Page 62 of Fault Lines
“I don’t know.” I heard how weak I sounded and hated it. “I was just thinking, and then it got… too much.”
“What were you thinking?”
I hesitated. Did the truth even matter anymore?
“We have to be honest,” he said softly. “That’s the only way this is going to work, Livi.”
I swallowed. “I was thinking that I’m not good enough for you. That buying this thing was pointless.” I gestured helplessly at the lingerie. “I don’t look like the women you want. I can never be what you want, Cam. I don’t know why I tried. It was stupid.”
He wiped away the tears from my cheeks and his jaw tightened.
“Listen to me, Livi, and listen good. None of those women are better than you. None of them. You’re the only woman I love. The only one. That makes you the most beautiful, to me, every single time. I need you to believe me.” His hands were warm on my arms, anchoring me. “I’ve got a raging hard-on just fromseeing you like this. You have no idea. I love you, baby. Please stop taking my issues so personally. This isn’t your fault and it’s not about something you lack.”
He pressed his forehead to mine.
“I love you so much it hurts, and I hate that I keep hurting you. Over and over, never fixing it. I hate seeing how I drag you down, but I just can’t seem to stop. I can’t go back to how I was before. I know you don’t want this either. I’m going to fix it, Livi. I am. Just don’t give up on me. Give me a little more time.”
I shook my head, tears spilling again. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” I whispered. Maybe that made me weak, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t ready to give up—not as long as there was some slim hope he’d come back to me in the end.
He carried me out to the living room and set me down on the couch, then started building a fire. A few minutes later, he came back with an armful of blankets, spreading them out in front of the hearth.
“What are you doing?” I asked, watching him as the flames grew.
He flashed me a smile. “What could be more romantic than laying with your man in front of a fire?”
I laughed, the last of the tension draining away. I got down on the blankets, waiting, and he dropped beside me, his hands immediately finding my body. He kneaded my breasts through the sheer material and kissed his way up to my mouth, claiming me all over again.
I arched into him, every nerve lit up and desperate for more. When his fingers slipped under the fabric, teasing between my thighs, I gasped and ground against him, greedy for his touch. We’d made love here so many times before, but this was different: rawer, closer, as if he was laying himself open for me to see. I glimpsed the broken pieces in him, and I wanted to pull them close and hold them together with nothing but myself.
When he finally slid inside me, it was like coming home. We moved as one, both holding eye contact, neither of us looking away. He watched me as I lost myself, clutching at him as pleasure broke over me. He followed, spilling into me, groaning my name against my neck.
He drew back to look at me, voice rough and low. “I love you, Livi. Only you. Ever.”
Chapter Eighteen
Two weeks later, everything was exactly the same as it always had been. I worked weekdays at the bookstore, and every night and weekend belonged to Cam. Except, of course, for Thursdays.
One Thursday, Rachel and I went to a club downtown; the next, I caught another movie with Nate. Afterward, we ducked into a different bar. Nate had a knack for steering clear of Joe’s, which I figured had plenty to do with Tony, but I didn’t press. The unspoken rules between us were easy: we drank, danced, and I made it home just after Cam did. He’d always assume it was “girls’ night with Rachel,” and I never corrected him. It was just an omission—a light touch of deceit—but after the mess at the lake with Jake, I doubted he needed to know I was spending Thursday nights with Nate. Cam could have won awards for hypocrisy, but that was just the way he was.
He came into the kitchen just as I was pulling out a tray of blueberry muffins, the smell filling up all the empty corners of our little house.
“You’re becoming a regular little Betty Crocker, aren’t you, baby?” he said, flashing that familiar, lazy smile.
“Oh, hush. I actually like doing it.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and I leaned into him, plucking muffins from the tin and dropping them in a basket.
“I made these from scratch,” I announced, letting myself be proud for a second.
“I’m glad you’ve found something to do with your time,” he said. “I never like the thought of you being bored at home. Maybe you could take a baking class? Thursday nights, maybe. If Rachel’s not free, it would give you something else to look forward to.”
It was the way he said it, so casual, like Thursday nights were already written off the books. As if this would just keep on as it had been. I went cold. He wasn’t making changes; he wasn’t even pretending. All the disgust I had for myself washed up, thick and sour. He had managed to have his cake and eat it, too.
“Maybe,” I said, my voice flat, my hands robotic as I set a mug on the counter.
He poured a cup of coffee. “I have to go on a business trip this weekend,” he said, not looking at me.
My head snapped up. “On a weekend?”
