Chapter 4
Marcel
“But I don’t understand. You said you loved me!”
Marcel stood in the doorway of his bedroom as Camille snatched clothes from his closet and tossed them onto the bed.
He didn’t realize she kept that much stuff at his house. They’d only been seeing each other for five months and had never lived together. Once he got her out of his crib, he wasn’t letting another woman leave a bubblegum wrapper at his house, much less a toothbrush.
“Don’t just stand there,” Camille cried. “Say something!”
Since he couldn’t tell her what he was really thinking—that he couldn’t wait for her ass to leave—Marcel thought it was best to keep his mouth shut. Yeah, he’d told her he loved her. More than once, in fact. But only in response to her saying it first and usually about three seconds before he came. Never once had he initiated the phrase or uttered the words while fully clothed. That should’ve been a clue.
“You’re upset,” he said, backing out of the room. “I’ll wait in the den until you finish packing up.”
As Marcel turned to leave, Camille hurled a bottle of deodorant across the room. It nicked him on the shoulder.
“Hey!” He rubbed the sore spot. “Was that really necessary?”
“You used me!”
Marcel almost laughed out loud. He’d taken her to Paris, bought her designer purses and treated her to the finest restaurants in L.A. He even paid off one of her credit cards. And she was being used? Go figure.
“I told you from the start, I didn’t want a commitment. We had a good time while it lasted.”
“But I don’t understand what happened,” she sniveled.
He did. The same thing that always happened. He got bored. All relationships were great in the beginning. Unfortunately, he had an addiction to pussy. New pussy in particular. But new pussy can’t stay new forever.
“Is everything okay back here?” His sister Layla appeared in the hallway.
“Why is she even here?” Camille shouted.
“I’m here to make sure you get the hell out.” Layla charged past him into the bedroom. “Never to return again.”
“Hey, hey! Both of you need to cool it.” Marcel grabbed his sister by the arm and tugged her back into the hallway. “The drill is on the kitchen counter. You need to go home.”
Layla was even more determined than Marcel was to have Camille out of his life. Twenty minutes ago, she popped up on his doorstep with some excuse about needing to borrow his drill. But having Layla here was like holding a lit match to a gas flame.
Layla sneered at Camille, then sulked out of the house.
Marcel glanced at his watch. He wanted Camille and her drama to disappear before the Clippers’ game came on.
As he headed into the den, he knew he only had himself to blame. He had let his guard down with Camille. The minute she started texting him ten times a day and trying to track his every move, he should’ve called it quits. But the girl worked wonders between the sheets and that did have its value. And those legs of hers. He loved doing her standing up with her back against the wall, her long brown legs clamped tightly around his waist. Even now, he got excited just thinking about it. Too bad she’d gotten so clingy.
Marcel picked up the remote and switched on the TV. It took another thirty minutes before Camille trudged down the hallway dragging two military-size duffle bags behind her.
When in the hell did you sneak in all this shit? And why didn’t I notice?
Camille wasn’t crying anymore, which he considered a good sign.
“I’m sorry I got so upset,” she said. “You were right. You did tell me you didn’t want a commitment. I should’ve listened.”
Marcel didn’t respond. Her apology was probably a trick. He feared saying something that might set her off again. His goal was to get her ass on the other side of his front door and lock the dead bolt. At least he’d been smart enough not to give in to her pleas for a key. If he had, he would’ve had to change all the locks.
“Do you need help with your bags?” he asked.
Camille nodded.
Marcel took the bags from her, surprised at how heavy they were. They had to weigh close to fifty pounds apiece. When they got to the front door, he waited for her to open it.
Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Camille just stood there.
Now what?
“Can you get the door?” Marcel asked.
She turned around to face him. “Despite everything that happened, I really enjoyed being with you. You’re a great guy.”
“Back at you. Now open the door.”
Camille clasped her hands in front of her and spoke in an annoying little girl’s voice. “Don’t I even get a hug goodbye?”
Here we go. Women were so transparent.
Marcel let the bags fall to the floor with a thud and pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. Damn, she smelled good. Felt good too.
When he tried to pull away, Camille moved in closer, snuggling her face into the crook of his neck. Then she licked his earlobe, which she knew drove him wild. He instantly grew rigid.
Damn.
Camille grinded against his erection. “Uh-oh.” She grinned up at him. “Something tells me you don’t want me to leave.”
Women made the mistake of equating sex with love. Just because his dick wanted her to stay, didn’t mean he did.
She covered his lips with hers, then forced her tongue into his unwilling mouth. Her baby-soft hand slid past the waistband of his sweatpants and gently massaged him.
“I think I should take care of this before I leave.”
Before he could stop her—not that he actually tried—Camille dropped to her knees, untied his sweats and swallowed him whole.
Most women acted like they were doing you a favor when they gave head, but Camille performed like an artist trying to perfect her craft. Early on, she had bragged that she had no gag reflex. So of course he’d been anxious to put her to the test.
He still remembered the first time she gave him head. She had sucked, slurped, and swallowed him so enthusiastically that at one point he thought his rod might get lost down her throat. She did this trick where she simultaneously sucked and hummed while tickling his balls with her free hand. By the time she was done, Marcel was balled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a baby. Afterwards, he was so embarrassed about wimping out like that, he could barely look at her.
Right now, she was going at him like it was the closing-night performance and she might never take the stage again.
Marcel splayed his right palm flat against the door, closed his eyes, and shoved himself as far down Camille’s throat as he could. Damn, he was going to miss this.
But as soon as he busted a nut, he was still tossing Camille and her heavy-ass bags out of his house.