Page 87 of Full Tilt
“Still no comment.”
“You’re very predictable.”
“Says the man who just did the Macarena and made it look like foreplay.”
He leans in, brushing his mouth against mine, voice warm and low. “You’re welcome.”
Jesus Christ.
We break apart just as Tasha strolls over, make-up slightly smudged and heels dangling from one hand. “You two are disgusting. And adorable. But mostly disgusting.”
Cam raises his glass. “It’s a gift.”
Joel appears behind her, grabbing her waist. “They’re in their honeymoon phase. Let ’em have it.”
“You’ve been married four hours,” I point out.
Joel shrugs. “Time flies when you’re already perfect.”
Tasha snorts. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
They bicker lovingly for a moment before wandering off again, and Cam turns back to me, all warmth and mischief. “You good?” he asks.
I glance around at the dance floor, the lights, the people—this riot of laughter and colour and comfort. Then I look back at him.
And yeah. I’m good.
I nod, tugging him in by the front of his shirt. “The best.”
We don’t make out behind the marquee.
Not yet anyway.
But that look in Cam’s eyes says we will.
The song shifts. The drums fade, a gentle piano kicks in, and before I can process the transition, Cam tugs me onto the dance floor and pulls me in close. He gives no warning, no words—just strong arms around my waist and the slow sway of his body inviting mine to follow.
I stumble for a beat—not because I mind, but because I’ve never slow danced before.
Not once.
But Cam makes it easy. He always does.
His hand spreads firm and warm across my lower back, the other clasping mine with surprising gentleness for someone who could probably throw me across the room if he wanted to. My other arm hooks instinctively around his shoulder. He’s taller than me, so broad, and his chest is solid heat against mine. It’s like dancing with a furnace wrapped in a tailored waistcoat and the scent of cedar and spice.
I breathe it—him—in, letting myself settle into the rhythm. We’re just swaying a little, side to side, but it doesn’t matter. I’m moving with Camden fucking Crawford in the middle of a wedding reception, and nobody’s staring. Or if they are, I don’t care.
“Still with me?” he murmurs against the top of my ear.
I smile into his shoulder. “Barely. But yeah. You’re an excellent dance partner for a first-timer.”
His laugh is a rumble in his chest. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
The music curls around us, soft and sweeping. There are lights strung up around the garden, casting everything in a warm gold. Kids run past barefoot, a grandad spins one of the bridesmaids like he’s in a Fred Astaire film, and somewhere across the lawn, someone’s grandmother is telling a group of cousins about her fourth marriage.
It’s perfect. Odd, hilarious, chaotic—but perfect.
Cam presses his forehead to mine, his smile lingering for a breath longer before his expression softens and the movement between us slows. The music fades into the background, replaced by the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. His hand slides up my back, fingers splayed over my shoulder blade like he’s grounding himself there.
