UnSouled (Unwind Dystology 3)

They are in a den in the mansion, away from the hustle and bustle of the crowded party. There’s a wall of leather-bound legal books, a comfortable chair, and a desk too large to be of any practical use. Cam wandered in here to escape from “shining” for the various rich and powerful guests. The girl had followed him in.

“They say that everything you do, you do like no other.” She moves toward him from the door. “They say that every part of you was handpicked to be perfect in every way.”

“That’s not me,” he says slyly. “I believe it’s Mary Poppins who claims to be practically perfect in every way.”

She chuckles as she gets closer to him. “You’re funny, too.”

She is beautiful. Clearly she is also starstruck. She wants to bask in his light, and he wonders if he should let her.

“What’s your name?”

“Miranda,” she says gently. “Can I . . . touch your hair?”

“Only if I can touch yours . . .”

She reaches for him tentatively at first, patting his hair, then running her fingers through the varied textures and colors.

“You’re so . . . exotic. I thought I’d be frightened to see you in person, but I’m not.”

She smells of vanilla and wildflowers—a scent that pings his memories in several nonspecific places. It’s a popular perfume among popular girls.

“Risa Ward is a bitch,” she tells him. “The way she dumped you on national TV. The way she played you, then tossed you away. You deserve someone better. Someone who can appreciate you.”

“Lockdown!” Cam blurts.

She smiles and saunters to the door. “There’s no lock,” she says, “but I can certainly close it.”

She shuts the door and is back in his airspace in an instant. He can’t even remember her moving there; it’s like she dissolved from the door into his embrace. He’s not thinking clearly. There’s too much input to handle, but for once that’s a good feeling.

She undoes his bow tie. He knows he can’t tie it again, but he doesn’t really care. He holds her in his arms, and she leans forward, kissing him. When she pulls away from the kiss, it’s only for a moment to catch her breath. She looks at him with intense mischief in her gaze. She leans in for another kiss that is far more explorative than the first. Cam finds he’s no slouch when it comes to this. Muscle memory, he supposes, for the tongue is most definitely a muscle.

She pulls away again, even more breathless than before. Then she presses her cheek against his, with her lips by his ear, and she whispers so quietly he can barely hear her.

“I want to be your first,” she says. She presses closer to him, the fabric of her dress hissing on the fine weave of his tuxedo.

“You seem like a girl who gets what she wants.”

“Always,” she tells him.

Cam didn’t come here looking for this. He could turn her away, but why? Why refuse this when it’s offered to him so freely? Besides, he finds that the mention of Risa has made him defiant. It’s made him want even more to be here in the moment with this girl whose name he’s already forgotten.

He kisses her again, matching her building aggression.

That’s when the door swings open.

Cam freezes. The girl steps away from him, but it’s too late. Standing in the doorway is a distinguished man looking even more intimidating in his tuxedo than Cam looks in his.

“Get your hands off my daughter!”

As his hands are already off the man’s daughter, there’s not much more he can do but stand there and let this play out.

“Daddy, please! You’re embarrassing me!”

Now others arrive, curious at the building drama. The man’s glare never falters, as if he’s practiced it professionally. “Miranda, get your coat. We’re leaving.”

“Daddy, you’re overreacting. You always overreact!”

“You heard me.”