20
DREW
I hesitate before I open my eyes, my breath hitching. A feeling of dread washes over me, and even in my half-awake state I anticipate the worst. That I’ll find myself in the same predicament as the last time I went to bed with a beautiful woman.
That I’ll wake alone.
I took it a step further with Camille last night. Ran the extra base while she held my hand. I pleasured her with my hands, my fingers, my lips. We didn’t have sex, nor did I want to. Scratch that—I wanted to, more than I thought I could handle, but I didn’t push because it wouldn’t have been right. Yeah, I caught the blip of hesitation in her tone preforeplay. That alone set the limits for the night. Kept the head in my pants in check. When we finally have sex, she has to be unequivocally at 100 percent. I shouldn’t have to coax her to home base.
I respect her too much.
But did I go too far? She moaned like she enjoyed it, spoke my name, cursed in this sexy, heart-stopping way. But did regret push her out the door early this morning like it did the last time? And what would she leave me now? Cinnamon rolls? Cake pops?
I count a slow ten, fingers crawling across the covers of my bed. My insides clench at the expectation of ice-cold sheets.
But there’s a dip in the mattress. Two inches farther, the heat of a body. I sniff deeply, taking in the undeniable scent of Camille—citrus and vanilla—with a touch of garlic from the lumpia we made and ate last night.
Yes. Yes!
Only then do I allow my eyelids to flutter open. I’m met with the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the thick mane that now grazes the line of her spine.
And I grin like a fool, lips stretched as if I won the lottery.
Maybe I have.
I scoop her into me, two tightly fitted spoons. She’s wearing panties and one of my white T-shirts, and, if possible, she feels even softer this morning despite the seconds, minutes, hours of her in my arms.
“Mmm?” Her voice croaks at my not-so-gentle nudge and she turns. The tendrils of her hair drape across her cheeks and I finger them away from her face. “Oh . . . oh. Good morning.” She smirks as her hand moves down my chest. My eyes shut as it disappears below the sheet and my erection is greeted by her sure grip.
“Morning, sexy.” I groan. “You are so good at that.”
She averts her eyes, as if shy. Oh no, I’m not going to let her get away with that. Not after a night that ended with a house turned inside out: clothes strewn, blankets askew, a kitchen that looks like a barbarian had his way with a club. I cup her chin and stare down at that perfect face as her hand slides up and down my length.
“Holy . . . shit.” I don’t know what I’m trying to communicate, except that this closeness, this intimacy, is way more than I’ve ever felt with anyone. Me in her hands, in her control, requires me to be vulnerable.
“For you, baby.” Her words are coal to an engine. Hot, intent, pure power.
“Holy fuck.” She called me baby. I swear, not out of anger, but out of a deep urge, a wild desire. I’m coming up on a divide, a time hop, from past to present, from attraction to lust. As I move in her hands, never taking my eyes off her face, young and mature all at the same time, I toe this line, and adrenaline floods my veins.
“Come for me.” Camille’s eyes glisten, fierce, enjoying the view.
The decision to leap is easy. I crash my mouth into hers. I let go completely until I’m shaking from the inside out. Panic slices through me, a sheer overwhelming thing caused by this woman. What is this I’m feeling?
Her lips disengage and I’m brought back to the present. Heart settling, I say, “Wait here.” I head to the bathroom, wet a washcloth. When I return, I wipe off her strong, beautiful fingers.
Camille’s face is damp, her breath mimicking my own, coming down from its high. But I can tell her mind is elsewhere. I sit back against the headboard and pull her so she’s sitting between my legs.
She relaxes into my shoulder, and after a moment she speaks. “We only have twenty days left.”
My heart drops. “Twenty absolutely free days, except when my family needs me. But otherwise, they’re yours, if you want them.” The boom of my words fills the room but vaporizes as soon as I take my next breath. Because that’s all they are—words—unless Camille wants them to be more. “I have to get on a plane on the twelfth of June for Iraq.”
“You say that like you want to go.”
“I do.” Her eyebrows lift at my response. “It’s hard to explain, but I’ve trained for this. Deployment is the culmination of everything I’ve learned. And though I might not know my unit well, they’re people I inherently trust. They trust me, too. And to go as a team, even if it’s to do something hard with little sleep and most likely shitty food, well, I’m proud to do it. Not just because of patriotism, though I’ve got that, too.” I shift so her legs are slung across my body. “I don’t want anyone else doing my job for my team. I would do everything in my power to go.”
A rush of air escapes my lungs. Damn, that felt good. I can count on my fingers how many times I’ve been able to explain what I do for a living to civilians. The uniform, when I wear it, can sometimes act as a barrier. For my dad, it is a wall.
