by Skylar Kade
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Winter.” Cam’s words didn’t tremble, though her body did. “I’ll be heading out soon—”
“Like hell you will!”
“Damien, that is no way to speak to a lady!” His mother admonished him, even as Camille snorted.
“Sweetheart, you stay right where you are.”
Derek popped an eyebrow at him.
“Can I at least get up and properly meet your family?” Camille finally slipped from under his arm. She brushed her hands down her yoga pants as she walked around his hospital bed, then tugged at the hem of her bright-yellow shirt. She winced when she fingered a smudge of blood on the hem.
His poor sweetheart. He wanted to go to her, sweep her into his arms and cozy her away until they sorted things out. He wanted to introduce her to his family more formally, as his girlfriend.
Fiancée.
Camille’s introductions were drowned out by the ringing in his ears. Time froze and he rolled the word around his mind, testing the weight of it.
It felt right.
After yesterday’s events, he didn’t want to contemplate a future without her. And despite her determination to avoid commitment, he’d find some way to convince her that a long-term relationship was their best shot at happiness.
When he returned his focus to the hospital room, Derek was handing Cordelia over to Camille. If any part of him still needed convincing that she was his future, that did it.
She looked down at his baby niece, a giant, sappy smile on Camille’s face. “She’s beautiful, Derek. Looks just like you.”
He wanted to see Camille holding their own daughter, craved it. “Come here, sweetheart. Bring Cordie to see her uncle.”
She bounced the infant on her hip and rounded the bed to reach Damien’s good side, then sat next to him once more.
“I think I just trapped a new babysitter,” Derek chuckled.
Camille looked over at Damien. He could practically read all the questions she had, wanted to kiss away the tension around her eyes and the exhaustion sagging her shoulders.
He kissed his niece, catching a sweet whiff of her baby scent, then shifted as far against his back as he dared, barely catching his family in his peripheral vision. “Not how I imagined my Sunday going.”
His mother offered a watery laugh then dabbed at her eyes. “We were so scared, Damien. I’m glad you’re okay.”
His father must have read the look on his face. “Me too, son. But we’ll let you rest now. Let’s go, Marnie.” He took his mother’s hand and tugged her towards the door. “We’ll see you—and Camille—next Sunday for dinner.”
Smirk firmly in place, Derek swooped up Cordie and followed them out. “You, uh, ‘rest up’, bro.” He waggled his eyebrows, ensuring Camille turned bright red, then closed the door behind him.
“Well that was…unexpected.” Camille hopped up from the bed and paced the room. “Sunday dinner?”
He grinned. “Every week. Sometimes brunch, sometimes a family outing, but always a gathering.”
Twilight cast her face into shadow as she stood by the window. She leaned against the window and took in the view of the city. “I see.” He watched her body tremble, then let loose a big shiver. “Guess we should have that talk, huh?”
“Don’t sound so glum, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of talk.” She whirled on him, her curls framing a glare on her pretty face. He backtracked, wary now. “Unless that’s the kind of talk you want to have.”
“If you weren’t already concussed, Damien, I’d smack you silly!”
“Isn’t that my job?”
She rolled her eyes and stomped over, fiddling with the ice chips on his bedside table.
“One, sweetheart. Just because I’m in this bed doesn’t mean I won’t put you over my knee. And it’s Sir to you, not Damien. Injury isn’t an excuse to let protocol slip.” He waited on edge for her reaction. His temple throbbed from stress and anticipation and the line of fire pulling at his back was just enough to ground him. It was also a reminder that he had to talk her into his arms this time.
With a sob, she slumped into the chair his mother had vacated. “Make up your mind!”
Okay, maybe that was fair. He reached out to rest his hand on her thigh, ignoring the pull against his stitches. He waited until she settled under his hand and looked up at him. “I have made my decision. One week with you will never be enough. Question is, will you agree to new terms?”
She pulled at the hem of her yellow shirt and looked down at her feet as they scuffed against the grey-tile floor. “What terms?”
“You’re mine. Now. Tomorrow. Indefinitely. I don’t want to think about a future without you in it.” Before she could protest—and he could read the objections in the confused lines of her face—he continued. “I know I kept things from you and I promise that will not happen again. But I wanted you to have one perfect weekend, free of stress and fear. I thought…I thought we’d have time. But I love you and I won’t wait another second.”
He let his head drop back to the pillow, blinking against the burning in his eyes and the knot in his throat. She was safe. Even if she couldn’t forgive him, or didn’t want to build a life with him, she was safe.
Yeah, that would only keep him so warm at night.
The bed dipped and Camille’s arm settled around his waist as she snuggled against his side, inching with small, gentle movements until they touched shoulder to toe. “I love you too…Sir.”
When the nurse came in a few hours later, stirring him from sleep, she mock rolled her eyes at the sleeping woman in his bed. “That can’t be good for your stitches.”
Damien shrugged. His back ached, but his heart was light.
Camille stirred as the nurse took his vitals and announced that the doctor was ready to send him home. The second-best news he’d received that day. When the nurse asked if he had arranged for someone to stay with him for the next twenty-four hours, he hesitated, not wanting to presume Camille would want to play nursemaid.
