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Cam is fascinating to me, mentally and physically. I swear he was molded and shaped after the Greek gods, which is a total bonus. But I’m mainly drawn to him because he also carries demons many don’t. Ones that can only be seen by someone who has dark ones of their own.
I don’t know how I recognized them in him. Was it the barriers I could see behind the facade of confidence and smirks, or was it the way I intuitively felt comfortable with him? Whatever it might be, I sense them in him, the shadows of a dark past. It calls to me in a way I desperately wish I could ignore. I think Cam survives by being the life of the party and by making every second count because, at one point, maybe time was something he thought he didn’t have. I can relate to that for sure.
Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto him—who knows? Either way, something in him and something in me are calling to each other, and I think it’s only a matter of time before we answer.
As if he can sense my thoughts about him, he texts me as I walk into the library.
Cam: Good morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?
Unable to wipe the shit-eating grin off of my face, I wade through the sea of kids walking out.
My fingers hover over the keys as I debate on telling him the truth or the answer that I just started typing—the bullshit one.
This morning, I finished reading a book where the main character’s whole arc was about finding herself, being confident and unabashedly herself in every situation. So, I’ll take a page out of her book this time.
Me: First of all, it’s eleven o’clock, and I have been awake since seven o’clock. Our versions of morning are two very different things, LOL. As for the sleeping, I didn’t get much last night.
Cam: Did you have a hot date?
Not a moment later, another text comes.
Cam: Please tell me you didn’t have a date last night.
I respond with a smirk on my lips.
Me: Just a date with my demons.
Three typing bubbles appear, then disappear and appear once more.
Cam: Ahh, I usually see mine on a scheduled slot at ten o’clock on Saturdays and nine o’clock on Sundays.
Me: Are you always so sarcastic?
Cam: Usually, yes. I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep, Little Dove. If I were there, you would sleep like a baby every night.
Me: Because I would be so exhausted from being around you all the time?
Cam: Because you would be exhausted from coming for me over and over again.
Me: That’s cute, Blue Eyes.
Cam: ???
Me: That you think you could make me come, LOL—and more than once at that. I think you should try stand-up.
Cam: Has any man ever made you come, Little Dove?
I have had orgasms that made me see stars, but always at my own hand or toy, never by the touch of a man. Trey and I were intimate in the beginning, but when he started hurting me, thankfully, his desire to touch me sexually seemed to die, and he never pushed it. I think he found exterior sources for that service, and I was thankful enough not to ask. I think he made me come once or twice, but I don’t know if a man can make you come the same way a vibrator can. I genuinely believe that because no man—of the two I have slept with—has ever come close with me.
Me: Yes.
Cam: That took you far too long to answer. You thinking about it means no. You wouldn’t have to guess if you were coming with me. Oh, to hear my name on those lips…
We stayed up late last night, texting each other questions constantly. Anything you can think of, we asked, and I memorized every single one of his answers. I didn’t mean to, but my brain held on to these little facts like they were life or death.
I love talking to Cam. But sometimes, I forget, if only for a second, that this isn’t real—that it can’t be real. It’s hard to remember that with Cam. It’s so natural and easy to talk and flirt with him. He makes me comfortable when I’m talking to him, and I hate when reality makes that comfort turn to fear. When I get caught up in it, like I am right now, terror sinks into my bones, and I’m reminded of who I really am and what I’m hiding from.
Me: I’ve got to go. I’ll text you later.
