All Over You (All Falls Down #3)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  I jump when he presses into me from behind, caging me in against the sink.

  "Where, kitten?" he growls in my ear, sending goosebumps up and down my arms.

  "Mid-City," I say, giving in with a sigh.

  His body tenses, his arms going rigid. He curses before spinning me around. His face is a thundercloud, his eyes dark and stormy, pissed. "You're kidding me," he says.

  "I can't exactly afford to stay anywhere else. I've been placed on administrative leave," I remind him. Mid-City isn't the greatest area of Los Angeles, but it's not the worst, either. And, unlike him, I don't have an income at the moment.

  "Hell no," he growls, not in the least mollified by my reminder. "You aren't staying there. We're going to get your shit in the morning before we pick up your car. You can stay here with me until we head back to San Francisco."

  "No." I push against his chest, forcing him to back up a couple of steps.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm not staying here!" I shout, frustrated that he just doesn't get why this is a problem for me.

  "Then I'll pack up my shit and stay with you," he says as if I didn't just shout at him.

  I gape at him, trying to decide if he's serious.

  He is. Deadly serious.

  And I am so not having this argument with him.

  Shaking my head, I storm past him to my pile of clothes in the chair by the desk. Before I can yank my pants on though, he's there, taking them out of my hands and tossing them behind him. And then I'm flying through the air again, tossed on the bed as if I weigh nothing.

  He's on top of me before I can roll off the side, straddling me so I can't get away.

  "Stop manhandling me," I huff, pushing against his chest. It's useless though. He's like a mountain, too damned big to move. I stop struggling and glare up at him, so mad I can't see straight.

  "Then stop trying to run from me," he says, grabbing my arms and pinning them to the bed on each side of my head.

  "I wouldn't have to run if you'd stop trying to boss me around." Maybe I am a little submissive at times, but that doesn't mean I can't support myself or make my own decisions about where I'm staying.

  He narrows his eyes on me. I'm not sure what he sees on my face, but his expression softens. "Talk to me, kitten. What'd I do to piss you off?"

  "I don't need a keeper," I growl at him. "I may not have much, but I can take care of myself."

  He eyes me for a moment and then shakes his head like he can't figure me out. "You think I don't know that? You've been taking care of yourself since you were a teenager."

  "Exactly!"

  "But you aren't alone anymore, sweetheart. I'm here. Let me help."

  "You aren't helping," I mumble, sounding like a petulant four-year-old. "You're trying to boss me into doing what you want me to do."

  He brushes my hair back from my face. "Mid-City is rough, especially for a woman alone. I don't want something happening to you because you're hell-bent on proving to the world that you can survive on your own. You've already proved that, kitten. You've been proving it since you were seventeen years old."

  I stare at him, not sure what to say.

  "I want you with me," he continues before I can find words, his voice a quiet rumble. "In this bed or in one in Mid-City if that's what makes you happy. I don't care. But I want to know you're safe while we're here. Not because you can't take care of yourself, but because you don't have to. I'm not going anywhere." He leans forward and brushes his lips lightly across mine. "Stop fighting me."

  "I already owe you so much," I whisper.

  "You don't owe me anything. I'm right where I want to be."

  "My entire life is a mess. What if being with me messes up yours, too?"

  "I already told you I make my own decisions," he says.

  "What if your decision ruins your career?"

  He shrugs like the thought doesn't concern him, but it still concerns me. Whether he's on this case officially or not, he's still involved with it. The rest is just semantics, and he knows as well as I do that if anyone finds out about us, he's screwed. I don't want to be responsible for ruining his life, and I'm terrified I will be. I like him, more than I should. More than is good for him. I don't want him to have a reason to regret being with me.

  "I'm so scared, Cam," I admit through tears. My body goes limp beneath his when I confess the truth.

  "You think I don't know how scared you are, kitten?" he asks, wiping my tears away. "You think I don't see how much you're struggling? You think I don't know how much this entire investigation is hurting you? I know this is killing you, sweetheart. And I can't protect you from what's already happened, but I can help you through it. You just have to let me."

