3. Cameron

CHAPTER 3

CAMERON

I know this is bad. It’s so bad. But I just can’t help myself. The way he’s watching me with such obvious hunger makes it impossible to resist.

Moaning as the sweet center of the marshmallow melts across my tongue, I look up to meet Dom’s eyes. They’re hooded, irises so dark that I can’t distinguish them from his pupils, making him look like a hungry shark. I watch the way his throat bobs with a deep swallow, and imagine what it would feel like to rub my face along his stubbled neck like a cat. Or to have his jaw scrape against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.

His nipples pebble under his tight t-shirt. He knows I’m looking at him, appreciating his big, muscled body. God, what he must look like naked. The thought of all that warm, brown skin and the hint of veins that run up his arms makes my mouth fill up with saliva.

Even the gnarled scar across the bridge of his nose is sexy. I want to run my tongue?—

"Just what exactly is going on here?" A voice says, startling me from my inappropriate moment with my stepdad's brother.

We jump apart, and I don't miss the way Dom's hand flies to the crotch of his pants, pressing against— holy fuck, that can't be his dick!

Shit. Focus, Cam!

"Emile, you came!" I jump up and bound over to him, throwing my arms around his neck. He stiffens at first, but finally relaxes into the hug. He allows it to happen, anyway, before stepping back to kiss me on each cheek. I press forward to kiss his lips, but he pulls away.

"You have something," he says, and gestures to his mouth. My hand flies up, finding my lips sticky with the marshmallow Dom just fed me. How much of that did Emile see?How long was I sitting there, with my mouth around the point of a stick, staring inappropriately at this guy who is supposed to be my uncle?

I roughly scrub at my lips with the back of my hand when Emile turns around again. My mom and Dwayne are making their way across the yard. Dwayne is the first to reach us, holding out his hand to shake Emile's.

"Nice to meet you again," he says warmly. "I'm happy you could make it."

Emile hums and offers his hand, except it looks a little like he's expecting Dwayne to kiss his rings rather than shake his hand. Dwayne shakes it awkwardly, with a barely visible pinch to his brow. My mother introduces herself next, looking like she's going in for a hug. Emile drops kisses on either side of her cheeks, and she actually giggles. His French mannerisms can come off pretentious to some Americans, but he's also quite charming.I’m glad they’re getting to see this side of him.

"Cameron made it sound like it was important, so I rushed over from a dinner meeting with the Managing Director of The Sterling Ballroom. You have heard of it, I'm sure?"

"Of course," I say lightly. "It's only the largest theater venue in the city. It's where the Atlanta Ballet performs," I say, directing the explanation to my mother and Dwayne in case they don't know. "How did it go?”

Emile purses his lips before he lets a smile tug at them. "Victoria was selling me on the idea of an event, featuring our next production."

I gasp. "No shit!"

"Cameron, don't be vulgar. It's unbecoming of my top performer," he chides.

"That's a large venue," my mother says, thankfully bringing the focus back to Emile’s news.

She and I have gone to see the Atlanta Ballet perform at the Performing Arts Center downtown a few times. The first time was about a month after my father died. Then once because we'd won tickets in a raffle, and once because she'd worked doubles for a week to afford tickets for my eighteenth birthday. I've gone three other times separately when I volunteered as an usher for performances.

"It's huge. This is huge. Emile, this is fantastic! Congratulations!"

His grin widens, and he pulls me to his side, accepting congratulations from my mother and Dwayne.

"Where did Dom disappear to?" I ask absentmindedly, looking across the yard. It's grown dark, but most of the yard is lit by the warm glow of the fire and the twinkle lights that hang off the pergola over the main deck.

Dwayne bends around to look around the side of the yard where the gate is. "Stepped out, I think. His agent has been blowing up his phone all day. Emile, why don't you join us around the fire? It's a lovely night."

"Maybe he went to purge all that sugar," Emile murmurs as we make our way to the fire pit. He chastises me with a lift of his eyebrow.

"It was just one marshmallow," I lie. "And I earned it. I worked out quite a bit despite it being the first day off I've had in weeks." I give him a very pointed stare to remind him how else I earned my naughty little treat.

"Hmm, yes. But do not make it a habit. I need you in prime condition, yes?"

"Maybe you were watching a different performance than me," Dom says, his voice coming up behind us. "I can't imagine anyone being in better shape."

