Page 52 of Please Hate Me

My brow furrowed. It seemed like he was just making excuses.

“I’m old enough for you to get pregnant, but not old enough to sleep with? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That was before I knew I was sixteen years older than you.” Cameron went tense and shifted his weight.

Instinctively, my eyes darted down. I could see the outline of his cock straining against the light-wash denim of his jeans.

Fuck, I forgot how massive he was.

“Hey now.” Cameron placed a hand on his lap for decency. “My eyes are up here, little lady.”

My gaze shot back to his face as I pulled my lower lip through my teeth.

“I’m not asking for a relationship, I just want dick, and it looks like yours is willing.”

Cameron hesitated, but his eyes focused on someveryungentlemanly places. Instinctively, I

straightened my back. If he wanted to stare at my tits, I might as well help him out.

“After everything we just talked about, youreallywant sex?”

His question caught me off guard. No one had ever stopped to ask me if Iactuallywanted sex. They just accepted the offer. But I didn’t want to acknowledge that I was using sex as a distraction, so I nodded.

Cameron sighed and shook his head, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Are we having sex, or are wefucking?”

The way he said that last word made my heart race.

“There’s a difference?”

Cameron nodded.

“Sex, we could do in the truck,” he explained. “That’s how I got you, well...”

He gestured to my rounded stomach.

“Pregnant?”

Once again, he nodded.

“If that’s sex, what’s fucking?”

Cameron covered his mouth, and my gaze darted down once more. The zipper was now straining to keep itself closed.

“Let’s just say I gotta sneak you inside.”

The sneaking part was easy. The bottom floor of the house was empty, and all the lights were off. The hard part was controlling my anticipation.

Sex was the one thing I never did wrong. My most redeeming quality was my body, and I was eager to help Cameron feel good after he spent all night being kind to me.

Eventually, we came upon his room. Cameron had left his overhead light on, and when his door creaked open, light spilled into the hallway. The decorations that greeted me were unsurprising—stereotypical, even.

There was a well-maintained fireplace on the far wall that appeared to be no longer in use. In front of the cold hearth was a rocking chair sitting atop a simple red rug. A wooden desk and bookshelf stood side-by-side along the wall to my right, and on the opposite side, he had a four-poster bed covered in cream-colored linens and a flannel comforter. The space was rustic and charming, just like Cameron. The only surprise in his room was the red-and-white pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. I thought I’d smelled nicotine on him in the truck, but I assumed it was just his cologne.

Cameron led the way in, and I shut the door behind us. He kept his back turned to me as he began unbuttoning his shirt. After a moment, he slipped the checkered fabric off his shoulders and tossed it aside.

Instantly, I noticed several raised scars on his back. They looked old, but they were long; a few of them stretched diagonally from the tops of his shoulder blades to the bottom of his ribs. I wanted to ask about them, but quickly shrugged off the thought. If he wanted to talk about his past, he would.

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