Page 48 of Freeing Camila

“Oh. She’s the cutest little red-head. A spitting image of her mom. I met them both in the park. Kaia was gracious enough to point out what I was doing wrong with my bubbles endeavor.”

“Guess we can learn as much from kids as they can learn from us.”

She giggled, a sound that shot straight to his cock. “Too true.”

When they’d both finished their meals, he stood to grab her plate. “Oh, you don’t have to,” she protested.

“You cooked. I clean.”

“Well, alrighty then.” She put away the leftovers as he rinsed and placed the dishes in the dishwasher. When he was finished, he threw the dishrag he’d been using to dry his hands on the counter and grabbed her by the hips before she could squeeze by him out of the kitchen.

She placed her hands on his chest and smiled up at him. “Hi,” she breathed.

“Hi.”

“Something I can do for you?”

A hungry “Oh yeah,” escaped his lips before he swept down and took her lips in a ravenous kiss. She was so tiny in his arms. Almost too tiny. With a move to save his back from further strain, he swept his hands downwards, cradling her ass, and then lifted her. As her legs instinctively encircled his hips, the hem of her dress rose, pressing her core against his aching cock. They both groaned.

Turning swiftly, he set her on the counter while still devouring her mouth. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, quick and fluttering. The tremor in her body was evident as her small fingers dug into the cotton of his T-shirt where her hands had settled on his chest. He felt the trembling in her body. Her small fingers dug into the fabric of his cotton T-shirt. He sensed her nervousness and apprehension so intensely that it was almost as if he were experiencing those feelings himself. It was a tangible energy radiating from her.

She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features.

It was subtle—just the way her fingers stilled against his chest, how her breath faltered when their eyes met in the quiet hush of the room.

She pulled back just a little. Just enough to look up at him. He sensed something significant was about to happen, a feeling that hung heavy in the air. That pause before a truth.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice soft, uncertain.

He shifted his weight, pulling his hips away from hers a bit, his pulse picking up for reasons he couldn’t name. “Okay.”

She wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she stared at the scant space between them, like she wasn’t sure she could bridge it. Then, with a shaky breath, she said it:

“I’ve never . . . I mean, I haven’t been with anyone before. At all. I’m—” she swallowed, blinking up at him, her eyes shining with raw vulnerability. “I’m a virgin.”

The words landed between them like a delicate thread—fragile, but strong enough to hold something real.

He let them sit for a second, not rushing to respond. The silence stretched only a heartbeat before he reached up, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. It wasn’t shock that crossed his mind—it was something softer. Respect. Wonder. A deep, quiet protectiveness that had nothing to do with what she had or hadn’t done.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion he hadn’t expected. “Thank you for telling me.” His thumb lingered where her blush had bloomed.

She looked like she might bolt. Her shoulders were tense, jaw tight, like she was waiting for rejection—or worse, pity.

But all he felt was something deeper than want. Respect.

“That doesn’t change how I see you. If anything . . . it just makes me want to go slower. Make sure you feel safe. Always.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but no words came. Just a breath. A tremble.

He leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to her forehead. “We’ll take it at your pace. No pressure. No expectations.” She nodded, slowly, a tear slipping down her cheek—not out of sadness, he hoped, but release.

And as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, then another just beside her lips, he realized something. He didn’t just feel desire—he felt honor. The honor of being the one she chose to trust with her firsts.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Cammie.”

“I’m not,” she said, too quickly. But her voice trembled, and the lie sat awkwardly between them.

She hopped off the counter and backed away slowly, tugging him with her. He followed, fingers laced with hers. The hallway to her bedroom felt longer than it was, like every step shifted the air around them, deeper into something neither of them had planned—but neither wanted to stop.

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