Page 161 of End Game

Neither of us moves.

I laugh and lean against her.

For once, nobody needs me to explain anything.

And this might be the most at peace I’ve felt in a long time.

Chapter nineteen

Family Saving Throw

Ronan

There are significantly worse things to be thinking about on Christmas Eve than what is underneath Cami’s sweater.

Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t make the thought go away.

The sweater is cream-colored and soft-looking, with a neckline high enough to cover the faint marks I know are still visible near her collarbone. There are more underneath it, and since I am responsible for putting every one of them there, I know exactly where they are.

I also know that if I let myself continue down that particular mental path, I will arrive at my parents’ house with an entirely different problem than the one currently making my stomach hurt.

Cami catches me looking, and the slow curve of her mouth tells me she knows precisely what I’m thinking.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Micah meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” I answer at exactly the same time Cami says, “Yes.”

His eyes move between us in the rearview mirror, then he follows my gaze to someplace below her neck, and understanding settles into his expression.

“Micah.”

He laughs quietly. “I didn’t say anything either.”

Cami slides her fingers along my forearm where it rests on the center console, slow and deliberate enough that I can track the movement from the first point of contact. She has become exceptionally good at that in a short amount of time. The contact sends my thoughts directly back to the place I just ordered them not to go.

We’ve spent considerably more time in the basement recently.

Not always for hours and not always with elaborate plans, but often enough that I have learned the difference between the sounds Cami makes when she’s trying very hard to obey me and the ones she makes when she has stopped remembering there are rules at all. She no longer looks at the table with nervous curiosity, either. Now she looks at it with an anticipation that makes planning anything for her significantly more enjoyable.

Last night, while I was putting away restraints after one of those sessions, she asked when Micah was going to join us.

I told her eventually.

The answer was accurate, but it has become profoundly unhelpful now that the person in question is sitting three feet away from me.

Micah’s eyes meet mine again, and I deliberately return my full attention to the road.

Christmas brunch. My parents. My family.

Ben.

That line of thought is considerably more effective at addressing the erection problem.

Mostly.