“I will, so don’t bother asking.” Cam’s voice was still groggy from her nap. She eyed the nurse, then sighed. “I guess I’m not supposed to be up here, huh?”
The nurse shook her head and checked on his chart, but that didn’t hide her smile. “I didn’t see anything.”
Damien laid a kiss on Camille’s forehead before she climbed off the bed and started asking the nurse about his care. He felt ridiculous, Camille looking after him. But things were still so tenuous between them that he’d take any leverage he could get.
Anything to keep her around longer.
An hour later, he was dressed in fresh clothes his mother had left, had discharge papers in hand and looked up at Camille where she stood by the door.
“Ready to go home?” she said.
“There’s no place I’d rather be.”
About the Author
Skylar Kade, self-avowed hedonist and princess extraordinaire, started her writing career after throwing aside yet another romance she could not bring herself to finish. The run-on sentences! The purple prose! Oh, the horror of it was just too much. So she sat down to write her own tale. Her favorite part about writing is the extensive research.
She currently resides in sunny Southern California, alternately cursing the polluted air and adoring the weather. Skylar spends her time asking the cabana boys to bring her more mimosas and feed her strawberries while she dreams up her next naughty adventure.
She blogs at the SkylarVerse (skylarkade.wordpress.com) and with the Nine Naughty Novelists (ninenaughtynovelists.blogspot.com) .
Look for these titles by Skylar Kade
Now Available:
A Love Worth Living
The Maison Chronicles
Maison Domine
His Only Hope
Print Anthologies
Binding Ties
When the nightmares yawn beneath her feet, the scariest part is letting go.
A Love Worth Living
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sp; © 2013 Skylar Kade
Dr. Carrie Farrow has dedicated her life to finding justice for the dead, but not without a steep cost. Years spent seeing the worst of humanity have left her determined to keep the living at a distance. It’s the only way she knows to keep her heart safe.
A dig in Rwanda changes everything. When she returns, her sexy neighbor’s concern and care slip past her iron defenses—and she finds comfort in a night of passion. But not the whole night. Before the sheets have cooled, she’s out of there.
David Cameron has walked a fine line, being there for her without pushing the bounds of their friendship. When she falls into his arms, he believes the years of loving her from afar are over—until she makes it clear one night is all he gets.
Knowing one night will never be enough, David sets out to show her life is worth living, and love is worth claiming…if she’s brave enough to choose him.
And he’s brave enough to open his heart wide enough to catch hers.
Warning: Contains a strong, independent woman who discovers a love worth risking her heart for; a sexy psychologist with secrets of his own; and sex so good it can heal the soul.
Enjoy the following excerpt for A Love Worth Living:
David Cameron paced the gray tile, his shoes squeaking on the surface, and looked at the clock every thirty seconds. Forty, when he mustered his self-control. Back and forth, five steps each way, until the loudspeaker crackled to life. A monotone voice announced the arrival of Flight 937 from New York.
Carrie’s flight.
His heart stumbled and regained its balance, a habit it’d formed after knowing Carrie for a couple of months. David was thankful his legs had outgrown a similar habit years ago. Though he hadn’t appreciated his six-feet-four height as a teen, he did now—he’d see Carrie that much sooner over the heads of other people waiting in the baggage claim area.
He paced until a stream of passengers hit the automatic doors, then paused to scan the travelers for his woman.
Neighbor. She’s just your neighbor.
But when she turned the corner, her red hair tied up into a loose bun, he forgot everything rational and started forward. That lasted all of two steps before he remembered he was just there to bring her back to their condominium complex.
His version of Love Thy Neighbor was in a different language than hers. So he waited and forced his long legs to hold still, at least until she made it into Baggage Claim.
Carrie exited the dimly lit hallway and pushed through the glass double doors into the light. Backlit, she looked like an angel coming to save him from himself.
Until he saw the lines of exhaustion etched onto her face.
He rushed forward to take her carry-on, a dusty tan duffel that looked like it matched her in weight. She let it drop into his open hands, then sluggishly raised her head.
“David, it’s so good to be home.” She sank against his chest and wrapped her arms around his midsection.
Not the way he’d envisioned their first full-body contact, but he wouldn’t let her go for the world. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and rubbed circles across her shoulder blades, though he did tilt his hips back. The last thing he needed was her disgust at his cock’s poor sense of timing and lack of propriety.
“It’s good to have you home.” The citrus scent that always evoked images of her wafted up from her hair. David had taken to eating a lot of tangerines in the six months since Carrie moved into the condo across from his.
For a frozen moment, he could imagine she was his lover, home from a long trip and happy to see him. He’d kiss her silly and load her into his sedan, take her home to their bed and spend the night making her come until she forgot everything ugly about her trip.
The daydream broke when she stepped back from him, her impassive expression already covering the exhaustion and whatever else had compelled her to touch him.
She’d made it clear from the beginning she had no fondness for contact beyond the most awkward of handshakes between neighbors. Except for the awkward one-armed hug he’d received when he took her to the airport four weeks ago, that was all he’d gotten.
