She waves a hand at him and stands. “Thanks, I just—” she trails off, her eyes hollow. “I just realized I’m scheduled for an early appointment tomorrow.” She lifts her hand to her hair and bounces a blond curl on her palm. “My stylist is tres exclusive, and if I stand her up she’ll never speak to me again.”
“Oh, Marie,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”
Marie turns to me, and her eyes, though wet, are smiling. She takes my free hand in both of hers. “Honey.” She squeezes my hand. “Honey. You have so much—so much—on your mind right now.” She glances at Cameron. “And not just with him. With everything.” Her smile is soft and loving. “I honestly don’t expect you to think about every little thing.”
“This doesn’t feel like a little thing.”
She shrugs. “I mean, you know…nothing little about Eric, if you know what I mean.” That deadly witch-smile beams out of her for a moment. “Not that it matters.” She pulls me off balance and hugs me, and I almost fall over the back of the couch on top of her. She whispers fiercely in my ear. “You do something good for yourself, hear me? Even if it’s just good for right now.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel my own eyes sting a little.
“You’ve got a fucking life to live. Live it.”
“Okay,” I hear myself whisper.
She lets me go, then says to Cam, “How the hell do I get out of this place?”
Cam
Before she gets in the car Marie says, “Regardless of everything, Simons, I’ve always liked you.”
Even though I can’t think of a response to that, I open my mouth to make one anyway. But Marie extends one expensively-manicured finger and pokes me—hard—right in the sternum. If it weren’t for my jacket I think she would have drawn blood.
“Ow! What was that for?”
She scowls. “That was because I have this feeling that you’re about to fuck it up again.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t fuck it up again.”
Well, that’s unjust. I start to tell her so, but she cuts me off with, “Ah! Don’t,” and a brisk shake of her head. “She loves you. Don’t break her heart.” She seems about to say something else, but her bottom lip begins to tremble and she bites it instead.
Whoa now. It’s obvious Marie possesses some wisdom that I’m not privy to. “Hang on—”
But she doesn’t. Instead she whirls into her car like she’s in an action movie, slamming the door and shutting me out. The engine comes to life and the car begins to back down the driveway. I raise my arm to wave at her, and am immediately blinded when she turns on her headlights.
Fucking Marie.
This situation with her and Eric is stupid. They should fix things. I shoot him a text. “She’s hit the road, bro. Anything I can do for you?” I send, and close my phone, shaking my head. I can’t help feeling bad for both of them.
But I’m walking on a cloud when I go back into the house. As I pass through the foyer I see people still mingling in the living room. Eli and Holly are nowhere to be seen, but Mom is there. I wave to her as I walk by, but don’t slow. She has the good grace not to call me over. Other guests call to me, but I don’t have ears for them right now. I just keep my hand raised so they can see me wave as I walk down the hall. My blood is rushing in my ears and I feel my steps speed up. I feel like running. Just kicking up my heels and running to Aimee. But I exert the tiniest amount of control over myself, and walk down the hall. Dignity and composure are very important things.
I push open the door to the rec room. My mouth is dry, and I feel every so slightly breathless. Again, I don’t know what I’m going to say. It seems to be a night for that.
Aimee has saved me the trouble of saying anything.
She isn’t here.
Just to make sure, I check behind the bar, then glance over the backs of the sofas.
No Aimee.
My heart drops through the pit of my stomach.
I shouldn’t have let myself think so much. Or say so much. For God’s sake.
Everything’s easier when you don’t give a shit.
And I don’t give a shit. Not about much. But about Aimee? I’d give it all. But she’s gone.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s Aimee. I close my eyes. She’s going to tell me that she’s made a mistake. That she has to go. That she’s frantically chasing Marie’s car down the driveway for a ride back to Norman. Eric and I are going to get truly obliterated tonight.
I open my eyes and discover I have received two texts. The first is from Eric. “Calling it an early night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck.” Always hoping for the best for me. A true friend. Too bad we’re both sleeping alone tonight. I almost text him back, “Fuck that, let’s drink.”