"Heath was in far better physical condition. I trained him myself." Dom's eyes go wide. Before he can attempt to say anything about it, Emile continues. "Cameron knows what it takes to be the best in this industry. De Pointe Elite is not just any dance company. We are, as the name says, Elite. Cutting Edge. And I expect nothing less than perfection from my dancers." He gives Dom an unimpressed once over. "I wouldn't expect someone such as yourself to understand."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What he means," I say, cutting in before this gets ugly, "is that ballet is different from other sports. It requires a different kind of strength and endurance, as well as aesthetic." I smile at Emile. "Emile sounds harsh, but his bluntness isn't meant to be cruel. Ballet dancers are held to a different standard of physicality. And Emile's company is the best of the best. Isn't that right?"

Emile smiles indulgently at me and smoothes my hair back. The show of affection from him makes me preen, especially considering it doesn't happen all that often. I hate to feel like I'm chasing attention, but the moments I do get it feel really good.I allow myself to be tucked into Emile's side. He doesn't move to sit like the rest of my family, which I take for the hint it is.

"You must be tired after today, but I'd love to hear more about your meeting. How about I pack an overnight bag?" I'm pushing it. I know I am. He’s clearly trying to make a good impression here, so maybe he won't brush me off in front of them.

"Yes, why don't you do that," he replies.

"I'll just be a moment," I tell him. "You should tell everyone about the last time you performed at Madison Square Garden. Mom's never been."

That should be a safe topic to leave them with for a couple of minutes. I run downstairs and quickly pack a small bag with essentials. I contemplate taking a quick shower, but maybe I'll see about taking one at Emile's house instead. The tension was weird out there, and I don't want to chance leaving him alone with my family for too long. It feels like Dom is trying to start a fight, and who knows what embarrassing stories my mom might start telling. I wouldn't put it past Dwayne to tell the story of the first time we met—a story that involves him walking in on me in the bathroom when I was shaving. Not my face, I barely grow any hair there. Lower . No, lower than that . Imagine being spread out, one foot on the tub and bent forward slightly, ass pointed towards the door, holding a razor behind you.

Fun fact: razor nicks on your taint feel worse than pouring rubbing alcohol on a paper cut between your fingers.

Oh god please don't let him tell that story.

I can’t decide if that would be better or worse than the stories of the trouble I used to get into. I better hurry.

Once I've got my things together, I fly up the stairs and directly into a wall of muscle.

Dom is looking down at me with an odd expression that I can't read. Is it concern? Pity? Or worse… disapproval?

Whatever it is, he has no right to look at me like that. To judge me. And for what?

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just wondering why someone like you is with someone like him.”

Is he kidding me? I might not be the most accomplished or the most talented, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of the attention of a great man. Emile sees something in me that no one else does.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dom says, softening his expression. Even without his cold glare, his features are harsh. Almost menacing.

"I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it for you,” he retorts, and I scowl back at him. He thinks he knows me, that he can read me, after only meeting me twice?

"That guy is a pretentious douchebag.”

"Excuse you? That douchebag is one of the most accomplished dancers and producers in this country. He's world renowned. He’s insanely talented and driven and?—”

“And pretentious.”

“He’s not pretentious. He’s just… French.”

Dom scoffs. “So being famous and French means he gets an excuse to talk down to you like that?”

“He doesn’t mean it in a derogatory way. He’s helping me improve.”

“You let him treat you like you’re a pet he’s training.”

I spin on him, pointing my finger into his chest. “You don’t know me. Don’t you dare presume to know anything about me, my boyfriend, or my relationship. Because you don’t know shit.”

“I know you deserve better,” he says to my back as I march away from him.

I fume the entire drive to Emile's house. I'm following behind his car, so I won't have to rely on anyone else to get back home. As usual, Emile has me park around the back of his house while his driver drops him at the front door. Ever since I nearly got towed when one of his snooty neighbors assumed my car was broken down, I don't park on the street anymore. In a neighborhood of luxury vehicles and sports cars that cost ten times what I make in a year, I suppose my ten-year-old Honda Civic stands out like a sore thumb.

The back door is locked, so I walk around to the front. I leave my shoes inside the small cabinet in the entryway and look around. Emile is already upstairs, judging by the trail of lights he left on for me. I turn them off as I head towards his room.

