Page 82 of Savage Lover

And I let him take me home, my body and brain still flushed with pleasure.

18

NERO

Dropping Camille off back at her house is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I’ve almost never turned down sex. And definitely not from somebody I actually liked. But I never really liked anyone before.

It scares me.

I know how sex can twist emotions. How it causes pain and conflict.

For the first time, I actually feel a connection to a woman. I’m terrified that I’m going to fuck it up by acting like I always do. Terrified that I’ll destroy this fragile thing between us, like I destroy everything else.

God, Camille looks stunning. She’s dressed up in this cute little outfit that I know she must have put on for me. The fact that she did something so outside the norm, when she’s usually so practical and stubborn . . . it pricks at me.

And on top of that, it really suits her. The blue looks beautiful against her skin. She’s got this wild mane of curls, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen, and her eyes look bigger and darker than ever with her pupils dilated like a cat’s.

She’s lolling back against my car door, exposing her smooth brown throat and the tops of those luscious breasts. Fucking hell, I wish I could have seen them in the light.

But it’s no good thinking about that now. My cock is still raging inside my jeans, painfully bent down my pant leg against my thigh, throbbing continually.

God, the taste of her pussy . . . I can still smell her scent on my fingers and face. It’s intoxicating. I want more.

No. Fucking no.

I’m taking her home, and I’m not taking advantage of her while she’s rolling.

Camille rests her hand on top of mine, where I’m holding the gear shift.

She looks at me with those liquid dark eyes. “I meant everything I said,” she tells me.

My chest feels tight. “Me too,” I say.

I can’t believe I told her about my mother. I’ve never told anybody that. No one knows it. Not my brothers or sister. Not even my father.

After my mother died, I lay there staring at her for almost an hour. Then, finally I touched her hand. It wasn’t sweaty anymore. It was cool and dry.

That seemed to break the spell. I rolled off the bed and ran out of the room. I ran up to the attic and hid there until Dante finally found me. He said Papa had to take our mother to the hospital. But I could see from the expression on his face that Dante already knew she was dead. They just didn’t know I’d seen it. That I watched it happen. And did nothing to help.

I never told anyone because I was so ashamed. I know I was a kid. But I was still a fucking coward.

I hated myself for that. Then hating me turned into hating everything and everyone.

But I don’t hate Camille.

I respected her when she was tough and wouldn’t give in to anyone.

And now I feel confused and almost humbled that after all this time when she finally opened up to somebody . . . it was me.

I don’t deserve it. I’m not kind. I’m not understanding.

But . . . I want to deserve it. I want to be a safe haven for her. Even if I don’t exactly know how to do that.

“I have to tell you something else,” Camille says.

“What is it?”

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