But first, I look at the message from Aimee.
“Meet me in our favorite place.”
She isn’t leaving. She’s waiting for me.
I push through the rec room door, and this time when I go down the hall I am running.
Say It Again
Cam
Behind the guest house—which, frankly, doesn’t really qualify as a guest house; a massive, four-bedroom brick structure, it would be the flagship home of any reasonable HOA—stands a giant oak tree. It trunk is so big around that if Aimee, Eric and I all stood around it and gave the tree a big, weird hug, our fingers wouldn’t touch. And in the tradition of giant old oak trees everywhere, this one sports a network of low branches, some as big around as my shoulders, that make fantastic starting points for children to climb.
That was how the three of us saw it when we were young. By the time we were in third grade Aimee and Eric were hanging out at my house regularly, and the oak was a favorite gathering point. If you’re a kid, what better place is there to play than up in a tree? And the oak was an easy climb. Low branches, and close branches all the way up, good as a ladder, seventy-five feet or so until they got so small that even Aimee, light as she was, couldn’t go any further. But we got high enough to poke our heads out of the foliage.
Which was the sight that greeted my mother one afternoon when she was preparing lunch for us. She looked out the kitchen window and saw two of us—Aimee and me—with our little heads in the golden sunlight above the canopy, laughing. My mother’s heart nearly stopped seeing us so cataclysmically far from the ground. She rushed out the back door and down the hill to us, but forced herself calm when she got to the bottom of the tree. She looked up, peering through the branches at three tiny figures high above her, and shouted, “You guys come on down for lunch.” Because being hysterical with little kids only serves to make them hysterical, as well, and hysterical people perched precariously high in a tree sometimes descend much quicker than is healthy.
So we climbed down and had lunch, and my mom never said a word about us climbing the tree. What kid is going to listen to a grownup who says not to climb a tree? For all that my dad is good with business, Mom is even better at knowing people. After lunch she distracted us with video games and we forgot the tree.
And the next day, we couldn’t go near it, because a construction crew was there.
The tree house they built was the most wonderful thing we had ever seen.
No fewer than four ladders, constructed of rough-cut wood poles, led up through the floor at each compass point. The hatch at the top of each ladder led into one of four main rooms, all arranged around the huge trunk. My father, not one to half-step (once his wife had made him commit in the first place, that is), had made sure electricity was run, a cable trenched through the yard and then spiraled up the trunk. There was a game room, with a television, video games, and a big table for board games. A smallish kitchen—really a snack area, because no one in their right mind would let children cook inside a tree house. A toy room.
And, of course, a sleepover room.
I don’t know if my parents had planned for the tree house to be used by adults, or if they expected our kid-parties to be larger, or i
f they just didn’t know what to do with all their money, but instead of a pair of twin beds, as one might expect in a kid’s tree house bedroom, this one was furnished with two queens, with a night stand between them.
Thanks, Dad.
As I make my down the hill, I see a soft light through the window of the kitchenette. My heart quickens in my chest. The thought of Aimee up there, waiting for me after all this time, makes my breath catch. I find the ladder to the kitchenette and go up. I almost bang my head on the trap door, but feel it with my outstretched hand just in time. I push it open and light shines down on me.
The room is empty. Well, not empty. A small, square table sits in the center of the room. On that table sits a green Peretti bottle, dew glistening on the glass. And Aimee’s shoes are beside the wall. Not parallel to one another as they would be if they had been placed there, but at angles and several feet apart, as if they had been kicked off one at a time and landed against the wall. Her sweater is wadded on the counter.
There are two doors from this room. The one on the left leads to the TV room. The one on the right leads to the toy room. It really doesn’t matter which way I choose, since both lead to the same place. But Aimees’ socks lay on the floor in the left-hand doorway, so I go that direction. It’s almost as if she’s prepared a scene for me.
