Her eyes widened. “You did?”
I crawled across the bed until I was hovering above her. “I told her your name. And that I care about you so much.”
“Cam,” she breathed, eyes already glistening.
Evie was everything Sloane wasn’t. She was sensitive and soft, her emotions worn openly, easy to read, and impossible to miss.
“So, that’s it,” I said, kissing her. Then I kissed her again, slower this time. “I’m a single man now, Evie. And I’m completely yours.”
That made her pause. “I thought you were already mine...”
“I was. I am. But now the marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper. We don’t have to hide ourselves anymore.”
I kissed her again, wanting to end the conversation and lose myself in her instead.
My kisses deepened, growing more urgent, and she responded with matching heat. In seconds, I took off her clothes until she was bare, and I slid my hands over her perfect breasts, kneading gently, pinching the tips until she whimpered, her body arching into mine. I loved how responsive she was—how every touch drew a sound, a reaction, a desperate need.
I was already hard. Reaching into the nightstand drawer, I grabbed a condom. Shifting to the side, I slid off my boxers and rolled it on. Then I went for her, guiding her to straddle me.
“Wreck me, gorgeous,” I whispered, gripping her hips as I pushed myself up into her wet, warm channel, inch by inch. Her head fell back, lost in the flood of sensation overtaking her. I started to guide her movements. Her expression was alreadyglazed with lust, blue eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. Then she took over, moving on her own.
She rode me hard, with reckless abandon, our moans tangling and echoing through the room.
It didn’t take long before the urge to take control crashed over me. I flipped her beneath me, thrusting into her with a pace edged in desperation, like I was trying to wring the pleasure from her—like I was angry. And for the first time, I came before she did. I grunted as release overtook me, my head buried in the crook of her neck, my body shaking with the force of it.
I was so out of breath that it took me a few seconds to find my voice.
And then it hit me—what I’d done.
I had whispered Sloane’s name in the aftermath of my ecstasy. It came out in anger, sharp and unguarded, but it didn’t matter. It was still her name.
I pulled back to look at Evie. She was crying.
“What’s wrong with you?” she whispered, her voice sharp and full of hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, panic rising in my throat. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Get off me, Cam.” She pushed at my chest.
“No, please.” I stayed where I was, refusing to move. “Let me make it right. Let me take care of you.”
She shook her head, eyes glassy. “The moment’s gone, Cam. Just get off me.”
Finally, I moved.
She slipped out from under me without a word, grabbing her clothes from the floor and hurrying into the bathroom. The door closed behind her. She didn’t come out for a long time.
I sat there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then I stood, tossed the condom, and got dressed.
There was nothing left to say.
I walked to the door.
Then I left.
It wasn’t until I got into my car that I realized I shouldn’t have come here. I was still raging. The burn from last night hadn’t faded, and I took it out on Evie.
I was angry at myself. At Sloane. Angry at our fights—the bitter battles where love turned to resentment, where tenderness was lost beneath the weight of anger.
