How to Misbehave (Camelot 1)

Oh, fuck. He didn’t want any of this. Not the cold sweat or the shaky hands, and not this flare of anger at her, that she could think it was so easy.

That he should be so vile, so worthless as to take comfort in her forgiveness.

When she started to shake, he put his arms around her, and when she kissed him, he lay her down on the bed and made love to her all over again, burying himself to the root in her softness.

She stroked her hands over his hair and said his name. “Tony, Tony.” She said it like a prayer. Like the Catholic kids did—Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and must be found.

She wanted to find him and give him back to himself, but that wasn’t how it worked.

“Tony.”

He took his name from her, took her body and her mouth and everything she offered him, and he didn’t give her anything back.

The orgasm stole his breath and left him empty. A sinkhole in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

It only got bigger. The worst thing would be to pretend it wasn’t there. He’d get to thinking he could have her. Keep her. He’d do everything he could for her, and then he’d mess it up, and she would fall in.

When the sun came up, he put on his clothes, laced up his boots, and left.

Chapter Twelve

Amber’s mother plucked the carton of ice cream off the table on her way to the kitchen.

“Hey! I was eating that.”

“You can’t have ice cream for lunch. It’s not healthy.”

“I was having it for breakfast. Because of the power outage.”

“The power’s been back on since yesterday morning.”

Amber couldn’t argue with that. “I’m an adult. I can eat ice cream whenever I want.”

“You can eat your own ice cream when you want. In my place, you eat ice cream for dessert. Or for a snack. Not for lunch.”

“Breakfast.”

“Either way. What’s gotten into you?” Her mother flapped a manicured hand at Amber, a gesture that took in her limp posture and the fact that she was wearing a bathrobe at eleven a.m.

“I’m sad.”

“Yes, darling, I figured that out. I did warn you.”

Amber got up and fetched the ice cream from the freezer. Rocky Road was her favorite, and even though the consumption of ice cream made her a walking cliché, it also made her throat feel better.

The depth of her grief kept surprising her. She’d awakened early, before the sun was all the way up, and had instantly known that he was gone. She’d thought she was fine. That she was handling it. And then she’d gotten out of bed and made a cup of tea, and after one sip, she’d started to cry.

It was just what he’d said would happen, which made her furious.

I’m fine, she kept telling herself, first in her head, then out loud. But she hadn’t been able to stop crying.

She took her prize into the living room and dropped onto the couch to scoop ice cream directly off the sides of the paper carton.

Her mom came in through the archway that separated the dining area from the living room, her hands staked out on her hips. Sunday morning, and she was dressed in her church clothes—a skirt with a short-sleeved blouse and pearls. Though the outfit wasn’t so different from her everyday clothes. Janet Clark believed in being well turned out at all times.

“You’re not even going to tell me what happened?” she asked.

Amber shook her head. “Personal boundaries.”