There’s nothing gentle in it. Just heat and hunger and a control that terrifies me in how familiar it feels.
And all I can see—flashing behind my eyes—is the image of him on that livestream, the way he handled that woman like she was an instrument built for him to play.
Is that what I am now? Just another body. Another outlet.
A warm place to forget whatever haunts him. Somewhere to get his end away and leave me picking up the aftermath.
“We can’t…”
The words barely escape—barely sound at all. Just a ghost of protest against the roar in my veins.
And then his hand slides beneath the hem of my jumper—the one of his I stole like a secret and now wear like a secondskin. The fabric lifts, exposing a thin line of stomach to cool air before his palm finds bare flesh.
His touch isn’t rushed. It’s warm. Calloused. Real. My skin contracts beneath it, heat rising in a rush that chases goosebumps in its wake. His fingers splay like he’s mapping me from memory, brushing along the slope of my waist, slow and devastatingly sure.
I forget how to exhale, like a baby trying to take it’s first steps.
The wall behind me feels colder with every inch of me he warms. His thumb slides in the arc of my hipbone, and my muscles betray me—arching, aching into his touch like my body’s no longer mine.
And the worst part? The best part?
I don’t want it back.
25
Nell
Adam’s still alive—barely. Gurgling, choking, still scrabbling for each breath like it might be his last. But Cameron isn’t looking at him, not even glancing his way. His focus is on me.
And I should push him away.
I should protect what’s left of my heart, wrap it in steel and silence, and run before he shatters it for good. Because I will fall for him. It’s already happening—slipping in around the edges like a chokehold. And when I do, when I’ve sunk too deep to claw my way out, he’ll rip the floor out from under me.
He’ll leave.
He’ll leave me raw and wrecked, lonelier than I ever was before. Like loving him was just another bruise I let happen.
He drops to his knees like a wave giving way to gravity, and the sight steals the air from my lungs. His hands unhesitatingly find my thigh and hike it up over his shoulder like I’m weightless, like I’m his.
I’ve seen him do this before.
But not to me.
My mind spins, caught somewhere between drowning and free fall, between the ceiling and the dark pulse throbbing low in my belly.
Then his mouth finds me.
Hot. Demanding. Unapologetic.
His tongue flicks sharp at the seam of my throbbing clit—tracing heat like a brand, drawing a slick, staggering hunger to the surface with every stroke. I’m boneless. Shaking. Strung tight on the sound of my own breath.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. He’s already orchestrating my ruin—each movement coaxing my body into the shape he wants.
He knows exactly where to find the unravelling.
I want this so badly.
But I can’t let him break me. Not like this.
