Page 81 of Playing it Safe

"You built a what?”

He shakes his head. “That came out wrong. But I want you to know that when I planned the renovation, I was thinking of you. Two sinks in the bathroom. A mudroom with his-and-her hockey hooks … a place for both of us. Which is so presumptuous of me. But I got carried away.”

I stare at him. "Cameron." I close the distance between us and rest my hands on his chest. His heart hammering under my palms, under the ink, under all the history he carries on his body. His hands come up to my face — both of them, cupping my jaw, tilting my head back.

"I love you," he says. "I'm saying it now. I love you, and I'm staying in Pittsburgh. I’m at home here. That’s what the bridge tattoo is for. And before you ask, yes, I told my mother this.” His thumbs trace my cheekbones. "I love you, Briar, and I love your sister, and there is always a place for her in my life.”

I feel like my knees are about to buckle, that my spine cannot possibly support the weight of my overwhelming joy at hearing this. So I kiss him.

I revel in the tiny groan he emits. His mouth moves against mine, and I taste him. I press closer and feel his arms come around me.

His hands slide down my back, over my hips, and grip my thighs. I jump, and he catches me, lifting me off the ground. I wrap my legs around him. I break the kiss to ask, “Can we talk more after we have makeup sex? I really want you right now.”

He laughs, a soft, low rumble that I feel through my ribs. “Yeah."

He carries me up the stairs. Puck darts behind us, but Cameron kicks the bedroom door shut before the cat can follow. I hear an outraged yowl from the hallway.

"He's going to destroy something," I say.

"Let him." Cameron sets me on the bed and steps back to look at me. I'm wearing my championship t-shirt and leggings from the post-game, and my hair is damp from celebratory champagne. "You smell like victory."

"I smell like cheap sparkling wine."

"Same thing." He pulls his hoodie over his head. Then his shirt. In the low light of my bedroom, I see his body — the massive, muscular chest, the tattoos I've traced with my fingers and my tongue, the shoulders that carry everything. I sit up and reach for his arm. He lets me take it, turning his forearm so I can see.

"Does it hurt?"

“Meh.” He watches me touch the edge of the bandage. I press my lips to the inside of his wrist, just above the bridge, where his pulse beats. He inhales sharply through his nose. "Every other tattoo," he says quietly, "is about where I came from. This one is about where I chose to be."

I pull him down onto the bed. I am equally desperate for him as I was the first time, but tonight I feel overcome with love and happiness and relief, and it all tries to come through my lips and fingers as I yank him against my body.

He undresses me slowly. Peels the championship shirt over my head, unclasps my bra, and slides the leggings down my legs. He looks at every part of me the way he looked that first night — ravenous, reverent — but there's something new in his eyes. Knowledge. He knows what I sound like when I come. He knows where to press, how hard, and what makes me gasp. And he uses all of it, but slower, like he has all the time in the world.

"Cameron —"

“Yes, Briar.” He kisses the hollow of my throat. My collarbone. The curve of my breast. He takes his time in a way that makes me ache — the slow, deep ache of being known. He puts his mouth on me, and I grip his hair. The sound I make is quieter than before, more breath than voice. He stays there until I come, his name caught in my throat.

He crawls up my body, and I pull him close and feel the weight of him, the full press of his chest against mine, his hips between my thighs. The bridge tattoo rests against my head, and I turn my face and kiss the bandaged ink.

"I want you," I tell him. “Every version of you.” He slides into me, and we both pause. His forehead rests against mine. His breath shudders. "There you are," I whisper.

He moves, and I move with him, slow and steady, familiar and fascinating. We clasp hands as he rocks into me, telling me I’m beautiful. I believe him with my whole body. He says my name, “Briar,” over and over, like a prayer he’s been desperate to recite.

I come with my eyes open, watching him, and he follows me over with a groan that vibrates through both of us. We lie tangled in the aftermath. He turns his head, and I see his eyes go bright in the dark. He doesn't cry. But something happens behind his face that is close enough. “I know I have shit to work on,” he says.

“I do, too,” I mutter. “Obviously.”

“I want to get there, though. Healthy boundaries and whatnot. So I can be present. With you.” From the hallway, Puck howls. A single, piercing yowl of feline outrage at being excluded. Cameron drops his head to my shoulder. "He's going to piss in my shoes."

"Probably." I'm laughing. I can't stop. "Let him in."

"If I let him in, he'll sit on your chest and stare at me."

I giggle. “We don’t need to fix all your boundaries at once.”

Cameron rolls off the bed, pads to the door, and opens it. Puck rockets in like Cam took a slap shot. He lands on the bed, walks directly across my aching body — paws on every tender spot — and curls into a ball between our pillows.

Cameron climbs back in. We arrange ourselves around the cat, who takes up approximately four times his actual body size in territory. Cameron's arm wraps around me. Puck's tail flicks against my ear.