  "I'm trying, but I'm not used to having someone else to lean on." I should probably stop while I'm ahead, but now that I'm talking, I can't seem to stop myself. "I've never been with anyone like you before. It's overwhelming, Cam. You're overwhelming, especially when you get bossy."

  "Kitten." He shakes his head. "I don't tell you how things are going to be because you can't take care of yourself. I tell you how things are going to be because you need to know that you're safe with me. I've got you, kitten, and I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you. Trust that I know what you need, and that I'll give it to you."

  "I'm trying," I say again.

  "Good." He grins down at me. "That's all I want from you. A chance."

  "Promise me I won't ruin your life," I plead quietly.

  "You could never ruin my life, sweetheart." He sounds so certain. That same confidence is stamped across every gorgeous line of his face.

  I take a deep breath and nod, praying he's right. He has to be, because I'm not sure I can live with anything else.

  He smiles at me, giving me that dimple again, and then his eyes darken with desire. "Now let's see how good you can be," he whispers, leaning down to kiss my lips once more before working his way down my body, leaving a trail of fire everywhere his mouth touches.

  "Cam," I breathe when he yanks my shirt off to pull my nipple into his mouth. How can he possibly want me again already? We've had sex three times since we got here! He's insatiable.

  "Never was before you," he mumbles around my breast, making me aware of the fact that I said that out loud. "Never wanted anyone like I want you, kitten. You've already got my dick addicted to you."

  When he slips his hand between us, brushing his fingers through my folds, I realize that his dick isn't the only thing addicted.

  "Um, you passed my car," I say early the next morning as Cam drives past the parking lot on campus where my car is parked, thankfully still safe and sound.

  "We gotta do something before we get your car," he tells me.

  "Okay…"

  He doesn't take the hint and explain what we have to do.

  I bite back the immediate urge to demand answers, wanting to prove to him that I can relax and trust him to take care of me. It frightens me a little how much I trust him. With my body. With my future. Maybe even with my heart.

  God.

  What is he doing to me?

  And why is a big part of me perfectly happy to let him keep doing it?

  Before I can figure out that particular answer, he pulls up in the small lot near the Residential Life Office on the Hill where the dorms are located. He whips into a parking spot before turning the engine off and looking over at me.

  "What are we doing here?" I ask, my gaze shifting between him and the students meandering away from their dorms toward early morning classes. Most are bleary-eyed, plodding along with their heads down. They don't pay us any attention whatsoever. That doesn't settle my stomach any.

  Cam holds out a key in the palm of his hand. "This is the key to Clark's dorm. I picked it up yesterday before I hunted you down."

  "Oh."

  "I need you to come in with me, kitten," he says softly, no doubt sensing my hesitation. "You know the people in your life better than anyone. If there's anything
in there to help identify who is behind this, you may notice it when I wouldn't think anything about it."

  I'm not so sure he's right about that―after all, I missed the fact that someone has been pretending to be me for a God only knows how long―but I want to go in anyway. Even if we find nothing inside to help us, I can't help but want to know more about Rory. Maybe that desire is morbid given the situation, but it's true nonetheless.

  "Okay," I agree, taking a deep breath.

  Cam rewards my little act of bravery by flashing his dimple at me again.

  I think I'm obsessed with that little indention in his cheek. He's gorgeous anytime, but when those gray eyes light up and that dimple appears, he's devastating. Every time I see it, my heart races and I want to do whatever it takes to make him show it to me again and again.

  If the amused grin he shoots me is any indication, I think he knows it, too. The cocky bastard.

  "Which dorm was he in?" I ask as we walk toward the dormitories. With thousands of students opting to live on campus every year, housing units are scattered all over the Hill in a sprawling community of multi-storied units complete with courtyards, walkways, and a maze of roadways in between. Out of necessity, the units are all co-ed, allowing the university to house as many students as possible.

