Page 66 of Married As Puck
I stalk toward her, my footsteps quiet over the tile. When I reach her, I slip my hands around her waist and pull her against me, my lips brushing the side of her neck as I breathe her in.
She startles, stiffens—
“Cameron—” she starts, half-turning, but then she sees my face. I feel her body loosen just a fraction against mine, but then she pushes me away with both hands.
The rejection stings sharper than I expect. I mask it with a crooked smile, forcing lightness into my voice.
“What? Are you disgusted by me already?”
She rolls her eyes, but her tone is clipped. “You’re sweaty. Locker room showers don’t count.”
I chuckle like it’s nothing, but inside, something knots tight in my chest. The energy’s off—she’s distant in a way that wasn’t there before. But I don’t press.
“Fine,” I mutter, lifting my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll freshen up before I traumatize you with my stench.”
I head down the hall, the hot water pounding over me doing little to drown out the unease. By the time I come back out, she’s plating food, moving around the kitchen like nothing happened.
She’s sitting across from me at the island, twirling her fork absentmindedly as we eat in comfortable silence. I take a bite, glance up, and catch the way the loose neckline of her shirt slides when she leans forward. My stomach flips, but not from the food.
I clear my throat, setting my fork down. “Why are you sitting all the way over there?”
Brie’s head tilts, brow lifting. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”
“Not close enough.” I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “I’d have preferred you on my lap. Or somewhere else.”
Her fork clatters against the plate, and heat rushes into her cheeks. “Cameron, don’t say things like that at the table.”
“Fine,” I murmur, pushing my chair back. “I won’t say them.” I stand, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. “I’ll just do them.”
Her breath hitches as I stop in front of her, my hand sliding around the back of her chair before I bend down and capture her mouth with mine. She doesn’t hesitate. Her lips part instantly, her arms wrapping around my neck as though she’s been waiting for this.
The kiss is hungry, unrestrained, and it surprises me how natural it feels. I’m not the type to be affectionate, not the type to crave this kind of closeness. Yet with her, it’s effortless, addictive even.
We pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads brushing. She whispers, voice trembling with heat, “I’m not hungry anymore.”
A low laugh escapes me. “Me neither.”
Her lips crash back into mine, no more hesitation, no more distance. The plates are forgotten as I haul her onto the counter. Her legs lock tighter around my waist as I press her back against the cool countertop, the contrast making her shiver. My hands slide under that oversized shirt, finding warm skin, soft and begging to be touched. She gasps into my mouth when I grip her hips and grind against her, the sound shooting straight through me. Plates rattle somewhere to the side, forgotten, but I don’tcare. All I care about is the way she clings to me, the way her short shorts ride higher with every shift of my body, until there’s nothing left between us but raw need. When I finally sink into her, her head falls back, a sharp cry breaking free, and I know I’m not stopping, not until she’s writhing against me, not until we both come undone right here in the kitchen
By the time it’s over, we’re sprawled across the cool surface of the island, her hair messy, my chest heaving. I stare up at the ceiling, every nerve in my body still thrumming.
Fuck. I’m in trouble.
Because this doesn’t feel casual anymore and that scares me.
25
By the time I pull into the driveway, my whole body feels like lead. Today has been one of those endless days where every meeting runs late, every email feels urgent, and every smile I have to fake drains me more than the last. My heels pinch, my blouse is wrinkled, and all I can think about is peeling it all off and collapsing straight into bed. I’m so grateful that I had driven a car to work today, I honestly do not know where I’d get the strength to wait for a cab.
I drag myself up the steps, already rehearsing the speech I’ll give Cameron if he tries to start one of his usual sarcastic remarks about me working too much. Something along the lines of not tonight, please.
But the second I open the door, I freeze.
The apartment doesn’t look the same. The lights are dimmed, the soft golden glow of candles scattered across the diningroom casting the whole place in warmth I don’t recognize. The table is set, actual plates and silverware perfectly arranged, with food that smells way too good to have been delivered from any takeout place I know.
And then there’s Cameron, leaning casually by the table in a crisp black shirt with his sleeves rolled, as if he’s been waiting for me.
I blink, stunned, my bag still hanging off my shoulder. “What… is this?” My voice comes out hoarse from shock and exhaustion.
