Page 122 of Love Unscripted
“That interview,” he said. “With Ray Jay. What were you doing?”
Her brows lifted slightly. “I was being polite.”
“You were flirting.”
A beat.
Then she shrugged—light, but deliberate. “And if I was?”
Something in his expression shifted.
“What’s it to you?” she continued, quieter now but no less pointed. “We’re just friends, remember? That’s what you said you wanted, wasn’t it?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I did.”
“Then you don’t get to be uncomfortable when someone else shows an interest in me.”
She stepped back, creating space—distance.
He stared at her. “Don’t I?” he said, voice lower now.
Before she could respond, he reached for her hand. Not rough. But not gentle either. Intentional. He pulled her toward him slowly—and she came. No resistance. Not really. Now she was inches from him. Close enough to feel his breath. Close enough to hear the shift in it.
“Don’t I, Camille?” he repeated, quieter this time. Rougher.
Her pulse jumped. She swallowed.
For a second—just one—they held there. Suspended. Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. That was all it took. He kissed her. Not tentative. Certain.
Her hands came up to his shoulders, then slid around his neck as she kissed him back—just as deeply, just as urgently. Days of restraint snapping all at once.
His hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Hers tightened in his hair. Their mouths moved together with a kind of desperation—like neither of them wanted to give the other space to think. To stop.
“Open the door,” he murmured against her mouth, breath uneven.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the key card again. It took two tries.
The door clicked open.
They barely made it inside before he kicked it shut behind them.
The door had barely shut before he pulled her back to him.
She didn’t resist.
Couldn’t.
Her hands slid up into his hair as his mouth found hers again, deeper this time—more urgent, more certain. Whatever distance they’d tried to keep was gone now, dissolved in the heat of it.
They moved together blindly, instinctively, until the back of her knees hit the couch and she sank onto it, pulling him down with her.
His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, the curve of her side—drawing her closer as though even an inch of space was too much. Her breath caught against his mouth, a soft sound escaping her that only seemed to drive him further.
“Camille…” he murmured, her name rough against her lips.
She answered him by pulling him closer. It was want—pure and unguarded.
His mouth moved from hers to her jaw, then lower, and when his lips brushed the sensitive curve of her neck she arched into him, a quiet, involuntary sound slipping free.
