If she’d just fucking get this out of her system and move along, I could move on. But God knows I won’t be able to walk away from her.
“Why do you do this, Cam?” I whisper.
“Do what?”
I flinch, startled that she answered. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” she whispers, but doesn’t open her eyes. “Why do I do what?”
For a split second, I consider telling her to go back to sleep. But something about the shroud of darkness gives me the courage to repeat my question. “Why do you do this?”
“Because you won’t stay at my house.”
I rest my lips on the top of her head. “Go back to sleep.”
“Why do you do this, Dom?”
Leaving my lips touching her hair, I don’t move. I don’t answer her either. Instead, I concentrate on the way the fan moves the air across my foot that sticks out the side of the blankets.
“The answer was yes,” she breathes. “When you asked me earlier tonight if it made me jealous to see you with Red—the answer is yes. I wanted to punch her in the face.”
The grin that tickles my lips can’t be stopped.
“Even now,” she continues, “thinking about her smug face sitting in that office so close to you, I get mad. Thinking about her getting time with you I don’t drives me bananas.”
“I like it.”
She pulls her head back and looks at me. In the dim glow of the streetlight streaming through the broken blinds, I can see her face. Her eyes are heavy, her face flushed from the heat of my body as a slow grin spreads across her cheeks. “You like that I’m mad?”
“Hell, yeah. There’s nothing sexier than a woman claiming her property.”
The insinuation dawns on me as the words leave my mouth. We pick up on it at the same time. She watches me, her breathing shallow, as she tries to decipher my reaction.
I just walked into a minefield and know I’m going to get my legs blown off.
I don’t react. Looking her in the eye, I wait for hers.
“Are you?” she asks.
“Am I what?”
“Mine.”
“You don’t want me,” I scoff with a burn in my chest. Tugging her down so she’s lying next to me again, I look at the ceiling.
The silence feels thick in the little room, the only noise that of Nate leaving the bathroom. My stomach knots, a familiar anxiety coiling up in my gut. It’s like being a kid again—my brother in the next room as I lie awake, waiting on the world to come caving in.
“Do you remember the first time you came to my house?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“You were late. I was told someone would be there between eight and noon and you got there around four.”
“It was hot as hell and everyone’s A/C units were messing up,” I recall. “My first job that day put me behind.” My hand runs up and down her arm, causing her to loosen up some against me.
“I opened the door,” she says, “ready to give someone a speech about time management and then I saw you.”
“You were so hot . . . literally and figuratively,” I chuckle. “You were every repairman’s dream in your little shorts and cutoff shirt.”
I feel her smile against my side. “I’ve never been as instantly attracted to someone before. I didn’t even know whether I should let you in or not,” she giggles.
“Oh, you let me in all right . . .”
Her hand hits my chest and I jolt, making her laugh. We settle back down, a little tension having drifted away.
“I think,” she says, forcing a swallow, “I think when I first started seeing you, it was just lust.”
“I hope it’s still lust,” I counter, reaching around and cupping her full tit in my hand. “God knows I still lust after you.”
“To ease your concerns, I plan on sitting on your cock in a few minutes and riding it until I come.”
“Can we skip to that part now?” I ask, twisting her nipple between two fingers.
“No,” she says, stifling a moan but not stopping me. “As I was saying, at first I think that was the extent of my reaction to you.”
“So you wanted my cock? That’s it.”
“At first,” she laughs. “Maybe. But then something happened. I got to know you.”
“It’s amazing you’re still here.”
“Dominic. Stop.” She struggles against me, fighting against my arm that’s holding her to me. Eventually, I let go and she sits up. She gives me a look that I’ve only seen a few times, but one I think she must’ve learned from her mother. “You know what’s amazing?”
Assuming that this is a rhetorical question, I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on not pulling her mouth to mine and kissing the hell out of her. This time, not even because of lust. This time, because of how she’s looking at me.
Moments like this scare the fuck out of me with Cam. I worry that maybe she’s getting in too deep with me, even though I do my best to keep her at semi-arm’s length. I try not to encourage her infatuation with me, to not let her entwine herself in my day-to-day as much as possible. When she looks at me like this, like I could be something to her, I falter.
There are things about me that she doesn’t know. I don’t want to tell her, afraid she’ll see me differently. Yet, it’s a burden I carry on my shoulders because sooner or later, if she doesn’t walk way for another reason, it’ll come up.
“The way you help your brother is amazing,” she says.
“Do you know how many times he’s helped me?” I lift a brow.
“You always say that, but I see you giving way more than him.”
I bite back my next words. My throat squeezes closed, my annoyance at her perceived understanding of my relationship with Nate making it hard to breathe. As I watch her face shadow with the realization that there might be more between my brother and I than she comprehends, I war with whether to bring up the past.
If I don’t, I’ll continue to have this worry in the pit of my stomach. If I do, it could be the end of all this like the flip of a switch. I don’t know what will happen when she sees all of me.
“I like your brother. I do. A lot, actually. But you shortchange yourself when it comes to him. If he asked you to give him this apartment, you would. And that’s awesome of you, Dom,” she says, placing a hand on my chest. “It’s one of the reasons I like you.”
Her palm flexes over my heart and she looks at me so earnestly, so tenderly, that I know I have to tell her. Now. Before I lose the courage. If she walks, at least she does it before she gets in any deeper.
Shifting under the blankets, I move so I’m sitting upright. “When I was sixteen,” I say, clearing my throat, “my father beat the shit out of my mother.”
She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “Why would he do that?”
“Because it was a Thursday,” I say, emotionless. “Because we had ham sandwiches for dinner. I don’t fucking know. But it happened a lot and this particular night in June, it was really bad.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Most nights he did. Usually a few bruises, a few chunks of hair missing, things that became almost normal to us. Isn’t that sick?”