Chapter 7

Seven

Cassie

At my size, shower sex always seemed like a dicey proposition. The last thing I want is to wind up on one of those ‘sex gone wrong' shows for landing myself or a partner in the same damn ER I work at. But for what I just experienced with Camden, I'd fucking risk it again. My body is still trembling, little sparks of pleasure still shooting through me.

I'm sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a towel that doesn't cover nearly enough of me and he's rummaging in his drawers for a T-shirt that will actually cover my ass. My idea, of course, not his. He was deeply disappointed that I wasn't willing just to stay completely naked. And while being naked with him is high on my list of things that I really enjoy, walking around like that while waiting for a Doordash order isn't exactly what I had in mind.

"Ah ha!" he says, "I knew I had this here somewhere."

He tosses the T-shirt to me and I take a look at it. "Are you twelve?"

"Perpetually," he replied with a grin.

The shirt, dark gray, has a red and white sign on the front of it that looks curiously like everyone's favorite fried chicken place and says KBC on it with a big ass rooster emblazoned across the chest. And across the back of the shirt, it reads, Kentucky Big Cocks … You'll lick more than your fingers.

"Fine. I'm only wearing it because it's all true," I tell him, pulling the shirt over my head. It hangs down just past my butt. I'm decent so long as I don't bend, move, or breathe.

"That shirt has never looked better," he says.

"You have a pair of shorts you can toss over here? I'd rather not flash …" I look at my phone to see the name of our dasher, "Caleb. He's probably sixteen and I don't want to wind up on a registry because you're a perv."

"Caleb delivers here all the time. He's twenty-five, hopefully not high and would not mind in the least getting a look at what's under that shirt … but since I'm gonna be greedy and keep that all for myself, here you go."

I catch the pair of sweatpants he's tossed at me. They're a mile too long forcing me to roll the waistband down like I'm in a cheerleading movie from the aught's. Going with the theme, I pull the hem of the shirt tight behind my back and twist it until I can tuck it under. Hopefully that obscures the utter filth on the back. But even though I feel like a complete idiot dressed this way, Cam is looking at me in a way that tells me he finds it sexy as hell.

"Don't get comfy in those clothes," he tells me. "I plan on getting you back out of them as soon as I can."

I don't have time to answer. The doorbell sounds and Cam leaves the bedroom to greet the delivery driver. It gives me a second to catch my breath and to steady my nerves. I'm fighting the urge to bolt. Everything that's happened so far has been amazing. More than amazing, if I'm being honest about it. But that's part of the problem. There's no way this can last. There's no way something this good can be permanent. That's just not the way life works.

When I get to the living room, Cam has set out our dinner on the coffee table and grabbed a beer for himself and a wine for me. I know the minute I sip that wine, it's my usual. I've never told him what my favorite drink is. But he pays attention to the details. He's always been that way. It's probably why he's such a good cop. And so ridiculously skilled in bed. Everything I like, everything I want—he seems to know even before I do. And suddenly, dinner is the very last thing on my mind.

"You know … I'm not that hungry," I tell him as I untuck the shirt at the back and let it fall down to my hips. Then I push the borrowed sweatpants down until I can step out of them. "Well, not for dinner anyway."

Within seconds, we're on the couch. He moved so fast I'm not even sure how it happened. He's sitting and I'm straddling his thighs, facing him with us eye to eye. I can feel the length of him pressing against me and all I can think about is how it felt before. I've missed this.

Reaching between us, I free the button on his jeans and then slide the zipper down. I watched him put them on, so I know there's nothing underneath. And then I'm touching that hard flesh, my fingers not quite meeting around the thickness of his shaft.

"Fucking hell, Cass," he hisses out, his head falling back as a deep breath shudders through him.

I raise myself up on my knees, just a little. Just enough that when I sink back down, I"m taking every hard inch of him inside me. He's not even touched me since that super hot scene in the shower, but I'm still wet. Because all I have to do is think about him and I'm like a cat in heat. It used to be embarrassing as hell … until I figured out that he feels the same about me. Whatever else happens between us, however this all shakes out, this part of it—we've got that.

His hands fall to my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. It'll leave a mark. And that t makes it even hotter. He's not content to just let me ride him. Instead, he's thrusting upward every time I sink down. It feels so good, all I can do is close my eyes and savor every second of it.

I'm so close, hovering on the edge. Then he dips his head, teasing the tips of my breasts with his tongue. But it's the scrape of his teeth, a sting that falls somewhere between pleasure and pain, that's what pushes me over. I don't scream. I don't make a sound. I can't. It literally takes my breath away. It's not just an orgasm. It's not just scratching an itch. It's a goddamn religious experience. And he's right there with me, his body shaking with the force of it.

Neither of us says anything. Even in the aftermath, when he's shifted us around until we're laying on the couch, snuggled together under a soft throw, we're still silent. His fingertips are tracing delicate circles on my skin, every touch keeping that connection between us, that feeling that all this is way more than just amazing sex. It's something else. Something that scares me, but is still too precious to let go of. Words would break the spell of whatever this perfect thing is. I'm not ready to risk that and I don't think he is either.