Page 48 of Staying for You

“You’re a turd, you know that?”

“You just called me a turd.” I chuckle, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Fine. You want me to ask? Do you, Camilla Moore, want to have a relationship of convenience with me? Be the benefit to my friend? Let me touch you,” I say as I lean over, letting my hand slide up her thigh. She shudders, just a little bit, and I smile. “Kiss you.” I wonder, hopeful, letting my lips graze her neck. The feel of my lips on her skin is even better than it was the first time we kissed. Which I would have thought was impossible. “Show you how wanted you are.” My tongue sneaks out, mouth opens and I suck gently. “What you do to me.” She groans, hands circling around my biceps as she lies back and I move over top of her.

I can’t give her all that she deserves, but maybe I can give her this.

I’m not even sure how it happened, but our hands are now clasped together, pressed into the couch above her head, and my lips are trailing up and down her throat. She’s moaning and writhing beneath me and I’m pressing myself against her, grinding my hips and doing exactly what I promised.

Chapter Fourteen

Owen

Feelingher in my arms was incredible. Eye opening. Unexpected.

I had to take the coldest shower of my life as soon as I got back to the lodge after we agreed to a new kind of relationship, had a hard time walking home because of the situation I had put myself in. I still ended up wrapping my hand around myself as I pictured her.

I made sure she was happy, content. Carried her to her bed, in fact. Then made a big show when I told her I wanted to check out her sheets because she brought them from home. My intention was to lay her in her bed and walk away. But then I got distracted. Again. That seems to happen often when I’m around her.

The faint scent of lavender filled the room. The sheets were flannel. I’d burn up sleeping in those things. The blanket was fuzzy. And thick. Two of them, actually. And a down comforter. How many layers does she sleep under?

“You get cold while you sleep?” I asked her, thinking at the time that would be the reason we wouldn’t work out — because I’m a hot sleeper. Well, that and the fact that we’ve already established we’re not in a relationship.

She burst out laughing. “Uh, no. Actually, I brought these sheets because I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got here.”

“You thought you’d be sleeping out in the cold?”

“Not exactly but I wanted to be prepared just in case the cabin didn’t have heat.”

“Speaking of heat, I promised to show you how to use the fireplace but never did.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been fine without it.”

“I’ll let you get to bed.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” she told me and then I was the one who was laughing. “But I suppose I could nap. I mean, if you’re determined to tuck me in or something.”

I shook my head, chuckling.

“How about I cook you dinner then?”

“Hmm. What did you have in mind?”

“Not sure. What do you have here? Or do you want to go up to my place?”

“Hot sandwiches okay?”

I smiled. She smiled back. And I was in awe that she suggested one of my favorites. We made sandwiches together. Buttered bread. Warmed up thin slices of ham to pile high on top of the bread. Layered cheese and a spicy mayo. Sliced pickles for crunch. She threw a bag of kettle cooked potato chips on the table between us and set down a couple cans of soda.

We were a couple teenagers. We had made out to the point our lips were tingling. Dry humping until she came. And then we sat on the couch and ate sandwiches and chips with her laptop set on a kitchen chair turned to face us, playing a movie.

Once our stomachs were full and the movie was finished, I wasn’t ready to walk back to my empty home. So I didn’t leave. I asked her why she was with me. What brought her here. She told me about her ex. How he was basically a bum. She said other stuff, too, but that’s what I got out of it. He’s not just a bum. He’s a jackass.

And she’s better off without him. So much better.

She was feeling inspired to write again. For the first time in a few years even though she’d put out books in the meantime. In her words, her books didn’t sell like she’d have liked them to. Or, rather, expected them to, based on her sales in the past.

Swore it wasn’t because of her husband.

But I wonder if that had something to do with it.

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