Emile's room is the definition of opulence. The carpet is so plush, it would rival some mattresses. There's a gas fireplace surrounded by a small sitting area when you first walk inside. Expensive furnishings and art hang on the walls. To the right of the room is a massive fourposter bed that is so tall I have to climb to get on it. There are two doors on either side of the bed. One leads to a walk-in closet the size of a bedroom, and the other to a bathroom that’s more like a luxury spa. The most eye-catching feature, however, are the floor to ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room. I find a small remote on Emile's end table next to the bed and press the button that opens the shades and blackout curtains to reveal a stunning view of the city below. It's a gorgeous night, and I'm here. Actually staying the night for once. It feels like a pivotal moment in our relationship.

A sliver of steam escapes from under the bathroom door, tinged with the floral smell of Emile's expensive body wash. I move around the room quickly, turning the fireplace on and dimming the lights. I'm not sure what to do with my bag. Emile can be particular about where things go. He doesn't like clothes or other belongings to be strewn about. I decide to stow it underneath the bed for now.

Emile is still in the shower. I stare at the door for a while, wondering if I should join him. He knew I'd need a shower, too. I usually take one when I visit him at home, before we do anything else. So maybe he's expecting me to come in there with him? If he'd left the door open, I wouldn't hesitate. But he's taking a while and waiting like this is getting awkward.

I'm going for it. Relationships are trial and error, right? We can't know what our partner will and won't like until we try sometimes.

The shower cuts off just as I tap on the door and open it.

"I thought I might join you," I say coyly as Emile wraps a towel around his slim waist. He hasn't danced professionally in years. A tragic injury took him out of the spotlight almost ten years ago, but he keeps a stringent workout schedule and still has the lithe body of a dancer. He's slimmer than me, especially since he doesn't need as much muscle anymore, and a good bit taller than my five-foot-eight frame. The muscles in his abdomen flex. He's noticed me checking him out. Good.

"I've just finished, but I still have my skin care to do. You can shower while I get ready for bed."

I keep my eyes on him as I strip out of my clothes, letting them fall to my feet. My lips quirk, fighting to hide a smile, when I notice his gaze flit to the small pile of clothes on the floor. I like to tease him about his neat freak ways, but now isn't the time to play brat. Instead, I pick them up and drop them into his hamper on the way to the shower. He turns around to face the sink, but I know he's watching me through the reflection of the large mirror.

The shower is the size of my entire bathroom at home, taking up an entire corner of the expansive room. Letting the glass door slide shut behind me, I play with the settings on the assortment of showerheads until hot water is falling straight out of the ceiling like rain.

When I turn around, I make eye contact with Emile in the reflection of the mirror, but I hold back my smirk. I don't let him know how much I want his eyes on me, how much I want him to like what he sees. I want him desperate for me, and I'm not afraid to put on a show.

I use some of Emile's shampoo, rivulets of lather flowing down my spine and over my ass. When I rinse, I place my hands against the wall and lean into the water, letting it sluice over my back. I smooth conditioner into my hair, turning to the side so he can see the profile of my growing erection. By the time I've lathered my body with his fragrant body wash, I'm fully hard and facing him, but don't acknowledge his attention yet. Instead, I run my hands over my body, making a show of washing myself, before my hand wraps around my cock. Slowly, I work the lather up and down my shaft, while my other hand soaps my smooth balls and slips lower to tease over my taint.

My eyes open to find Emile facing me head on, leaning back on the counter. His towel is tented in front.

"Get yourself ready for me," Emile says, his voice low and commanding.

I continue stroking myself as the water rinses away the rest of the body wash, then reach for the inset marble shelf, grabbing a small bottle of lube. After coating my fingers, I place one foot on the marble seat and lean back as I open my leg to expose myself to Emile's gaze. I begin the work of opening myself for him, pushing one and then two fingers inside as I stroke my cock. Small moans and needy sounds escape me that I can't hold back.

"Emile," I say huskily. "I'm ready. I don't want to come without you."

He gives me a clipped nod and reaches for a towel, handing it to me when I step out. I dry myself off hastily before pressing against him, wanting to feel him against my body. Pulling the towel away from his body, I fling it to the floor. Before he can protest, I push up on my tiptoes, pressing our cocks together and wrapping my hand around us both. It pulls a groan from him that I revel in. Emile isn't as vocal as I am during sex, so any little sound of pleasure is like a reward. It jolts down my spine and makes my balls tingle.

