Page 22 of Craving

To Camilla’s horror, her voice caught on the last word. She clamped her lips shut and squeezed her eyes closed. Then she forced herself to say, “Tonight, my dad called my business a hobby. He’s trying to set me up with one of his old business associate’s sons.”

The oven handle creaked, and Marlon abruptly let it go. He grunted. “Oh. You like him?”

A strange-sounding laugh fell out of her, caught between a cackle and a sob. “Like him? I don’t even know him! My dad didn’t even tell me his name. He just told me how the guy was related to his old professional life, which is all that ever mattered to the great Dean Fox.” She huffed, pushing the frizzy tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead back up into her messy bun. “It’s like they think that just because I’m not some high-flying businesswoman, I should accept the consolation prize of being a stay-at-home wife for one of their snooty acquaintances. But you better believe they’d have something to say about that too. And you know what? I’d make a great stay-at-home wife. I’d be so freaking good at it, but they would just look down their noses at me anyway. If I ended up having a kid and didn’t ‘bounce back’ within weeks, my mother would never let me eat in her presence again.”

She slapped her hands on her face and tried to reel the words back in. Marlon didn’t need to hear any of this. He didn’t even want her living here, no matter what he said when he smelled cookies baking. He was doing her one massive favor, and she was repaying him by dumping all her childhood baggage on his kitchen floor and insisting that he didn’t invite any other women into his own home.

Now she was being her messy self, and she couldn’t even hide it behind her usual bubbly armor.

“Hey.” His fingers wrapped around her wrists, and he pulled her hands away. He curled a finger beneath her chin and tilted it up. His eyes were steady and serious, and his tongue slipped out to wet his lips. The only place where they touched was his single finger on her chin and a hand wrapped around her wrist, but Camilla felt like she’d been caught by him, and she didn’t want to escape.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“Don’t ever apologize for telling me how you feel.” His body angled closer, his finger uncurling to slide down the side of Camilla’s throat. She shivered at the touch, lips parting, coming undone.

Maybe this had started that first evening, when they’d made their silly new rule. Maybe the thought of not sleeping with anyone else—even if it was just within these walls—ignited a new kind of arousal, and that’s why Camilla’s body suddenly felt like it was out of control.

Restriction had bounced back into this violent lust, this wave of desire that threatened to knock her over.

Because she wanted him. She craved him. Her pulse pounded heavily between her legs, an aching beat that demanded release.

As Marlon moved a fraction closer, the heat of his body rivaled that of the stove behind her. His free hand curled over her waist, and she loved how big it felt against her body, how strongly he held her pinned exactly where she was.

“Camilla,” he breathed, lids dropping.

“Don’t talk.” She slid her hands to his biceps. “Please.”

He groaned, then angled his head—

The smell of something burning jarred Camilla back to the land of rational people. She yelped, then shoved Marlon away with both hands. Then she spun around and tore open the oven door, but the cookies weren’t even fully cooked. What was—

“Don’t move!”

Marlon whacked her butt with a wet tea towel with the strength of a big, burly, six-foot-four private security consultant. Camilla screeched and jumped like a frightened goat, trying to turn, but Marlon clamped a hand on her shoulder and swatted her with the tea towel until the smell of burned fabric filled the room. Every thump he gave her rattled her body like a rag doll.

This was not what she’d imagined that first morning when she’d slipped her hand between her legs. This was a cruel universe cackling at its awful joke because Marlon spanked her ass with a tea towel, and he definitely wasn’t thinking about sex. Abruptly, he stopped and tore her apron strings apart, then ripped it off her head.

He threw his weapon—if a damp tea towel could be considered a weapon, which Camilla thought it most definitely could—onto the pile of fabric and started stomping.

Then he stood on top of the whole wet, singed mess, turned to her, and glared. “You,” he huffed, “were on fire.”

Camilla did not like his tone. She put her hands on her hips. “And whose fault is that?”

“You could have been hurt, Camilla.”

“Yes, well, maybe next time you manhandle me, don’t shove me up against the open gas flame. Hmm?” Her cheeks were smarting, and her heart still pounded. That was…

They’d almost kissed.

Oh, that would have been a disaster. How could she look him in the face after they kissed? And why would he want to…how…

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this because we made the no-overnight-guests rule? You can’t go three days without sex, so you thought you’d try your luck with me?”

Marlon stared at her, neck corded with tense muscle, eyes flashing dangerously. “You think I wanted to kiss you because you happen to be the only convenient option? Is that honestly what’s going on in your head right now? You’re smarter than that, Camilla.”

He seemed…angry. But Camilla had had a very rough couple of days, and she was sick of feeling pushed around. Not to mention she’d almost just caught fire, which was horrific enough on its own. But the way he was looking at her made her feel like a rabbit caught in a snare.

She lifted her chin. “Well, what else am I supposed to think? Maybe we should rescind the rule. Go forth and fornicate, my friend. You seem like you need it. Just keep the dirty thongs out of the couch cushions.”

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