Page 53 of Wanting Cameron

I want to ask what he was doing during those moments. If he was touching himself too. If he was thinking about me the way I was thinking about him.

No.

I can’t ask that.

I stare at him, and he stares back. His body is open, his shoulders relaxed, his hands at his sides with palms facing me like he’s offering himself up, defenseless. It’s such a departure from the posture he usually takes with me that I’m distracted by the novelty of it. He takes a step closer. Then another. And then his arms hold me, bringing my chest to his, while my hands hang uselessly at my sides, one still holding my coffee. I’m completely immobile, stunned by the magnetism of his embrace. I smell his familiar scent, and I melt. I don’t mean for it to happen.

My body sags against his, and my forehead drops to his chest, and I feel the tears gathering in the wells of my eyes because this feels good. Being held by him feels good, and I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how someone who hurt me, who manipulated me, who violated my trust in the worst possible way, can make me feel safe just by wrapping his arms around me.

Lucien’s hand comes up to the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. His lips drop to the top of my head, hovering there like he’s about to kiss it.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs.

The word “baby” hits me like ice water. I shove him away with one hand, my whole body suddenly rigid.

“I’m not your baby,” I say, shocked at the escalating intimacy.

Lucien steps back immediately, his hands palms up, in surrender. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move toward me again. He doesn’t try to touch me. He stands in front of me, patient and calm, like he has all the time in the world.

But I don’t.

I can’t do this. I can’t stand here and let him look at me like that, like he cares, like he didn’t just destroy everything.

I rush past him.

Back in my apartment, my whole body is buzzing. The solid presence of his arms around me and the caress of his fingers in my hair felt so fucking good. I hate that some broken part of me wanted to stay there, wrapped up in him, letting him hold me like he never manipulated and lied to me.

I’m so fucked up. So completely, irrevocably fucked up to seek comfort in him, but I can’t help it.

I pull out my phone and open Instagram to find him.

His profile comes up immediately. Public, of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? Why would someone like Lucien Ashford need privacy when his entire existence is curated perfection? I send him a message.

I have questions.

Then I stare at the screen, my heart pounding, waiting.