She lets out the smallest of yelps, her hands finding the fabric of my shirt the moment I pull her within reach. I’d changed at the gallery, opting for a quarter-zip sweater and a pair of dark jeans.
Her thighs straddle one of mine as I pull her even closer to me, lining her face up with mine.
“I don’t want to get you sick, though,” she mutters, her eyes trained on my lips. Both our chests are heavy as we gulp in air, lost in the moment together.
“Does it look like I give a shit about being sick?”
“I’ll take care of you if you do get sick. Please just kiss me.”
“I didn’t come here to kiss you.”
“I’d be okay with it if you did,” she admits, leaning in even closer until our lips brush against one another, achingly close to fully closing the distance between us.
34
PIPPA
I wake up with a warm body pressed against mine. An arm is thrown over my middle, fingertips barely tucked in the waistband of my pants.
Camden stayed all night. I remember waking up multiple times throughout the night with his palm pressed to my forehead. As if he’d woken worrying if I had a fever or not. I haven’t had a fever since he first showed up yesterday morning, but the fact he spent his night ensuring I didn’t spike another one means more to me than I care to admit.
He slept with me all night. We’d spent so much of the evening kissing, making out like a pair of teenagers. Anytime I’d try to push it further, he’d stop me with promises of more when my body was ready for him.
It only thrilled me more, despite the aggravation that coursed through my veins at not being able to have him at that very moment. The night was perfect anyway. We spent it talking about my mom, his gran, and everything that led us to where we are now.
He’s far more fascinating than I thought he’d be. I carefully roll over, finding his eyes shut and the muscles of his face relaxed as he sleeps soundly. I think about everything I learned about the man holding me.
I learned that our birthdays are only a week apart. Except I’ll be turning twenty-four, and he’ll be turning thirty-seven. I look at him and can’t believe he’s closer to forty than he is thirty. Every part of me wants to reach out and trace his sharp cheekbones, straight nose, his chiseled jaw. I fight the urge, not wanting to wake him. I’m enjoying being able to look at him—soak this moment in—without him knowing. I’m sure women pay tons of money to have skin as flawless as his. There’s not a single wrinkle on his face as he sleeps, which is shocking; with the amount he frowns, he should have prominent frown lines. It’s unfair men don’t have to take care of their skin the way women do and their skin remains flawless.
One thing does take me by surprise. It’s a jagged scar that’s right behind his ear and travels to his jaw. It’s long, but the line is so thin that it’s hard to notice until you’re this close to him. My fingers itch to trace it. To wake him up and find out what it’s from.
I want to know everything about Camden Hunter. And while I learned last night that he spent his life looking forward to school because he was shipped off to boarding school, where he got away from his parents, and that he graduated top of his class, I still want to know more. He did fill me in that he would’ve been valedictorian, but his best friend beat him to it. I laughed, hearing about the stories of him and his closest friend, Beckham Sinclair. I remember him from Slopes the night Camden and I first met, but more from the time I dropped off cupcakes for Beckham’s wedding, where Camden was the best man—and a complete asshole.
I learned that Camden wouldn’t take any money from his family to start his gallery. And at first, he started online because he didn’t have the money to rent a space until a year after opening. He didn’t say it out loud, but I could tell that he wasn’t proud of his last name. That he still dwells on the fact he thinks some of his success was because of it.
Not realizing I’m doing it, I reach out and run my palm along his jaw. His facial hair scratches against my palm. His eyelids flutter open, the crystal-clear color of his eyes taking me by surprise. I’d never seen a blue so clear. I think I’d told him that last night as we drifted off to sleep, staring into each other’s eyes. They remind me of the clear waters I see in the movies from all the places I hope to visit one day.
“Hi.” His voice is rough and gravelly, the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Good morning,” I whisper, running my thumb along his cheek.