Dirty Secret

Sienna: Are you trying to kill me?

Cam: Yes.

Sienna: It's working.

Cam: I know.

Sienna: If I send a picture now? Will that help?

Cam: Aren't you with your sister?

Sienna: In the bathroom.

Cam: Go be with your sister.

Sienna: Does that mean you don't want a picture?

Cam: Of course I want a picture.

Sienna: You're alone?

Cam: I'm the only one in the office.

Sienna: I wish I was there with you.

Cam: Me too.

Sienna: I can go after breakfast. Meet you there.

After I pick up a few things at home. And change into clean clothes.

Cam: I'm not sure. What would we do here? It would be boring if you watched me work.

Sienna: You could fuck me on your desk.

Cam: Could I?

Sienna: Or the conference table. The couch. Against one of those big glass walls.

Anywhere, really.

Yes.

So much yes.

Cam: I could. If you convinced me.

I need to clinch this deal.

So I roll my tank top to my waist, and I reapply my lipstick, and I angle my phone just right.

There.

I send Cam a picture of my sheer lingerie.

And then another one.

He replies quickly.

Cam: Are you tempting me, sweetness?

Sienna: If I am?

Cam: I'm going to have to get you back for that.

Sienna: Go on.

He sends the address.

Cam: Be here by two. Without your knickers.

Chapter Forty-One

Cam

I visit our New York office once a quarter, give or take. Usually, I only stay a few days. Usually, those days are filled with work.

There's no time to imagine fucking someone on my desk.

Right now, my head is flush with images.

There are so many places I can fuck Sienna.

The single stall bathroom at the end of the hall.

The conference room in the middle of the space.

And here, in my office, on the desk or the couch or against the wall.

I try to finish my work, but my concentration is shite. How the fuck am I supposed to think about numbers when her tits are on my cell screen?

After half an hour of struggling through a spreadsheet—one that should take me five minutes—I give up on work.

I let my head fill with images of her.

Hard and fast.

Soft and slow.

Rough.

Tender.

Intimate.

Whether I imagine her naked or dressed, bent over my lap, or staring into my eyes, it's intimate.

Am I really capable of that?

It's been a long time since I've even considered it, but I meant what I said yesterday; it's different with her.

I care about her.

I trust her.

I don't trust myself with her, not completely, but enough to give her what she wants.

If she still wants it rough—

Somehow, that's scarier than soft and slow. That's scarier than the two of us naked, pressed together, whispering I love you in each other's ears.

That image is hazy. A scene from a film.

The last time I told a woman I loved her—

It was Winter.

It was a sick love, one based on lies and manipulation, but it felt real to me.

Every molecule of my body craved every one of hers. And she used that like a weapon. She wielded I love you every time she didn't get what she wanted.

If I mentioned a friend who asked questions.

If I couldn't sneak away to see her.

If I wasn't sure I wanted to try something.

I love you, Cameron. Don't you love me? This is what people in love do. This is what love is. You love me enough to do this for me, don't you?

Did she mean it?

That's the sick thing. I think she did. I think, deep down, she really believed she loved me.

She really believed she was teaching me how to love.

I guess she was right. She taught me love was a weapon. One to avoid at all costs, whether on offense or defense.

And that tangled with sex.

For the last decade and a half, I haven't been able to fuck a woman without losing some part of myself.

Until Sienna.

It's terrifying. But there's plenty of time to consider that tomorrow.

Or next week.

After the wedding.

After I set her free, to find someone who won't fuck up her family, to find someone who can share every part of himself with her.

Sure, the thought of her with another man makes me sick, but—

No sense in dwelling on it today.

She's due here in twenty minutes. I need to prepare.

I need to make sure I'm reading her right.

I finish work, clean up, send her a text.

Cam: You still want it rough, sweetness?

She replies a few minutes later.

Sienna: Yes.

Cam: Can you handle that?

Sienna: I'm not sure, but I want to try.

Cam: Two. My office. Nothing under your clothes.

Sienna: Or…

I could threaten to punish her, but it's too tangled in my head. I don't trust myself to stay within her limits.

But this—

I can do this.

Cam: Or I won't fuck you.

At five to two, the lift doors slide open. Footsteps move into the hallway. They're fast, nervous.

Flat shoes, or at least ones with long soles.

Sienna turns the corner.

She's gorgeous in a fresh pair of jeans and a soft cream camisole. Silk. Something I bought her at the lingerie shop? Or something of hers?