In the light from the kitchenette, I see her bra, black in the low light, draped across the back of the couch. Oh, my God. I feel, suddenly, like a high school freshman about to get lucky for the first time. My mouth is dry and my stomach is suddenly an acrobat. The far door, the one that leads into the bedroom, is closed.
Aimee’s lace panties hang from the knob. I reach out and close my fingers around the fabric. I open the door and go inside.
She sits on the bed facing me, her ankles crossed, still wearing her yellow dress. When the door creaks open, she turns on the nightstand lamp.
Aimee
When Cam comes into the room, I am gratified by the look on his face. The only word for it is “stunned”. His eyes search my face, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I don’t think he realizes he’s still holding my panties in his hand.
“Aimee, what I said at the party—”
I hold up my finger to my lips. “Shh,” I shake my head. I uncross my legs and stand, walking slowly toward him. The fabric of the dress slides against skin that was earlier covered by my bra and panties, and the light friction is delicious. I hold Cam’s eyes with my own.
“I just—” he says, but I place my fingertips on his lips now.
“Say it again. Before we say or do anything else, you say it again.”
For a second he just looks down at me, confusion wrinkling the skin between his eyes. Then realization dawns and the lines smooth out. I expect him to deflect, or say something close, the way he’s always done, and when he does I’m going to put my shoes back on and leave.
“I love you,” he says. His voice is firm, and his eyes never leave mine.
I seize his shirt and pull his mouth down to me.
His lips against mine are hot, soft and at the same time hard. I kiss him and it is as if there isn’t enough of him, isn’t enough of me, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth, taking as much from him as I can, giving him as much of myself as I dare. It has been so long, months without him, months without his touch, and I yearn to have all of him, to claim the promise he made to me in his speech.
Even if it’s just for tonight.
His tongue dances with mine, sliding into my mouth, filling me, foreshadowing the way I really want him to fill me.
And I do want him. Right now. My body aches for him and my sex is already throbbing and slick. His hands slide down my body to my hips, pulling me to him. I grind against him, a thrill of pleasure surging through me when his cock, standing at rigid attention, presses against my seam through our clothes. I move slightly, rubbing up and down against him, my dress rough on my clit. A moan escapes my lips, and I am gratified to hear a responding gasp of pleasure from Cam.
His deft fingers are at the back of the dress, drawing down the zipper. I shrug free of the sleeves and let the top of the dress fall, and then Cam is pushing me backward until the backs of my knees are against the bed. He cups my ass to lift me up and lay me across it.
“No,” I murmur, grabbing his wrists. I guide one of his hands down, below the hem of my dress, while I pull the material up with my other hand. I put his hand on the molten wetness between my legs. His fingers find my crease, sliding between my folds, opening me up. The ache in me becomes something else, something hollow and hungry, and I cry out when his fingers push inside me.
My hips rock against him. He grabs my hair from behind and pulls my head back, ravishes my mouth with his, kissing and nipping the flesh of my lips, my neck, my breasts. He takes my nipple in his mouth and blinding lust washes through me. I need him now. I don’t want to wait.
I push his hands aside, push him back to make room, and I kneel in front of him.
“Oh, my God baby,” he groans when my hands undo his belt, unbutton his pants. “Aimee.”
And then his cock is free, and I slide my mouth down onto it, taking its length to the back of my throat. I want him, and more than that I want him without control. I want him like an animal, mindless in his need for me. I press my tongue against the bottom of his shaft as I move up and down it, working it in circles that make his hips twitch. Cam’s breathing is coming in ragged gasps, and the muscles of his stomach are like stone under the shirt that he still wears. I wrap my arms around him, clutch his ass in both hands and pull him to me, deep into my mouth and throat until my lips are at the very base of him. For a moment I can’t breathe at all, and neither can he. When I relax and pull back slightly, he makes a sound that is half amazement, half breathless need. “Jesus, Aimee…”
I push him away slightly and stand. My bare toes just touch the leather of his shoes. His wide, blue eyes stare down at me, and his throbbing cock is pressed between us, hard against my belly.