Camille nods, and her eyes convey understanding. “I get it, Drew.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have a team, too. It’s a little smaller than yours, but I would go to great lengths and depths to do what’s right for them. But aren’t you scared?”
One would think going to another country to put oneself in unknown danger is reckless. “No, and I can’t explain why.”
My fingers take in her satin skin as I crush her into me. She turns her face up and plants a kiss on my chin. Her eyes are full of questions, but she says, “We’ll make it the best remaining days we can.”
“Hell yeah, we will,” I reassure her. We both lie back down. Covers off, and with the fan rotating above us, Camille tucks into my chest. Her finger traces the outline of my tattoo. My hand lazily draws circles on her shoulders.
The moment is so perfect.
How can I not have this, or her, after I leave? Will she be open to keeping in touch? Can I call her, email her when I deploy?
She has been the only woman on my mind. To let her go cold turkey—I don’t know if I can do it.
I inhale deeply and shut my eyes. Can’t think about that right now. Day by day, minute by minute. The present is all that counts.
Focusing on Camille’s deep breaths, I relax my body, my fingers, the tension. I let my mind go . . .
Until I feel my body being shaken awake. “Drew?”
“Mm?” My voice is hoarse and I peel my heavy eyelids open. The room is bathed with light.
“I can’t find my phone. It’s morning, Drew. Morning!” Camille’s voice is shrill.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I say, “The microwave has the time.” My mumble is incoherent.
Camille reaches over me to my side table, grabbing my phone. Her eyes grow huge. “Crap. Crap, crap, crap.” She leaps out of bed, taking a blanket with her. “Where the hell are my clothes? Wait. My phone. Where’s my phone?” The blanket becomes the Bermuda Triangle, catching everything around her as she spins.
I laugh. She’s still so cute, even when she’s pissed. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. Ally, remember? She’s got an appointment. Where the fuck is my shit?”
I step out of bed, lift the covers, and look under the cushions of the couch nearby. She does a double take then drapes her arm over her face. “Geez, Drew. Put on something, will you?” She throws me my underwear.
“What?” I open my arms, daring her. “You didn’t mind last night.”
“Ugh.” She scurries to the other side of the kitchen counter, where it all began. When a taste of what she made became the catalyst, the downward slope. “This is not good. Not good. Ally is probably freaking out. And holy hell, I spent the night. I spent the night and my sister will know.”
Crap, her panic is escalating. I step into a pair of jeans. “Hey. What can I help with?”
“I’ve got to get Ally. She has an appointment, and I promised I would take her. I need a cab.”
She slips on her shoes. I go to her after I throw on a T-shirt. She is seriously upset, the lines on her face deep in worry. “Camille, wait. I’ll take you home.”
The crease between her eyebrows flattens, settling over her face. “Okay.”
“You do know that you can always ask me for help, right?”
“I don’t usually ask for help.”
“Well, now you can. I’m here, and I’m yours.” Not sure if that was the right thing to say, I kiss her. “Let’s go.”
Our drive is quiet, except for Camille’s GPS-like shortcut directions to the Mission District. With my windows down, sunroof open, the sun is comforting. Outside, the city bustles with Monday morning traffic.
The leather squeaks as Camille twists to face me. The vibe in the car has done a quick 180. Her gaze is questioning.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I never did say what I did for a living.”
“You said you’re an entrepreneur, in marketing and sales.”
“Yes, but specifically.”
“I’m confused.” The tone in her voice cues an alarm in my head, but I pound down my worry. What she does for a living is a nonissue. “Holy shit. Are you a superhero? Is that why you’ve denied me top-secret clearance?”
That earns me a push on the shoulder and a crack of laughter. “No, but not many people know what I do. I mean, they know what I do, but they don’t know it’s me behind it. Unbelievably sometimes. In fact, these days I’m not sure how I’m keeping it all a secret. Especially after that thing that practically went viral.”
I laugh. “Slow down, woman. Whatever you do for a living—” But I’m stopped midsentence as we turn the corner. The air’s punched out of me when I see a familiar vehicle parked next to Camille’s building. And while I was always best at puzzles, kicked ass in charades and Pictionary, it took me too long to fit the facts together this time. Until now, when I drive up to it and she announces, “I’m in the food industry. The mobile food industry.”
I swallow what feels like rocks in my throat. I stare at the vehicle two feet from the hood of my car. A truck that’s red, white, and green. “It’s a food truck.”
“Yep. That’s me. Lucianna.”