Page 78 of Penalty Kiss
For long moments, we stay locked together, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, our bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction.
“Wow,” she finally says, her voice soft with wonder as she collapses against my chest, her hair damp against my neck, her heartbeat racing wild to match mine.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, anchoring us both. Her taking charge tonight wasn’t just heat—it was trust. Proof she’s letting me see every side of her.
I make a silent vow to remember this moment—her taking charge, her showing me a side of her I haven’t seen before.
The choice she made to lead, to let me follow. The way she showed me love can be strength and surrender, all in the same breath.
This is what love looks like, I realize. It’s not just about protection or comfort. It’s about partnership, about trusting each other enough to let go, to take charge, to be vulnerable and strong all at once.
Eventually, her breathing slows, her body soft and heavy against mine. “Bed?” she murmurs, drowsy but smiling.
“On it,” I say, and scoop her up in a fireman’s carry. Her squeal echoes through the loft as her hair swings against my back.
“Cameron Wilder! What’s with the shoulder toss?”
I smack her perky ass lightly, grinning at the sound she makes. “Not a chance. Saw how you were eyeing those firefighters this afternoon. Needed you to know I can do everything they do… and more.”
She kicks her feet, laughing, half-protesting. “Really? You’re going full firefighter fantasy now?”
“Call it occupational research,” I shoot back, striding toward the bedroom. “You’re not complaining.”
Her laugh vibrates against my neck as I lower her on the sheets. “You’re ridiculous!”
“Ridiculously irresistible,” I fire back.
She curls close, cheek pressed to my chest, and then her voice slips out—low, certain, meant only for me.
“I love you too.”
Chapter 13
Triage & Tactics
Cam
My phone's buzzing like an angry hornet against the kitchen counter, and I already know this isn't going to be good news. The caller ID confirms my worst nightmare:Dad.
I answer on the fourth ring, trying to sound casual instead of like a guy who nearly torched his girlfriend's house yesterday. "Hey, Dad. What's—"
"You look tired." Luke's face fills my phone screen, his brow furrowed with that trademark Wilder family concern.
Great. Family video ambush. My favorite.
He has the same expression he wore when I got my first concussion in junior league—part love, part clinical assessment, all suffocating. It’s the reason why most people think he’s the older brother.
I'm sprawled on the couch at Sugar Mill Lofts, trying to look relaxed while my younger brother—the brilliant trauma surgeon—dissects me through FaceTime. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Dad's shoulder, which means I'm about to get tag-teamed by two of the most overprotective medical professionals on the planet.
"Ah. My own personal intervention, starring Dr. Doom and Dr. Dad."
"Cut the jokes, Cam. Are you tracking your symptoms?" Luke continues, his voice taking on that clinical edge that makes my teeth clench. "Limiting screen time? Any dizziness? Memory lapses?"
It's love, I know. But it feels like a performance review I'm failing.
"I'm fine—"
"Define fine." Dad's voice cuts in as he moves into frame, all stoic authority and steel-gray eyes. Dr. Erik Wilder doesn't do small talk, especially when his eldest son has been making headlines for all the wrong reasons. "Because setting kitchen fires doesn't sound fine to me."