  "Sproul Hall." He glances around as if trying to locate the dorm in question.

  "That's Sproul," I tell him, pointing toward the massive building.

  He examines the complex for a moment before cutting his eyes at me. "Where did you stay when you were here?"

  "I was in Canyon West for two years, and then in Rieber Vista and Courtside my final two years." My gaze drifts toward the buildings in question, a weird sense of nostalgia sweeping through me. It's been two years since I walked the Hill. New housing units are in various stages of completion, with others under renovation, but the area hasn't changed much. The place is as familiar to me now as it was then.

  My life as a college student was far from easy. I spent most of my time running from classes to modeling jobs to my father's nursing home. I survived on limited sleep and a laundry list of strict rules enforced by the agency. But even then, life was a lot less messy than it is now. I almost miss the security that came with knowing my place and what was expected of me, and I never thought I'd say that.

  "Where did you go to college?" I ask after a moment, pushing away thoughts of my life as a student.

  "San Fran State," he says.

  "What did you study?"

  "Criminal Justice." He pauses to let a group of students go around us. "I minored in Psychology."

  "Really?"

  He nods.

  "No wonder you're so good at your job," I tell him, not really surprised by his revelation, but impressed by it. He does nothing in half-measures, I'm quickly coming to realize. I have a feeling he rarely ever fails when he wants something. The way his mind works is fascinating to me. He's all in, relentless when it comes to solving a problem or getting what he wants. I see that single-minded drive every time he focuses his attention on a task as if he can see it laid out in front of him like the pieces of a puzzle. He's able to make connections that most of us would miss, especially when it comes to people.

  In a matter of days, he was able to piece together my life and figure out that I wasn't the woman behind the messages to Rory. He knew me before he ever met me. If anyone can help me clear my name, it's him. I have no doubts about that. He seems to know exactly how to accomplish his goal, even if he has to break the rules to do it. And I don't think he necessarily sets out to break them; he just doesn't concern himself with them, especially if they don't suit his purposes. He's a man on a mission, and he doesn't give a shit what anyone has to say.

  That confidence is sexy as hell, and a little awe-inspiring.

  "I am good at my job," he says quietly. His words aren't boastful or arrogant, but honest. He's telling me what he knows to be true because he's fought to make it so.

  "I know," I agree when he holds open the door to Sproul Hall for me. I slip inside and then pause with my head down as a group of students pour out of the elevator, headed our way. No one pays any attention to me as they stumble past, murmuring their thanks to Cam for holding the door. I still don't take a breath until the last kid steps outside, though.

  "Welcome," Cam murmurs to the group and then he's beside me again. He doesn't touch me, but just having him near eases a little of the anxiety pulsing through me. "You okay, kitten?" he asks, his voice pitched low so only I can hear him.

  "I keep expecting them to grab pitchforks," I confess on a strained whisper.

  He frowns, his brows pulling together. "You haven't been charged with anything yet, kitten."

  "Doesn't matter," I mumble, pushing the button for the elevator. "Rumors about my supposed relationship with Rory are already spreading, and that's all most people need to form an opinion. It's human nature to rush to judgement, especially when someone dies."

  He doesn't dispute my claim. I think he knows he can't.

  People don't wait until a trial to decide whether someone is innocent or guilty. They make up their minds based on rumor and media speculation, never even considering what happens if they're wrong. Most figure life just goes on for the wrongly accused and no one gets hurt. They're wrong, though. Life doesn't continue uninterrupted. Even when found innocent, a cloud follows those suspected or charged with a crime. I haven't even been charged yet, and my life has already been derailed.

  "If they're angry, it's because they're hurting," he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the elevator wall. He looks at me from beneath his lashes, his head tilted so he can see me. "People aren't logical when they're grieving."

