Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

If that’s what we are. If that’s what we’ve done.

What have we done? I ask myself again and again as Luc sleeps next to me and the clock on his dresser slowly counts down the minutes until dawn.

What are we doing? And where are we going to end up?

I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, any more than I know the answer to what’s going to happen with my family or the upcoming snowboarding season. What I do know is that if he wants me—if he wants to give this thing between us a chance, I think I do, too. Because being with him tonight, talking to him, touching him—making love to him—has made me happier than I’ve been in a very long time. Certainly happier than I’ve been since the last time we were together turned everything into a landmine just waiting to be detonated. I’m not willing to give this happiness up. Not willing to give Luc up.

Not now.

Not yet.

Chapter 6

Luc

I wake up alone—of course I do—and for a second, it’s all I can do to think. To breathe. To just be.

But I do breathe, slow and steady. In, out. In, out. In, out.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. In, out.

Tell myself that I don’t care. In, out.

Tell myself that this is exactly what I expected to happen anyway. In, out.

And then I tell myself the biggest lie of all—that I’m okay. That my heart isn’t breaking right down the fucking middle. Again.

After all, I should be used to it by now. This is exactly what happened the last time. We made love. I went to sleep thinking everything was okay—hell, thinking everything was pretty fucking sick, if I’m being honest—and then woke up to find she’d snuck out in the middle of the night. Worse, to find out that she’d hated being with me. That she hated the fact that I’d seen her naked, that I’d been inside her, that I’d made her come.

Why should I expect it to be any different this time? Isn’t that the very definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?

As if.

My eyes are wet—allergies or something—so I wipe them real quick, and push myself out of bed without even bothering to check if Cam’s side of the bed is still warm. It won’t be and it doesn’t matter if it is, anyway. She’s gone and there’s no use sitting around fucking whining about it. Not when I’ve got shit to do today. Besides, my pillow still smells like her and if I’m not careful, that’ll be the thing that pushes me over the edge.

I grab a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the closet, throw them on my bed. I head to the bathroom for a shower. Maybe that’ll put me in a better mood. And if not, maybe I’ll fucking drown.

I barely make it to the bathroom door before I hear a sound from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. I force myself to ignore it—wishful thinking, anyone—but then I hear water running. Followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. Hard.

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so much like wishful thinking anymore. Either Cam is still here or the noisiest break-in ever is happening in my condo right now.

I yank on my jeans, then hightail it down the hall to the kitchen, unsure what I’m going to find there. A lot of ideas run through my mind, but what I do find is the last thing I ever expected. Cam, standing in the middle of my kitchen dressed in nothing but an old snowboarding T-shirt of mine, holding a frying pan in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other as she stares at the stove.

She’s here. She’s still here.

“You okay?” I ask when my brain finally remembers how to form words.

She whirls around at my question, eyes wide and cheeks a fucking gorgeous shade of pink.

“I’m fine. I was just trying to—”

She gestures a little wildly and it takes a moment for her words to sink in because I’m too busy studying the way the thin cotton of my T-shirt hugs her small, high breasts and tight, hard nipples to pay attention to what she’s saying.

Fuck. She should wear my clothes all the time. I don’t think she’s ever looked better, and I know that damn T-shirt never has.

“Trying to…?“I finally repeat, after forcing myself to look away from her chest and focus on her face.

I’m not trying to be a dick here, but she’s going to have to fill in the blanks. With our past, the last thing I want to do is put words in her mouth. I don’t want to assume anything that might end up making her uncomfortable. Or making myself look like an even bigger idiot than I already do.