Page 50 of Playing it Safe

I start to move. His hands guide my hips, but they don't control me — he lets me set the pace, find the angle, and take what I need. And what I need is to feel powerful. To ride this man who could bench-press me, who looks up at me like I'm the strongest thing he's ever seen.

"Harder," he says, so I try. I plant my hands on his chest and grind, and his hips thrust up to meet mine and the sound of our bodies is obscene and perfect. He reaches between us and finds my clit with his thumb — of course he does, because Cameron Miller does not leave a job unfinished — and the pressure builds again, impossibly, for a third time.

"I can feel you," he says, watching my face. "I can feel you getting close. Come on, sweetheart. One more."

"I can't — three is —"

"Three is your new minimum.” His thumb circles faster. His hips drive upward. "Come for me, Briar. Give me a hat trick."

I come with a sob. It tears through me, deeper than the others, and my body clamps around him. His hands grip my hips as he slams into me from below once, twice, three times, and then he groans — a sound that comes from somewhere primal and gutted — and he lets go inside me, pulsing, his whole body rigid beneath mine.

I collapse onto his chest. His arms wrap around me immediately, holding me against him so tightly I can feel his heartbeat against my sternum. We're both shaking. We're both breathing like we just finished overtime.

I press my face into his neck and breathe him in. Soap, sweat, and a spicy tang that's just him. His hand glides up my back, slow and steady, and he holds me like he's memorizing my weight.

"Three O’s,” I whisper into his skin.

His chest shakes with laughter. "New personal best?”

"Cameron."

"Yeah?"

I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are soft in a way I've never seen in this man. Tender, stunned, and slightly ruined. I touch his jaw, rough with stubble.

"That wasn't fake."

"No way.” His voice is quiet. He turns his head and kisses my palm. “I’m 100 percent real with you.”

I lie back down on his chest and listen to his heartbeat slow. Puck reappears in the doorway, assesses the situation, then jumps onto the foot of the bed and curls up at our feet like this is perfectly normal. Like two wrecked, naked humans tangled together is exactly what he expected to find.

Cameron's hand keeps moving on my back. Slow circles. Like the ones on my shoulder during film. Unconscious. Constant.

“I need to clean up in the bathroom,” I say reluctantly. “Be here when I get back?”

"I'm not going anywhere," he says.

And god help me, I believe it.

* * *

I pad into the bathroom on unsteady legs and run the shower until steam fogs the mirror. My hair is a disaster — sweat-damp at the temples, tangled from the pillow and his hands. I pull the tie out, and my hair falls heavy down my back. I stare at myself in the mirror like the reflection belongs to someone else. Some woman who gets carried to bed and comes three times and gets told she's perfect.

I step under the water and let it run over my face.

The door clicks. I don't startle. I feel the cool air before the curtain shifts and he steps in behind me, filling the stall so completely that there's barely room for the water.

“You said you’d wait for me,” I scold, though there’s no heat in my voice.

“I said I’d be in bed when you got back.” He kisses my neck. “I can still make it.” His elbow bumps the tile as he shifts and wiggles, rinsing his body.

"This shower isn't built for you," I say.

"Nothing is." His voice is low, rough at the edges. His hands settle on my shoulders, warm through the spray. "Turn around."

"I'm washing my hair, sir. It takes hours, remember?”

His chest moves with a quiet laugh. “I heard it's a whole thing."