He studied Carrie’s thin, weary form, shocked she hadn’t collapsed under the weight of her duffel bag. Though he didn’t know exactly what she’d done on this work expedition, he knew the case involved uncovering mass graves in Rwanda. Hell, he’d look worn too.
She looked like she needed comforting—and food. “Hamburgers okay?” Her eyes lit up and his chest tingled.
“Yes. I’m ravenous. Give me anything that doesn’t come powdered or in a can, and I’ll be a happy girl.” Her full pink lips almost quirked up, and David put it in the win column.
He rarely got more of a reaction than her barely there smile, aside from one unguarded, truthful moment a month after she’d moved in across from him.
“I don’t have the time or the inclination to date. Ever,” she’d told him one night.
He’d been teasing her about her weekend plans when she’d thrown him for a loop with that one. She was one of the most dedicated experts he’d ever met, but he called “bullshit” on her excuse. He’d played along with her at the time, but it had been a turning point for him. A woman as incredible as Carrie deserved to have a partner in her life to make her smile, to ease some of her burden.
Almost from the beginning, attraction had sparked between them in a way David had never before experienced. Though they worked together, he’d craved spending time with her, first during lunches at work and then for dinners at his place. Awareness had simmered between them the whole time, though the attraction was all on his part.
In less-guarded moments, he caught Carrie watching him and biting her lip in a damned erotic way that always tested his control. But he’d decided that until she made the first move and changed her mind about her dating hiatus, he’d be her friend. And take lots of cold showers.
On the half-hour drive back to their suburb of DC, he snuck glances at Carrie as she slept in the car. The roomy leather seat seemed to swallow her up. She’d definitely lost weight, and she’d been slim to begin with.
Carrie had let him bring her lunches and share dinner with her—it was one of the few ways she’d let him care for her. He’d damn well take it and run now. She looked like she was wasting away.
Not on his watch. He pulled into the parking lot of their local Wendy’s, the site of many a late-night meal between them. Loath to wake her, he zipped around to the drive-through instead of parking. She didn’t wake until the scent of burgers and fries filled the car.
At the first crinkle of the paper bag, she sat upright, fully aware. “Thank you for buying dinner.”
David envied the ease with which she woke up. He had to set three alarms to drag himself out of bed in the morning. Carrie would be a far better enticement.
The rogue thought combined with the fry he’d popped in his mouth threw him into a coughing fit. He slowed on the empty late-night road until he regained control of himself and dislodged the piece of potato slipping down his throat.
A small hand pounded on his shoulder blades then stroked across the back of his tee-shirt. His skin warmed at the touch of her hand.
“Drink?”
He nodded and sipped the proffered cup, moving as little as possible, in hopes of prolonging the moment. Her hands on him twice in one night. He wanted to sear this feeling into his memory.
When Carrie removed her hand, he started down the road again, this time without incident.
By tacit mutual agreement and the habit of months, they made their way up from the parking structure and both stopped in front of his door while he unlocked it.
They always ate at his place because she didn’t have a kitchen table. Or a TV. Carrie, minimalist to the core.
David unlocked his front door and a flying fur ball tangled around his legs. He nudged the cat away and set the food on his counter.
Cooing sounds from over his shoulder startled him. He turned to see Carrie hol
ding his cat, Psyche, on her back. She rubbed the cat’s belly and made mock purring noises. David almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. She hadn’t paid any attention to Psyche before.
Carrie met his incredulous gaze with a small laugh. “A stray cat adopted us in Rwanda.” The half smile melted from her face. She cleared her throat. “He went home with one of the other anthropologists.” She set Psyche down and straightened her back before getting two plates down from his cupboard.
Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d made herself at home. In his home. And he liked it more than was smart.
Sometimes they would chat about current events or entertainment news—anything but work. Otherwise, they would veg on the couch and watch TV. Tonight, they ate in amiable silence and caught up on the shows he’d recorded for her while she’d been gone. David kept his focus on the screen and tamped down the barely leashed desire that rose in her presence. Besides, if he ignored the not-so-secret glances he was getting from Carrie, she might continue to study him.
Carrie’s wry, no-nonsense attitude thinly veiled something more—something he wanted to expose—and made her an irresistible puzzle. She’d grown on him, her eccentricities burrowing their way into his heart.
For example, Carrie had discovered a particular fondness for The Real Housewives of any city. David humored her, even recording some of the episodes. He liked to hear her analyze the “foreign” group dynamics and behavior.
He would spend the mind-numbing hour cycling through cranial anatomy as a distraction from her reactions to the show: her mouth open in shock, her tongue darting out to moisten her full bottom lip, the little quirk of a smile that flashed across her face.
Tonight, after a month’s absence, she was even more appealing.
When the show finally ended, he rose to take the remnants of their dinner into the kitchen.
Two slim arms clasped his waist and the empty fast-food bags almost slipped from his hands. A glance down showed Carrie’s small hands, lightly calloused from her work outdoors, her nails short and unpainted—hands he loved to look at. Hands he’d dreamed about having on his body.
