Camille
The truck door slamming outside had Camille skittering across the kitchen to get the plates on the table before Jon ruined the surprise. Though she knew from her med school classes that there was nothing romantic about a heart skipping a beat, she couldn’t deny that her own heart currently felt like it stuttered inside her chest with nerves and excitement.
The past three weeks with Jon had been amazing. They laughed. They read books together. They watched movies, all five of the DVDs they had in the cabin, over and over again. They worked outside together, went hiking together. He taught her how to defend herself, and she used the close proximity required during the lessons to memorize the hard lines of his body. It was everything Camille had ever dreamed of when she imagined what it would be like to find the man she wanted to spend forever with.
But Jon wasn’t budging. He kept everything very above board, no matter how she tried to tempt him. Camille knew she was completely inept at flirting or seduction, she’d never had the reason to even try before. But that didn’t mean she would give up trying. She cut an extra inch off every pair of shorts Sophie had packed for her; refused to wear a bra. She walked around in a towel after her shower, and had only been sleeping in a T-shirt each night as she laid next to Jon. But still the man refused to even hold her hand.
Maybe she misread the whole thing. Perhaps he wasn’t really attracted to her at all, maybe the erection she saw and felt each morning could simply be chalked up to morning wood. But then, why did she occasionally still hear him mumble her name in his sleep? Maybe he just had an overdeveloped hero complex and she was just his latest damsel in distress. The thought soured her stomach.
Either way, she had decided to stop trying to seduce him. It wasn’t working, because she didn’t have a goddamn clue what she was doing. Instead, she was going to try another tact; complete brutal honesty which would be aided by the two bottles of wine she found in the pantry when she had been cleaning it out earlier.
Just as she slid the two glasses filled with red liquid onto the table, the door swung open and Jon came striding through.
“What’s all this?” Jon’s eyes swept the room, taking everything in. The table was set for a dinner for two. The wine. And finally, Camille standing next to his chair, in a short pink sundress. His gaze heated her skin as it slowly ran down to her bare feet, and back up to the practically bare shoulders, except for two thin straps holding up her dress. His eyes smoldered with the heat he always tried to keep restrained, but she saw it. He definitely wanted her.
She hadn’t worn dresses yet since they arrived, she was usually more comfortable in shorts and t-shirts. But tonight called for a little something extra. Plus, his niece had been nice enough to pack it for her.
“I was organizing the pantry and found these two bottles way in the back in a hidden wine rack. I have no idea if they’ll be any good, but I figured I should make something special to go along with the booze.” She tried a half smile, but she knew her nerves turned it more into an involuntary tick than anything else. “Please, sit down.”
Doing as he was told, Jon came around the table and sat in the spot Camille had indicated. As soon as he did, she brought out the meal, dish by dish and piled his plate high. Pasta with a basil cream sauce. Strawberry salad, using the berries she’d grown herself, and thick crusty bread she had made the day before. Turned out being secluded in the woods brought out talents she never knew she had, like baking. She’d found an old junior league cookbook in one of the cabinets and slowly worked her way through the recipes in the 1970’s relic.
“This looks amazing Camille, thank you.” His hand covered hers as she sat down at the table with her own plate. It was the most intentional contact they had since leaving the hospital, and that small press of his skin against hers sent pure heat blazing through her blood.
“No problem, I was happy to do it.” Camille gathered her wits, trying to figure out how exactly she should ease into a conversation about her feelings for him and what they could do about them. “So how was the trip to town?”
“Never made it. Ended up parked at the end of the driveway, thinking.” His eyes stayed on his plate as he twirled the pasta around the tines of his fork and brought it to his lips.
“What were you thinking about?” Camille’s heart rammed in her chest, because maybe she wouldn’t have to do as much convincing as she originally thought. Jon seemed different now, more open.
“About our situation.”
“You mean the case? Are there any new developments?” A pang of disappointment in her chest slowed the rapid beating of her heart, of course he’s been thinking about the case. He obviously returned none of the affections she held for him.
“Yes, the case, but also…this.” He waved his hand between them, and kind of vaguely around the whole cabin.
“This? Like, us, here together in the cabin?” Camille was so confused. He refused to make eye contact with her, but he was talking about them, not the case, which gave her hope. She just had to get him talking more, in full sentences.
Jon raked his fingers through his hair, gripping it for a moment as if he wanted to rip it out at the roots. “Fuck, I’m not good at this.”
“Not good at what?”
“At this.” Another wild wave of his hand between them. “At women and giving them what they want and talking about shit that means something.” Jon stood from his chair, almost sending it clattering to the floor in his haste. He paced up and down the length of the eat-in kitchen, hands on his hips and his chest heaving. “I’m fucking old and set in my ways. I don’t know how to do relationships. I lead. I inspire my force, I protect. But I don’t fucking talk about my feelings. Fuck, even saying that makes me want to punch my own balls.”
