Page 52 of Haunted By the Storm
The question catches me off guard. "What I want..." I begin, then stop, struggling to find the right words. "Camryn, what I want is for you and Emily to be safe and happy. If that means going back to your house and your normal life, then that's what should happen."
"That's not what I asked," she says softly, stepping closer. "I asked what you want, Storm. Not what you think should happen, not what makes logical sense. What do you want?"
The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility. I take a deep breath, Ace's advice echoing in my mind.Be honest. Tell her what you want.
"I want you," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. "Both of you. Here, with me. Not just until the danger passes, not just as a temporary arrangement. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to make breakfast with Emily. I want... everything. A family. Our family."
The confession hangs in the air between us, leaving me raw and vulnerable in a way I've never allowed myself to be before. Camryn stares at me, her hazel eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
"Say something," I urge when the silence stretches too long. "Anything."
She steps forward, closing the last bit of distance between us, her hands coming up to frame my face. "I want that too," she whispers. "All of it. With you."
Relief crashes through me like a wave, followed immediately by a surge of desire so strong it's almost painful. I capture her lips with mine, pouring all the longing, all the hope I've been holding back, into the kiss.
She responds instantly, her body pressing against mine, arms winding around my neck. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, desperate, as days of restraint and uncertainty dissolve in the heat between us.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom. My t-shirt rides up her thighs, revealing a glimpse of black lace, which makes my blood burn hotter.
Inside the bedroom, I set her down gently on the bed, taking a moment to simply look at her; flushed cheeks, tousled hair, eyes dark with desire. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You're staring," she says, echoing my words from this morning.
"Can't help it," I reply, shrugging out of my cut and tossing it aside. "You're worth staring at."
She blushes; a charming reaction that contrasts with the boldness in her gaze as she watches me undress. I pull my t-shirt over my head, revealing the tattoos that cover my chest and arms; intricate designs that tell the story of my life, my loyalties, and my losses.
Her eyes trace the inked patterns, curious and appreciative. "Beautiful," she murmurs, surprising me. Most people find my tattoos intimidating rather than beautiful.
"Your turn," I say, nodding toward the shirt she's wearing.
She hesitates just a moment then reaches for the hem, drawing it slowly upward. I catch my breath as she reveals herself inch by tantalizing inch; the smooth skin of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the black lace panties that barely conceal the heat at her core.
She pauses with the shirt bunched just below her breasts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. I understand instantly what's holding her back. This is the first time she's been with someone since Eric; the first time she's chosen to be vulnerable with a man in years.
"We can stop," I tell her, meaning it despite the ache in my body. "Anytime you want, Camryn. Just say the word."
She shakes her head, determination replacing hesitation. "I don't want to stop," she says, and in one fluid motion pulls the shirt over her head before tossing it aside.
My breath catches at the sight of her, the gentle swell of her breasts, the delicate lace of her bra, the soft curve of her stomach. She's everything. Real. Beautiful. Mine.
"Goddamn," I whisper, moving toward her slowly, giving her time to adjust to my gaze, to my presence. "You're fucking perfect."
Her laugh is soft, a little self-conscious. "I'm not, but thank you for thinking so."
I slide onto the bed beside her, my hand already reaching out like it knows exactly where to go. My fingertips brush along the curve of her cheek and glide down her neck, following the line of her collarbone. She’s warm under my touch, smooth and responsive. I hear the hitch in her breath, see the way her eyes flutter shut.
“Perfect for me,” I murmur, and I mean it. Every damn inch of her.
She shivers, a soft sound catching in her throat when my fingers trace the edge of her bra. “Storm…” she breathes my name, part plea, part dare.
I lean in, letting my lips find the spot just below her jaw. She gasps again, the sound lighting something deep in me. I keep going, slow but sure, mapping her with mouth and hands. That little spot at the base of her throat? Magic. The curve of her waist fits my palm like it’s mine. And when I finally slide my hand between her thighs, she trembles.
Her bra comes off with a practised flick, and I swear under my breath because fuck, her breasts are perfect. I don’t hesitate. I lean down and take one into my mouth, tongue circling, before I draw it in deep and slow. She arches beneath me, moaning low, hands suddenly everywhere; my back, my shoulders, in my hair. Nails rake lightly across my scalp, and it wrecks me.
She’s not still and she’s not quiet. She meets every touch with more, pulls me into her with a heat that makes my head spin.
“I need you,” she says, breathless, wrecked and focused. “Please, Storm.”
