Page 37 of Wrecked
He continues on, and this time, I can't stop myself. I reach up and cup his cheeks, trying to grab his attention and pull him out of this dark tunnel he's walked into. His face, which is usually intense or stoic in appearance, is now filled with contradictions, sad but angry, vulnerable but wild. He's lost. Alone.Hurt. He appears to have been through a lot but doesn't quite know how to handle it.
“Cam, stop. You . . . you can't keep blaming yourself and living your life in this self-imposed punishment.” It doesn't seem as if he wants to hear what I have to say, but I continue on anyway, trying to help him see things from a different perspective if possible. “Were you supposed to go to that party together?”
“No.” His eyebrows pinch together. “He was supposed to stay at my place, but he wanted to walk home and pass by the fucking party where he knew this chick was going to be.”
“Okay,” I answer, nodding as I piece the information together. “So he chose to go to that party. You didn't make him go. Did he ask you to go with him?”
“No, but–”
“So it's not like you bailed on him. It wasn't like you weresupposedto go but didn't. It's not your fault, Cam.”
Shaking his head in my hands and staring past me again, he slams the bottle down in irritation. “Neil asked if I wanted to go after Jacob left. I said no.”
“That doesn't make it–” I cut myself off, letting out a soft sigh. I don't think anything I say right now is going to change his mind. He's stuck, having placed himself in this guilt, fully convinced he deserves it. Plus, he's been drinking, so my words have nowhere to take root, and he's just getting annoyed. So instead of trying to convince him more, I step a little closer and rub my thumbs over his cheeks where my palms are still placed. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.
His attention snaps back to mine, and he blinks a few times as if coming out of the negative trance he was just in. Then his eyes travel a path over my face like he's only now seeing me for the first time since I walked into the kitchen.
With his silvery eyes focused on my face, I'm more aware of the feel of his skin under my fingertips and the stubble lining his jaw under my palms. My gaze drops to his lips, and my tongue peeks out to lick my own. He follows the movement with his darkening eyes.
Something changes in the air around us, and I feel my skin heating up along with that change. I've been attracted to him since the beginning. That was obvious when he made an appearance in my daydream. And he has stared at me plenty of times since I met him. But there's something so potent about his stare right now – tracing over the features of my face while his eyes turn molten – that it has my heart rate accelerating, beating rapidly in my chest, and my hands give a slight tremble.
Our eyes lock, and I boldly make another swipe of my thumbs over his cheeks. The thickness in the air intensifies, growing with each heavy breath until, finally, his mouth comes crashing down onto mine. My body responds to his lips immediately, my mouth opening up to his kiss while my lower half tries to arch into his. One of his hands spears into my hair, angling my head the way he wants it, and I melt right into his touch.
He kisses me desperately, his other hand moving around to grip my ass cheek and pulling me closer to him. At the sound of the soft moan leaving my chest, the desperation in his kiss turns almost frantic. His tongue, which was somewhat gently probing my mouth, becomes needy, thrusting in as it tries to seek out my own. Warm tingles spread throughout my body.
All the anger and agony I could see radiating from him just a minute ago is gone, replaced with lust and being caught up in the thrill of this intoxicating kiss.
I can taste the bourbon on him, and it has me questioning this kiss, questioning whether or not it's right, especially since he's told me that it's a bad idea. And I know he probably wouldn't have done it if he were completely sober. But the selfish, lonely part of me is too lost in his lips, his tongue, the feel of him gripping me tight like he's afraid to let go.
“God, I knew you’d taste so fucking good,” he groans while spinning us around so that I'm now backed into the counter.
His hands come around either side of me to press into the laminate and cage me in. Lifting my hands, I thread my fingers into his hair to grip at the strands as he kisses me once more. His erection is wedged tight between us, crammed against my belly, and I can't help moving my hips to rub over it, which elicits another groan from him. The sound has my core throbbing with need.
His surprisingly soft lips leave my mouth to trail kisses along my jaw and down my neck, sending goosebumps up both arms. It's been months since a man's hands or lips have been on me, so right now, I'm reveling in the feel of it, soaking it all up. Heavy breathing and the occasional moan fill the otherwise quiet room as he retakes my mouth, grinding himself against me and gripping the back of my head with one hand.
Releasing his hair, I let my hands slide down over his hard chest and down past his defined abs. At first, I just tease the hem of his shirt, running my fingers along the edge, then I move past the fabric and slide my fingers onto his hot, smooth skin. But the second my hands splay out across his sides, he wrenches his mouth away from me as if my lips just burnt him, jolting him to his senses.
“No.” His head shakes back and forth as he takes a step back, stumbling a little and breathing heavily. “No.”
I reach a hand out to him. “Cam.”
“I can't do this,” he says, taking another step back out of my reach, now leaning against the fridge.
“Why not?”
“I told you I'm no fucking good, okay?” His voice holds an irritated edge to it, and he says it in an accusing way as if I'm the one at fault here. It has the hurt of being rejected turning into annoyance.
“You were the one who kissed me,” I retort defensively. I'm not going to apologize for kissing him back the way I did because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for some time.
But the way he's scowling at me has me starting to regret it a little.
“Yeah, well, I wish I hadn't.” He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, adding to the insult.
I don't know what to say at this point. Frustration, confusion, and hurt feelings swirl around inside my head. Would he really reject me over not feeling good enough? Or am I just not what he wants? Am I included in thenice thingshe says he can't have?
I get the impression he has no problem sleeping with other women. Besides the vibe he gives off, there was the underwear in the couch and the new box of condoms in the bathroom.
“You should go,” he tells me. Making me feel not only rejected but dejected as well.