Camille couldn’t help but laugh. Through everything, the beating and torture, the attempt on her life, the extended hospital stay, she had never seen Jon this worked up and aggravated. He had been angry, yes, but he controlled it for the most part. It seemed the tough cop was finally starting to crack.
“Jon, come on, let’s go to the couch. This sounds like a conversation in need of comfort.” Camille stood, lacing her fingers through his, and tugged him into the living room where she urged him to sit in the middle. Once he did, she sat beside him, on her knees, feet tucked under her butt. “Talk to me, Jon. It’s just you and me, you can say anything to me.”
He sat in silence, not seeming to know where to start, which she could understand. Their relationship was complicated with the case, their age difference, his standing in the community, and her involvement in a drug ring. It was a lot to contend with.
“Okay, I’ll start.” Camille sucked in a deep breath and held it as she began to talk. “I don’t think it will come as a surprise that I have feelings for you, Jon. Strong feelings. I’ve been trying to get you to reciprocate those feelings for the past few weeks, but you’ve stubbornly stayed a gentleman.”
“Shit, if you knew the things I thought about in the shower every morning, you wouldn’t think I’m such a gentleman.” Jon leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees and covering his mouth with one large hand, obviously pissed at himself for whatever fantasies he had in his own head.
If only he knew.
“Jon, I may be younger than you, but I’m not completely naive. I know what you do in those long showers you take. You think I’m sleeping while you’re in there, but I hear you.” If this conversation was going to go anywhere, Camille had to push it along. And what she was about to reveal would either push it the direction she desperately needed it to go, or push the man of her dreams farther away. “I lie in bed every morning, listening to the rhythmic slap of your hand on your wet cock. The guttural groans you make as you get closer. The low murmured sound of my name. I know Jon. I lie in bed and do the same thing to myself. I get off to the sound of you fantasizing about me.”
The room went utterly still, the tension thick and tangible around them. Camille’s heart raced after her confession. Jon sat, body rigid next to her, his fight or flight response like another person present in the room.
“Goddammit, Camille you can’t tell me that shit. It makes me want to pull you underneath me and make you mine. Mine like I’ve imagined so many times since I passed you in the police station that first day. I want to mark you and ensure no other man will ever dare touch what belongs to me.” His fists clenched together at the crown of his hanging head, the words spilling out in the deepest whisper she had ever heard.
Relief and excitement surged through her. He wanted her, and not just sexually if she was interpreting his meaning right. He wanted all of her to be his, just like she wanted all of him. “Yes, do that. Mark me. Make me yours.” She inched toward him on the couch until her knees pressed against the side of his powerful thighs. “Please.”
Camille’s clit throbbed in time with her heartbeat, her arousal slicking her bare thighs under the thin cotton dress. Fuck she wanted him to fill the gaping need between her legs. Needed him there like she needed her next breath. She may have never taken a man inside her body before, but she somehow knew the longing she felt at that moment would only be resolved by his big body thrusting into her.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Cami.” Jon leaned his big body back into the couch and looked her in the eye for the first time since the conversation started. “You’ve been through an ordeal that not many other people on this planet can even imagine. I may not have gone to college, but I’m aware of basic psychology. It’s natural for you to have romantic feelings for me after everything you’ve been through. As much as I want you, I can never take advantage of that.”
Camille wanted to laugh at his armchair psychology. Frustrated with the way this conversation just kept going in circles, she decided to say screw the risks and go bold. Maybe that would convince this stubborn man to shut up and take her already. Pressing up onto her knees, Camille swung one leg over his hips, and settled onto his thick thighs. The hem of her dress settled mid-thigh, just high enough to be tempting, but not high enough for him to see that she wasn’t wearing panties.
“You think I have some sort of hero worship for you Jon?” Camille traced her hands down the hard planes of his chest and stomach. Everything about the man turned her on, to the point of distraction, even fully dressed. “That I want to be with you because you saved me?”
“Yeah Cami...something like that.” The stubborn man still kept his hands firmly pressed into fists by his sides, not willing to touch her, despite how much she longed for his hands on her skin. “You are a young, beautiful, smart woman, and I’m a worn out old cop. There is no other reason I can think of for you being interested in a man like me.”
“Jon, I mean no disrespect, but I saved myself. I made it out of that basement, I made it to the station, I suffered through a month of pain with no drugs to help take the edge off my injuries. I will testify against my brother in court when he is caught.” Still keeping a small distance between his tented pants and where she wanted him most, she inched forward on his lap, locking his gaze with hers. Jon needed to hear her, to understand that she wanted him for the man inside, not what he may have done for her. “I did all that. On my own. You’ve been here to support me, you gave me a safe place to lay my head, and every time I learn something new about you, it just makes me fall a little deeper. But I saved myself. I don’t need a hero. I’m my own hero.”
Camille ran her hands down his sides and took his fisted hands into hers, lifting them onto her bare thighs where her dress had inched up a little further. “What I do need is for you to touch me with those rough hands. You make me feel hot and needy. If you don’t help me put out this fire inside me, I may die from wanting you.”