Page 124 of Please Open Me
“That’s me,” Cameron husked, kissing my cheek. “every inch of me. You’re mine. You’ll never leave me.”
“Never,” I gasped. “and ifyoutry to leave, I’ll fucking find you.”
Cameron angled his hips just right. My moan cracked. Spit slipped down my chin.
He caught it with his fingers, shoved them into my mouth.
“My pretty boy’s such a mess.Mymess.” His grip fisted my hair, dragging my gaze up to the reflection.
Blue dye streaked his fingers. He didn’t care.
Each thrust split me open. My legs trembled, my body a disaster of stains, spit, and sweat.
But I washisdisaster.
“Fuck–Seb,” he groaned, hips stuttering. One last brutal slam drove him so deep I swore he hit my stomach.
My body shook, release tearing through me with a violent jolt. Heat spilled from him into me, pulse to pulse.
For a moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing.
Then Cameron softened, arms wrapping around me, lips pressing against my cheek.
“You okay? Use your words.”
I nodded, gasping. “I’m okay.”
A small smile tugged his lips, that was until he noticed the streak of blue dye staining his copper beard.
“Shower?” he asked.
Even though my hair dye still needed time to develop, I nodded.
Portland had a lot of things Hartwood didn’t: a library, a grocery store within city limits, a lack of known cults, and, most importantly, DoorDine.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed food delivery services until I opened an app, ordered dinner in the shower, and had it waiting for us when we got out.
And, while I had a very nice dining room, I couldn’t be fucking bothered to sit in a chair. Plus, I was still infatuated with the bed I never got to use.
But, while I was perfectly fine eating burgers and fries on the edge of the mattress, Cameron sat in my armchair like a sociopath. All the while, he stared at me like I’d grown a second head and a third nipple.
“What?” I challenged, halfway through inhaling my burger.
Cameron’s eyes bounced between my sandwich and the styrofoam container I’d strategically placed on the comforter–just in case sauce or lettuce dropped out.
“Ain’t you worried about gettin’ the bed dirty?” he asked.
I prepared to tell him no, absolutely not, but then, as if to spite me, a large glob of barbecue sauce fell onto the container.
I set the burger down next to the sauce splotch and grabbed a napkin.
When Mason and I got together, she was in the still trenches of morning sickness with Rosie. If she dared get out of bed with an empty stomach, she’d get sick. The idea of eating in bed, for reasons I didn’t understand until I considered her history of disordered eating, mortified her. At the time, it annoyed me.
I was sick of her throwing up, tired of her being sick, so one day we had breakfast in bed to prove a point.
Looking back, my own motives made my skin crawl. But it worked. She started eating in bed and taking care of herself, and Rosie, when she could.
I wondered how she viewed that memory. Did she know my “sweet gesture” was actually a thinly veiled annoyance? Or did she look back fondly on something that once pissed me off?