I want to perch myself on the counter and keep frotting until neither of us can hold back, but I want more than that tonight. I want connection and intensity.

"Take me to bed," I murmur against his skin.

Emile picks up his towel and leads me out of the bathroom. My heart falls a little because I know what the towel is for, and while I don't mind it, really—I totally understand that his neatness is a compulsion—part of me wishes we could just let loose and make a mess of everything. I want to sleep curled up against him, coated in sweat and cum and laying in a wet spot that makes the sheets stick to my skin. He would be horrified by the idea.

In a hopeful mood, I crawl into the middle of the bed, turning over on my back and widening my legs. Emile's head cocks from the end of the bed, where he's spread out the large towel and is rolling a condom down his length. Keeping my eyes locked on his, I bite my lip and spread myself wider, thrusting into my fist.

"You're just a filthy little slut, aren't you?” His voice sounds almost disinterested, but the way he strokes lube over his hard cock proves otherwise.

"I am if you want me to be," I say, pushing two fingers back inside my hole. I throw my head back, moaning salaciously as I fuck myself, trying to tempt Emile into coming up here and defiling me the way I crave him to.

A thrill shoots through me when a hand wraps around my ankle and drags me roughly to the bottom of the bed. Emile is slender, but strong, and I love it when he shows off his strength. I want to be manhandled, thrown around like a rag doll and used, hard and fast.

Emile pulls me down until I'm nearly off the edge of the bed and then presses his lips hard against mine. He rarely ever kisses me. It's hard and unyielding, his lips not moving against mine. Before I can slip my tongue out or try to soften the kiss, he pulls away.

"You still taste like bad decisions," he says gruffly, before flipping me over so I'm facedown, bent over the edge of the mattress.

He enters me without preamble. It aches for a moment, but I welcome it, enjoying the moment of passion. I like that he couldn't wait anymore, that I've driven him to lose control like this.

Emile bottoms out in one thrust before laying his body over my back and rocking into me the way he likes. I scramble to get purchase on my tiptoes, to move myself into a position that’s more comfortable or where he can reach my prostate, but the way my legs are pushed together between Emile's thighs doesn't allow for much movement. The bed rocks with us, and my cock aches, but I'm pressed into the mattress too tightly to get enough friction. I whine with frustration, needing more to reach that sweet spot.

"Emile," I beg. "Touch me. Let me move." As much as I like him taking control, right now my body is screaming at me for relief. I just need to change the angle a bit, and I can?—

The rocking motion becomes stuttered and jerky. He doesn't make a sound other than a quick exhalation of breath before he stops moving entirely. He slumps on top of me for a moment, before pushing down on my lower back to keep me in place while he pulls out of me. My entire lower body clenches, desperate to keep him inside me.

Pat pat.

Two little taps signals for me to get up. I turn over, my still hard cock bobbing in the air, and I wrap my hand around it. Maybe it's presumptuous of me to assume we aren't done. But when he folds the towel in half and hands it to me before walking back to the bathroom, I'm left gaping open-mouthed. I'm confused for a long moment. Did he not notice that I didn't get off? It's at least the third time this has happened, where I wondered if I should say something. I don't want to embarrass him, though, or make him upset. But clearly we need some communication, because I'd want to know if I was leaving my partner frustrated like this.

The door is open this time, and Emile is in the shower again. He's rinsing the soap from his hands and crotch. I step in to the shower with him, and he eyes me strangely. His gaze falls to my erection, and maybe I'm just feeling sensitive right now, but does he look annoyed?

"You can finish up in here, if you like," he says in his normal airy tone.

I watch him step out of the shower and wrap a clean towel around him. He steps close to the sink and checks his reflection in the mirror, turning his face this way and that, before opening a small tube and patting some kind of product over his face. When he notices me watching him, he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"What is it, Cameron?" His accent is stronger when he's exasperated with me. "I am tired. I will have my nightcap now and then go to bed."

In the past, Emile has used "having a nightcap" as his signal that the night was over, and he'd usher me towards the door. But surely that's not what he means this time.

"I thought…" It's hard to tamp down my disappointment.

"Maybe another night, oui ? I am getting a headache."

With that, he leaves me in the bathroom, dumbstruck. I feel… pathetic.

I know you deserve better.