The Long Game (Long Game, #1)(38)

Beautiful.

“I…” Didn’t like this. Or how that word had made me feel just now. How he was making me feel. “On second thought, I think I can do all of this on my own.”

Cameron sighed forcefully, and the puff of air leaving his lips hit my skin. A shiver crawled down my spine. “You need me.”

Outrage blossomed in my stomach. And I was glad for the change. This I could process. This—

His hands landed on my waist.

And if I’d thought his palms had engulfed my shoulders before, if I’d thought his touch had been overwhelming when it had been on my wrists, that’s because I hadn’t felt his hands where they were right now. Those fingers that had endured more blows and cracks than most reached the bottom part of my rib cage, the warmth of his skin making my top feel suddenly too thin.

Cameron maneuvered me, rotating my torso. And I felt myself go stiff. Tense. The fabric separating his hands from my skin sticking to me, as if melting under his touch. Or perhaps it was my own sweat. God, why was I sweating so much?

“I…” I blurted out. “I’m a little warm, sorry.”

“You think a little sweat will scare me?” he drawled, making my stomach drop for some unfathomable reason. “Posture is wrong,” he continued. “It’s your hips.” One palm moved along my hip bone. “Your torso needs to come down slightly.”

“How?” I croaked. I didn’t think I knew how to function on my own.

You need me.

Cameron’s hands readjusted around my body, one climbing up my side and the other clasping firmly around my waist. He pushed down.

But I was so caught up in the way I could feel the tips of his fingers creating ten pressure points on my skin, making it tingle, flush, buzz.

“You’re as stiff as a stick, darling,” he grumbled. “Relax for me.”

Stiff as a stick.

My throat worked, the memory of very similar words being said about me throwing me off. Unaware of my inner struggle, Cameron’s body shifted behind me, allowing me to feel the entire length of his front on my back. Chest, torso, thighs. He was right there. Rock solid. Warm. Close.

“Spread your legs,” he said.

And without a single coherent thought left in my head, I spread my legs.

I sensed his head coming down, and then I heard, against my ear, “Take a step to the side and plant your foot firmly on the mat.” Something switched in me, releasing the control to him, and I moved. His palm fell on the back of my thigh and when he said, “Flex,” I flexed.

His long fingers stretched, wrapping around the inside of my leg. I puffed out a breath.

“Lock it in,” he ordered. And as much as my whole body seemed to burn, and as much as that spot on the inside of my thigh seemed to pulse under his touch, I did. Or tried.

Because Cameron hummed in what I interpreted as disapproval, and in a swift motion, one of his arms was around my waist, and his foot was shoving one of mine out, widening my stance. The motion brought me right against him. His lap. And he grunted, “Hold.”

I held.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, the word falling right between my ear and my neck. “Good job.”

Beautiful. Good job.

My stomach flipped at the praise.

Something right in the middle of my belly swirled. All the blood in my face seemed to swoosh down before bouncing right back up.

What was happening? What was going on? Why were three very ordinary words making me feel this way?

A strange sound left Cameron, and I thought there was a chance I had passed out, right there and then, against Cameron’s lap. Because I didn’t think I could tune in Josie’s voice anymore. Or listen to the baby goats bleating. Or Brandy. Or the sun, the barn, the vastness of the Vasquezes’ farm, or the fact I was surrounded by hills and had left Miami for Green Oak. I was on sensory overload.

All I could feel was Cameron.

And I couldn’t recall a single time, a single instance in my life, when I’d felt like this. Just like when I’d tried to remember the last time I’d cried, I couldn’t pinpoint a specific moment in time when I’d been this overcome by a man’s touch. When I’d been this… hot.

This singlehandedly aroused.

I’d never slept around, but I’d been with two men before David. Three, counting him. I’d thought I’d been touched enough to know what physical touch was.

I was apparently wrong.

Because nothing, not one touch or brush or caress or moment of intimacy, had felt like this. Like Cameron’s hands felt on my body—even over my clothes. Like his chest and thighs pressing behind mine. Like his arms engulfing my sides. And this wasn’t even sexual. This was yoga. With farm animals. The man wasn’t trying to arouse me. He didn’t even like me.

God.

Had I fooled myself into believing that what I’d experienced in the past was the norm? That the dispassion I’d felt when David touched me was okay? Or had I been alone for too long after him? Jesus. Had I neglected my body so much that now it was jumping at the chance to be touched? By a man I could hardly talk to without locking horns?

Cameron’s hands guided me into the next position. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be, frankly. My head was chaos. Confusion. And when my chest started to feel tight, one thought solidified. I had to be the problem here. Cameron couldn’t be feeling any of this. I was stiff as a poker.