  "I know," I murmur as the elevator climbs toward the sixth floor. "I don't blame them for feeling the way they do. A good kid took his own life, and, as far as anyone who cared about him knows, I'm the person who pushed him into doing it. They should be angry about that. What Fake Ivy said and did to him is beyond awful." I wait for Cam's nod of agreement before continuing. "Knowing he had people in his life who cared enough about him to be angry on his behalf is comforting to me. The thought that he may have jumped from that bridge believing no one cared about him because of her kills me. No one should ever have to wonder if they're wanted or needed, or if they're loved. I hate that she hid behind my name while trying to strip that sense of belonging away from him."

  "Jesus," Cam says and then smashes the button to stop the elevator.

  It shudders to a halt, jarring me.

  Before I can ask him what he's doing, he's on me, pinning me to the wall as his mouth crashes down on mine. My hands instantly find their way into his hair, holding him to me as I kiss him back with everything in me. My heart hurts for Rory, the emotion choking me. I give it to Cam, breathing it into him and letting him carry some of the weight for me as my pulse pounds a frenetic rhythm. He takes it without complaint or reservation, demanding more, more, more.

  Heat unfurls, warming me from the inside out. I tug his hair hard, trying to get closer to him. I want to crawl inside him and curl up, far away from the painful reality chipping away little pieces of my soul. I want him to make me forget what's happening to me.

  "Fuck," he grunts, grabbing my hands and pushing them into the wall beside my head.

  He holds me there, keeping me still as his tongue dances along mine. He bites my bottom lip and then cups my face between his palms and slows his assault.

  Every time he kisses me, it's different. He takes me to some new place every time his lips touch mine. He's masterful, and this time is no different. This time, his kiss is slow and gentle, healing…exactly what I need.

  "Cam," I whisper against his lips, dizzy with desire.

  "So fucking sweet," he mumbles and then kisses me again before dropping his forehead onto mine, his breathing ragged. "Had to kiss you."

  We stand there for another moment before he reluctantly steps back.

  His g
aze runs over me, hot and wild, and then he shakes his head, his expression mystified. "Never met anyone as sweet as you before. Don't know how I'm supposed to make it through the day without being inside you, kitten," he groans. "My dick knows what heaven feels like now, and he wants more."

  My stomach flips at his words. Every time he hits me with one of those half-formed confessions, I melt a little. He could talk to me like this every day of forever, and I'd still want more. He's tender and filthy in turns, and it's intoxicating. Desire is stamped across every line of his face, and I find my body responding. It's primed, more than ready to remind his dick of what being inside me feels like.

  "So do I," I tell him, boldly holding his gaze. "You feel so good when you're inside me, Cam. I can still feel you." That's nothing but the truth. A dull ache has taken up permanent residence between my thighs. It's pleasure and pain, a reminder that he's been there, and a protest that he isn't there now.

  "Fuck." His head thumps against the wall.

  I grin, pleased to see that my words affect him as much as his affect me.

  "Gotta be good," he mumbles, and I think he's talking to himself. He stands there for a long moment, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, trying to regain his composure. And then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  He tilts his head down until those gray eyes meet mine again. "Soon," he promises, and then he reaches out and smashes the button to get the elevator moving again.

  I nod, fully intending to hold him to that promise.

  I hesitate on the threshold of Rory's dorm room before stepping inside. My gaze darts around, taking in the space. The double occupancy dorm has one small bed on each side. The room isn't small, but it's not exactly massive either. Two desks sit against the walls on opposite sides of the room, both cluttered with books, paper, pens, and all those weird things college kids collect over the course of a semester.

  One side of the room is neat and tidy. A couple of small band posters hang on the wall in frames. Shoes are lined up beneath the edge of the bed in an orderly row, and a basket of folded laundry rests on top of the dark comforter on the bed. The other side of the room has clearly been rifled through, making it obvious which side is Rory's. His bed sits slightly askew on the frame, the pale blue comforter wrinkled as if someone lifted it up or sat on it. A mug on the desk is toppled, pens, pencils, and erasers scattered across the top beside the laptop. A haphazard stack of papers threatens to tumble off into the floor. Books have been pulled off the shelf over the desk and hastily put back in place.