“Well,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him, “that was fun.”
His mouth drops open. “What?”
My response is to turn away and pad around the end of the bed, toward the door that Cam had come through. I pick my panties up off the floor and step into them.
“What are you doing?” his voice is raw.
I look at him over my shoulder as I approach the door. “Was there something more you wanted from me, Cam?” My steps are slow and deliberate, my hips swaying.
“Aimee, yes, I—” he stammers. It’s good to hear Cam Simons for once at a loss for the wrong thing to say.
I flash a wicked smile at him. “Then you better make up your goddamn mind and come take what you want.” And with that I turn, not stopping.
There is a moment of silence. Then the sound of his shoes on the wood floor, rapid and getting louder. Just before his arm wraps around my waist and stops me, I smile.
Cam
It’s as if I don’t have any control over my body at all. My intention had been to touch Aimee, to make slow love to her, to tell her all the things that have been in my mind for the past months. But she’s managed to put all of that out of my mind, and instead to draw out something darker, something more primal. A need that has been growing in me for months. And now that that need is free from the cage I locked it into, I don’t know if I can put it back.
And for the moment, I don’t want to.
My arm closes around her slim waist and I feel her heat beneath my skin. It’s as if she doesn’t weigh anything at all. A cry escapes her lips when I lift her and spin us back toward the bedroom. I can’t tell if it’s excitement or surprise or a need that corresponds to mine, and I don’t care. My only desire is to have her, to be inside her, to claim her as mine.
Aimee doesn’t struggle when I toss her face-down on the bed. Her dress rucks up around her hips when I drag her backward, so that her legs hang off the edge. I pull it up the rest of the way, exposing the
roundness of her ass, the shallow valley at the small of her back. Her pussy glistens in the lamplight, and I slip two fingers between her slick lips. She groans and arches her back.
“Is this what you want?” I demand. I am amazed at how rough my voice is. My fingers slide in and out of her.
She looks back at me, her face obscured in shadow and twisted in pleasure. “Is it what you want?”
No. It isn’t.
If my cock gets any harder it will burst apart. I have to have her. Right now.
I grab her shoulder with my left hand, anchor her in place, and with my right I position myself at the wet opening of her pussy. I ease the head in, just slightly, and she pushes back against me. I try to move slowly into her—it’s been so long for both of us—but she pushes more insistently and I grip her hip and thrust all the way into her. Her body opens for me, tight and slippery and so hot. She cries out, and I think I do, too, as my cock drives home.
Home. Under the animal part of me that seems to be in control at the moment, that is the word that resonates. My body, buried in this woman, sliding against her skin, holding her down, is home. And so is my heart. This is where I belong.
I pull partway out of her, and then slam back in, harder. Her hips grind against mine, her enthusiasm no less than my own.
“Cam,” she begs. “Oh, God, fuck me.”
And I do. I hold her in place, burying myself as deeply inside her as I can, over and over. Her cries become ragged, and she writhes against my hands. I release her shoulder to get a more complete grasp of her hips, and she pushes her body off the mattress. Aimee looks back at me over her shoulder, her eyes black in the low light. They are bottomless, and her body is bottomless, and I feel myself falling into her, diving deeper, becoming part of her. I wrap my arms around her, my hands on her breasts, and hold her tightly to me while I thrust more rapidly into her. I am losing control, and her familiar cries tell me that she is close to the edge. I hold her, desperately trying to fall deeper and deeper into her, to become hers.
Her hands tear at the sheets, and her body bucks against me. She screams when she comes, an animal sound at once violent and vulnerable. I bury my face in her neck, needing her smell more than I need oxygen. My orgasm is an eruption, boiling up from inside me in a volcanic spasm that clenches my entire body. My teeth grind and I release all that need, all my months of frustration and sadness, into Aimee’s body, and she accepts it. I shudder against her, my mouth still on her neck, her sweat-slick body pressed along the length of mine.
All Yours: A Second Chance Romance Page 13
