Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

“Your mother? How did that happen?”

“I went over to get some of my stuff when everyone was supposed to be at—”

“The Bradley Family Breakfast,” I finish for her, having been to more than a few myself through the years.

“Exactly. But it turns out my parents decided they were going to cook breakfast this week. Like what the fuck, right?”

“Right. So how’d it go?”

“Pretty much as well as you’d expect.” She leans over and presses a line of hot kisses up my neck. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

I groan, let my head fall back a little as she works her way across my jaw to my mouth. And then she’s kissing me, her lips warm and soft and just a little wet against my own. I kiss her back—of course, I kiss her back—but in the sharp corners of my brain I can’t help wondering why she’s doing this. Why she’s here, on my couch, kissing me when she could be somewhere kissing Josh Greene? And how long will it last? How long will she be here, with me, now that he’s set his sights on her?

She moans a little, deepens the kiss so that her tongue is stroking over the roof of my mouth. It feels so good, she feels so good, but it’s not enough. Not when there’s Z and there’s Josh and they’re both so much better than I am, so much more than I am. And so much more her type than I will ever be.

Her hands work their way down my chest and stomach to the waistband of my jeans.

“Wait,” I tell her as I grab onto her hands, try to keep her still. If she goes any further, my resistance will melt like so much snow on a bright spring day.

Cam doesn’t wait though. She just laughs against my mouth, and starts tugging at my belt buckle, pulling the leather through the loop.

“Wait!” I tell her again, and there must be something in my voice because this time she does wait. She freezes, her hands on my zipper. Big, bottle-green eyes looking up at me.

I reach for her, grab her elbows. I pull her to her feet.

“I don’t want this right now,” I say and it’s the biggest lie, but also the most blatant truth, I’ve ever told her.

“Don’t want what?” she asks, her voice so low I have to strain to hear it. “Don’t want sex? Or don’t want me?”

Not want her? Is that what she thinks? That I don’t want her? I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. More than a first-place finish at a tournament and the respect that comes along with it. More than an Olympic medal and the approval from my mother it might finally bring. More than anything.

I want her more than anything.

But making love to her isn’t having her, not really. Not when she still looks at Z the way she does. Not when she’s exchanging text messages with Josh fucking Greene. And not when she thinks—not when she knows—that I’m not good enough to

keep up with her.

I stare at her for long seconds, wondering which of my truths to tell.

Of course I want you or I’ve always wanted you—will always want you—or I don’t want to want you. Not like this. Not until you’re all that I see, all that I feel, all that I breathe.

In their own way, each is an honest response. Each is the truth. But none of them are the whole truth and short of baring my soul to her right here—which so isn’t going to happen—I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it.

So in the end, I fucking lie. I tell her I’m tired, that I’ve got a headache—that I feel a little drunk even though I’ve never been more sober.

And in the end, she knows I’m lying. Of course she does. We’ve been best friends for seventeen fucking years. She knows me better than I know myself.

The same way I know that when she pulls away from me, it’s for the best—even if it does hurt like hell.

Chapter 13

Cam

I don’t know what to do. What to say. Where to go. In the moments after Luc rejects me, after he turns away from me like I’m nothing—like I’m less than nothing—I just stand in the middle of his living room and watch as he walks away. I watch as he walks down the hall to his bedroom where, even now, my suitcases are taking up room in the corner against his wall.

I didn’t unpack when I first got back here because I didn’t know where he wanted me to put my stuff. In his closet and a couple of the empty drawers at the bottom of his dresser? Or the guest room that has an empty closet because it doubles as a weight room/office for him? I figured I’d wait until he got home and ask him, but now that seems out of the question.

Everything does, except getting my stuff and getting the hell out of here. Getting the hell away from him.