rub my hands over my face with a yawn.
“Yeah, to keep it warm.”
Cooked breakfast. She’s turning more and more into wife material. “Thanks, Cam.”
“I’ve left you something else as well.” The keys in her hand rattle as she darts across to the table, returning a short time later with a notebook. “I was thinking about how you said you had counselling starting soon, and I know when I had some sessions after Taylah, that I’d get there and my mind would go blank.” She smiles, despite looking at the book in her hands with sad eyes. “The therapist would ask me all these questions, and I’d sit there like a mute. So, I thought maybe if you wrote down your nightmares, your thoughts even, then you’d have material to talk about.” She thrusts the notebook at me, a pen tucked into its spine.
I take the offered gift, feeling incredibly rude that I’m still seated on the floor … but morning wood. What else can I do, but wait it out?
“Thanks.” I set the book aside, not too sure how writing and I mix.
She frowns a little, cocking her head to the side. “It was just an idea. But I’ve got to go, so I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”
“Sure.”
She paces from one foot to the other and lets out a cute little huff. “Damn it.”
I can’t help but chuckle as she squats down and then leans forward, bracing her weight on her hands as she stretches toward me. Her crisp eyes hold mine, seemingly brighter given the dark liner she’s ringed them with.
“Come on, Duke. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I know what she wants, and yeah, I’m stoked that she’s got the balls to be so forward about it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not arsehole enough to play with her a little just so I can hear her say it. “Hanging how? What’s the matter?” I feign confusion at why she’s crouched down, leant over my legs like this.
“Duke …”
“You’ve got something in your eye?” I squint a little as I check out each one.
“Don’t be an arse.” Her arms start to shake as she holds her position.
“Tell me what you want, Cam.” I steady my breathing, waiting on those words from her delicate lips: for you to kiss me.
“I want proof that it wasn’t a mistake,” she says instead.
Oh, I can do that. Kissing her last night might have taken me by surprise, but it was no mistake. How can it be when I reacted on raw instinct alone?
I reach out and place my hands on her hips, pulling her forward so she’s forced to drop to her knees. Cammie slides in closer as I urge her forward, her knees pressed tight against my thigh. She’s poised, ready for my next move, when a relatively important thought pops into my head. “Do I have morning breath?”
“What?” she says with a laugh, her eyes crinkling adorably at the corners.
“I mean, I’d hate for this epic moment to be ruined by a bad experience with halitosis. Maybe I should go brush my teeth real quick.”
She sighs out her nose, holding a single finger up. I watch as she dives into her bag and pulls out a tin of breath mints. A small blue tab drops into her hand, and pinching it between forefinger and thumb, she jerks her chin toward me. “Open up.”
The mint burns on the tip of my tongue as she drops it on, dissolving quickly as I crunch it between my teeth and shift the powder all around my mouth. I huff into my cupped hand, satisfied with the result.
“Okay now?” she queries.
“Think so.” Her breath hitches as I trail a fingertip under her jaw. “Where were we then?”
“You were about to convince me that you didn’t kiss me by accident, that you don’t regret it, and that the thought of your lips on mine has plagued you as much as the thought of mine on yours has driven me crazy this morning.”
“Come here.” I tuck my index finger under her jaw, pressing into the soft flesh to coax her forward.
Her lids droop, her pupils flaring into deep black pools as she looks down to focus on my mouth. The sight of her so focused on our kiss does nothing to make the stiffy in my boxers disappear. If anything, the velvety feel of her painted lips as she teases them against mine only thickens my cock until I’m twice as hard as I was when I woke up.
Inhibitions and doubts aside, I kiss this girl as if it’s the first time we’ve met, as though neither of us are chained to the ghosts of our pasts, and as though somewhere, somehow, in an alternate reality, chalk and cheese like Cam and I could actually get along enough to have a future together.
She shifts the knee closest to me between my legs, settling herself on my thigh. I groan as the warmth at the apex of her thighs heats my leg, her pussy pressed flush against my quad. Grind it, baby. The thought settles in my mind as she pinches my bottom lip between hers, soft, slow, sensual. Grind those hips, girl.
“Duke …”
“Yeah?” Don’t get off.
“We’re stopping it here.”
I groan. “Why?”
She smiles, those eyes bright as she does indeed climb off and straighten her clothes. “I’m convinced.”
Damn it’s good to see those eyes bright again. “Good.”
Cammie collects her bag and keys, tossing the set in her hand as she seems to think over what to say next. She chooses not to speak, which is fine by me, because to be honest, I don’t know what to say either.
I met this woman four days ago. It hasn’t even been a week, and yet, I’m struck by how easy it is to connect with her. Especially since we both faced our fears and shared with each other the innermost parts of who we are.
Who we were.
Maybe who we can be.
Only time will tell.