Swink (Landry Family #5)
Adriana Locke
To everyone that has the courage to love
who you love, even when people tell you not to.
And to Tiffany. For you.
Dominic
I’M THAT GUY.
Camilla Landry rustles against me, the silky fabric of her overpriced lingerie slipping along my bruised rib. The porcelain perfection of her skin is even more innocent against the colorful ink dotting my own. It’s demure meets damaged, pampered meets punctured.
So, yeah, it’s obvious I’m that guy. Dominic Hughes. Her attempt at rebellion. Her bid to see what the other side of the tracks feels like. I’m okay with being used, because from where I’m sitting, the other side of the tracks has never looked so good.
She lifts her head, her baby blue eyes finding the darker blues of my own. “What time is it, Dom?”
“Not sure. Around five, probably.”
“I should get up and get ready to go.”
“Yeah, you better. You’d hate to be late. Daddy wouldn’t like that,” I tease.
“It’s not just my dad,” she moans, smacking my stomach as she rises. “It’s Ford’s dinner party.”
I start to give her shit, but the sight of her body dissolves the words before they can leave my mouth. She bends her five-two frame to pick up the panties I flung a few hours ago, her blonde hair hitting the curve of her hip.
She moves with ease, the result of finishing school and a stint in ballet that she claims to have hated. Even with her hair a mess from being wrapped around my fist and her cheeks flushed from the orgasms I expertly delivered, she still appears absolutely put together. Unaffected. Maybe even slightly aloof. That is, until she turns her head and catches me looking at her.
Just like the first time I saw her nearly a year ago, as soon as our eyes lock, everything changes. Her eyes hood, her lips parting ever-so-slightly. She bends again, slowly this time, her gaze never leaving mine.
With one arched brow, she scoops a pair of pink heels from the floor. The globes of her ass pop in the air and give me a glimpse of the sweet spot I enjoyed for the last couple of hours.
“Keep that shit up and you won’t be going anywhere,” I warn, not totally kidding.
“I have no idea what you’re taking about. I’m just getting dressed.” She turns away, her bare ass facing me, giving me a front row seat as she slips the lace up her legs.
The bedsprings groan as I leap off the bed and grab her around the waist before she can react with anything but a yelp. “Dom!” she giggles, her feet coming up off the floor as I lift her up and against me. Her chest rises and falls, the air rushing in and out of her lungs as she awaits my next move.
“You wanna fuck with me?” I whisper in her ear. Her body melts into mine as a spray of goosebumps spatters her skin. “I’m not sure how much more cock you can take today, pretty girl.”
Letting her feet drop to the floor, I keep one arm wrapped tightly around her waist as I lean my body, nearly a foot taller, down with hers. My lips hover over the shell of her ear. The warmth of my breath against her skin causes her breathing to become even more rapid.
My free hand runs roughly down her body, starting just beneath her perky, full breasts and down the arch of her stomach to the tip of her pussy.
Her cheek is soft against my chest as she releases a loose, heavy breath.
“What do you want, Cam?”
“You.”
The word is just one syllable, a barely audible rush of air. Yet, it’s enough of a bucket of cold water, a dose of reality, to make me press a kiss to the back of her neck before stepping away.
“You better get dressed,” I gruff, smacking her on the ass.
She glares at me over her shoulder. “I hate when you do this.”
“Do what?”
There’s no answer, but there doesn’t have to be. Her point is clear and noted. For the record, I hate when I do this too. But it has to be done.
The bed squeaks again as I climb to the center and drop onto my side, wincing from the minor shot of pain in my rib. Propping my head up with one hand, I watch her sweep around the room, readying herself to leave.
I’d have no problem watching her move around my space all night. I’d actually love it, if I didn’t have to feel the awkwardness that comes with her departure. I could just let it be, let her give me a weird look and walk out and leave it at that. Truth be told, I’ve let that happen with more girls than I care to count . . . but not with Camilla.
Every time she leaves could be the last. And also unlike the girls before her, and most likely the girls that will come after, it would bother me to think the last time she was here ended on a sour note.
I’m a diversion in her life. I get it. So ideally she’ll look back on it someday with nothing more than a smile and wet panties.
“So where are you going again?” I ask in a pathetic attempt to make small talk.
“To one of my brother’s dinner parties,” she says, buttoning up her shirt. “Ford and Ellie have some news about their baby, and they’ve invited us all over for dinner. Well, we’re actually going to the Farm because Ellie realized how much of a production it is to have a dinner party with the entire Landry brood. So she caved and let Mom get catering from Hillary’s House and we’re just doing it at the family property.”
“Sounds fun.”
“You lie.”
“Fine. It sounds boring as fuck,” I grin.
“Trust me, it’ll be anything but boring. When my four brothers and twin sister get together, it’s always interesting.”
“There’s nothing remotely interesting about watching a bunch of yuppies have a dinner party,” I point out. “And who calls it a ‘dinner party,’ anyway?”
“Normal people.”
“Wrong answer, Ms. Landry. Yuppies. Yuppies call it a ‘dinner party.’”
“Fine,” she sighs, twisting her hair into a knot on the top of her head. “What would you call it?”
“Dinner with people. A barbecue. Supper. Dessert, if you’re on the menu,” I tease.
“You’re impossible,” she laughs, coming to the edge of the bed. “What are you doing tonight while I’m suppering with people?”
Rolling onto my back, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. The light from the broken window causes a spray of color to dance across her features. Lifting my hand, I brush a lock of hair off her face, letting the pad of my thumb sweep against her forehead “I’m meeting Bond at the gym in a little bit,” I say carefully. “He’s going to work out with me for a while.”
“For the fight?”
“For the fight.”
She sits on the edge of the mattress, but doesn’t face me. She looks towards the doorway but her stare seems to go much farther. Her head is someplace else. Probably somewhere trying to decide whether or not to resurrect the argument we have every time my fights come up in conversation.