His grin is wicked. “Depends. You staying up there?”
I shift my weight, deliberately slow, grinding just enough to make his jaw tighten. His hands slide up, fingers trailing the curve of my waist, slipping beneath my shirt to trace skin with the gentlest brush of his calloused palms. I inhale sharply, back arching instinctively.
“Oh, you’ve got sauceeverywhere,” he murmurs, dragging a thumb along my stomach, smearing a trail of tomato and teasing heat.
“So, clean it up,” I challenge, eyes locked, daring him.
He lifts himself, mouth brushing against my collarbone, teeth grazing as he follows a sticky path up toward my jaw. Every kiss is deliberate, hot and slow, like he’s trying to taste the chaos we just survived. My fingers wind into his hair, tugging as he mouths my neck—and just as I think I’ve got control, he flips us, pinning me beneath him with a sauce-slick smile that’s pure trouble.
“I warned you,” he whispers. “Disaster’s foreplay.”
I wrap my legs around him, heart racing, lips hungry.
Boomerang decides this is no longer family-friendly viewing and leaps off the counter with a huff.
Good. This part’s not for spectators.
Cam’s lips brush against mine again, slower this time, hands exploring with sauce-slick intent. The tension between us pulls taut—delicious, loaded, seconds from breaking.
But this is my date night, and he’s playing by my rules. I flip us back, not that he fights me, and grind against his cock through our clothes like my life depends on it.
And then.
The door bursts open.
Kyla.
Of course she had to wedge herself into the night like an unwanted garnish. I’d forewarned her this was happening, even went as far as negotiating peace terms—cook early, stay out of our way, let us haveonequiet evening. But I should’ve known. Kyla doesn’t do quiet. She does sabotage with a smile.
She’s still trying to claw Cam back. Still bitter. Still baffled that he chose me.
Her voice slithers into the room, lacquered with fake surprise so thick it curdles my wine. “Oh! I didn’t realise you two were… umm…”
I don’t turn. My back stays to her, legs tangled with Cam’s, sauce drying on my shirt like a badge of honour.
Cam shifts underneath me, awkward as hell. But I’m not moving—not for her, not tonight.
“Well,” she says, eyeing the kitchen carnage like she’s appraising a battlefield. “This is quite the…mess. Cam, do you want me to cook you something instead? I assume you won’t be eating… that. I could whip up your favourite—lasagne?”
Lasagne. Cute. That used to work, back when he thought pasta was love. But newsflash, Kyla—he’s moved on. You’re seasoning the wrong dish.
I bite back a scoff.
Cam lifts his chin, eyes flicking past me. I feel the way his hands retreat from my skin—not with rejection, but with polite caution. Damage control. “No thanks,” he says, voice cool and final. “We’re ordering in.”
Then he grins—subtle, slow, and full of heat that’s just for me.
It spreads through me, curling low in my belly. And there it is. Proof.
She can stir her sauces and plate up pretty, but he’s already chosen. Every lasagne, every interruption, every flimsy excuse—none of it changes that.
Not while I’m here.
“Are you sure?” Kyla presses, her syrupy voice tugging at a thread I’m no longer willing to entertain.
My patience shatters. I turn, still straddling Cam between my thighs, and meet her gaze with a stare sharp enough to draw blood.
“We’re sure.”
