Page 66 of Penalty Kiss
Cam’s expression softens, and I realize I’m white-knuckling the counter.
My voice softens. "And I did. In that moment, I loved it. I felt light—like something unlatched inside me. The silence of the library wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of possibility. Full of me. I remember smiling, not because something was funny, but because I felt... whole. I was not performing, not storing trivia for someone else’s agenda. I was just… just being Taralyn.”
I look up at Cam’s handsome face and smile. “That was happiness. Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet and complete."
My throat tightens. “That was also the moment I decided I needed to run away, though I didn’t bolt that day,” I admit.
“I was seventeen, not stupid. I finished my coursework, played the dutiful daughter. But sitting in that library, rain dripping through the gutters, I knew. I’d make it to twenty-one, the finish line I’d set for myself. Degree done, trust funds locked, no more excuses. Then I’d walk away on my own terms.”
I take a deep breath. “It was the first time I’d ever planned something just for me. And it didn’t feel like rebellion. It felt like finally choosing my own life.”
“So, to this day, the smell of books remind me of freedom—may be why I keep stacking them everywhere, a paper fortress against going back.”
Cam reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing mine.
"And now?" His voice is barely above a murmur.
"Now what?"
"Are you happy now?"
The question hangs between us, heavier than the espresso machine behind me. Because the answer is complicated and terrifying and—
My brain betrays me with a highlight reel. Cam on his back this morning, my knees braced on either side of him, his hands anchoring my waist like I was the only thing keeping him alive.The stretch, the slide, the guttural sound when I rolled my hips just right.
Heat rushes through me. The memory sharpens—mirrors flashing with morning light, his eyes rolling back, the husky groan that could’ve rattled the windows.
And it hits me: happiness isn’t just Paris libraries and quiet solitude. It can be loud. Messy. Breathless. It can be sex in the morning with a man who looks at me like I’m salvation and sin wrapped together.
"Tara?"His voice cuts through the explicit replay."You okay?"
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at him for way too long—probably looking like I want to climb him right here on the bistro counter.
Which, honestly, I do.
"Fine," I manage, but my voice comes out husky. "Just... remembering something."
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he reads my expression. "Something good?"
"Something that's going to get us both in trouble if I keep thinking about it."
"I like trouble." He slides off the counter, moving closer with predatory grace. "Especially the kind that involves you making those sounds you made this morning."
I gulp. "Cam, we're at work."
"Mrs. Whitmore's in the back doing inventory. Tyler's doing his round." His hand finds my waist, thumb stroking just above my hip bone. "And I can see exactly what you're remembering."
"Can you now?"
"You're remembering how it felt when you were on top. How I filled you up completely. How I couldn't stop saying your name when you—"
"Supply closet. Now." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
His grin is wicked and triumphant. "Yes, ma'am."
He takes my hand, leading me through the kitchen toward the narrow supply closet tucked behind the walk-in cooler. It's barely big enough for two people, lined with shelves of napkins, cleaning supplies, and restaurant basics.
The moment the door clicks shut, he has me pressed against it, his mouth crashing down on mine. I kiss him back desperately, my hands fisting in his shirt.
