Page 24

CHAPTER 23

Little Victories Bucket List No. 45: Give yourself the gift of love

Cammie stood just inside the doorway of his house, the soft click of the door closing behind her sounding louder than it should. The air inside was warm, familiar in a way that made her chest ache. She could still hear the echoes of his confession—his voice rough with guilt and honesty. And her own, steady reply: I forgive you.

She meant it.

Even now, with the weight of truth between them, she didn’t feel shaken. Just . . . closer. Like the final veil had lifted between them. He hadn’t just trusted her with his past. He’d trusted her with his shame. And somehow, that meant more than all the sweet things he’d said before.

Jeeves was quiet behind her, giving her space—but the pull between them was magnetic. She turned to find him watching her, his eyes dark with emotion, edged with something else. Something deeper.

Need.

But it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or demanding. It was deferential. Like he was waiting for her to decide.

“I’m not mad,” she said softly, stepping closer.

His brow furrowed. “You should be.”

“Maybe. But I’m tired of holding walls up just to keep people out. You told me the truth. That’s what matters.”

She touched his chest lightly, feeling the rhythm of his heart under her fingertips. It was pounding. And so was hers.

His hand came up to rest over hers, warm and solid. “You still trust me?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The space between them disappeared in an instant. His mouth was on hers—gentle, searching. There was something different in this kiss. Something deeper. Something freer. His lips moved against hers with a reverence that melted through her, and when he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, she nodded, breathless.

“Yes,” she whispered.

That was all he needed.

He led her up the stairs, every step deliberate, as if giving her time to change her mind. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Her fingers tangled with his, and when they reached his bedroom, she stepped into the space first.

She turned to him, nervous but certain. “I want this. I want you .”

Emotion flickered across his face—relief, awe, something protective and tender all at once. He closed the distance and cupped her face in his hands.

“You have me,” he said. “All of me.”

And when he kissed her again, there was no hesitation—just heat and trust, built on the foundation of everything they’d laid bare.

He lifted her into his arms. She loved how easily he did that. Like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his hips, feeling his hardness where she wanted it most. She was instantly wet, her panties soaked through.

Tearing her mouth from his, she gasped, “Wade. Please.”

“Patience, sprite.” He walked them to the bed. “I’ve got you.”

His actions contradicted his words as he dropped her onto the mattress. She giggled as she bounced. But then her laughter died when he hovered over her. The look in his eyes told her he wanted to devour her, but didn’t know where to start. She helped him out by grabbing the hem of her shirt and lifting it off over her head. Then she removed her bra. She loved watching how his pupils dilated as desire consumed him. She did that to him. It filled her with an incredible sense of empowerment.

He kissed her, then ran his lips across her jaw, down her throat, between her breasts, then over to suck a nipple deep into the warm recesses of his mouth. She gasped and arched her back. He slipped one arm behind her, his warm palm resting on her spine as he held her to him. He feasted on her, moving from one breast to the other. She was mindless with need.

He worked her pants off as she lost herself in the feel of him over and around her. Then he was moving lower. “How attached are you to these panties?” he asked.

“They’re just panties. Nothing special.”

“Good,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper, before yanking at the waistband until the fabric tore.

“Oh my,” she cried. She may have been a virgin just a few days ago, but even she knew how hot that was.

He stared at her core, and she fought the need to close her legs. To hide herself away from his scrutiny. His breath, warm and intimate, brushed against her most private area as he murmured, “So beautiful. So mine.”

He was going for off the charts on the hotness meter. His words making her gush for him.

With his tongue, he swiped at her slit. Her hips jerked, and he placed an arm across her stomach to hold her in place. Again, he feasted. Devouring her until she was a writhing mess.

“Come for me, sprite,” he urged before sucking on her clit and pushing two fingers inside her. “Now.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but her body responded to his demand. She came apart with his name on her lips.

Before she’d even come back down, he was naked and pulling her on top of him. She straddled his hips and lowered herself down onto him, wondering when he’d had time to put on the condom. They both groaned as he stretched her.

“Ride me, sprite.”

And she did. She moved her hips, testing what felt good. They hadn’t tried this position yet, and she didn’t know exactly what to do, but instinct took over. She ground her clit against his pubic bone. She lifted herself, then dropped back down. Over and over until her leg muscles quivered. Then he took over. His hands gripped her waist and held her in place as he thrust up from below.

Feeling brave, she reached up and pinched her own nipple, which sent a shockwave down to her core.

“That’s it, sprite. Touch yourself.” She pinched the other one. “Rub your clit. Make yourself come,” he ordered.

She blushed, but then did as he said. But before she could touch herself, he said, “Wait,” and grabbed her hand. He brought it to his mouth and sucked her fingers, licking them until they were wet. “Now. Touch yourself.”

Hotness meter in overdrive. She moved her wet fingers to her clit and rubbed circles. Soon, she was breathless and moaning. Her release just on the brink. “Do it, sprite. Come. Come now,” he called out through gritted teeth as if he was holding off on his own release to wait for her.

Just as hot.

She exploded with a keening cry, a sound she didn’t even know she was capable of making. He followed her over, thrusting deep and holding her there as they came together.

When it was over, she collapsed onto his chest, breathing heavily. “Oh my God. It just keeps getting better,” she declared.

“Only because it's with you,” he replied.

“Only because it's with us ,” she corrected.

Later, the room was wrapped in a hush, the kind that settles only after something sacred. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm halo across the sheets, their bodies tangled beneath them, legs brushed and hearts still echoing the rhythm they'd just shared.

She lay nestled into his side, her cheek resting against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath lulling her into serenity. One hand rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath her palm. It grounded her—he grounded her.

He held her like she was precious. Like she wasn’t something shattered, just something he cherished—flaws and all.

And it made her ache in places she didn’t know still had feeling.

As he played with her hair, she traced lazy circles against his pecs with the tip of her finger, unsure if she was stalling or searching for courage. Maybe both.

“My mom left when I was eight,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against the hush of the room. “One morning she walked me up to this gigantic mansion, handed me a note and told me to wait there and give it to whoever answered the door. She rang the bell, then turned and was just gone. No goodbye. Nothing.”

She felt his fingers still in her hair, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to fill the silence or fix it. He just let her speak.

“I used to imagine she would come back for me,” she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the hush between them. “That she had a reason for leaving. That it wasn’t because I wasn’t enough.”

He still didn’t speak. He listened. Letting her have the space, the silence to say what had been buried too long.

“I waited for years. Birthdays. Christmases. Every car that slowed outside the house made me hope.” She swallowed, eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling. “But she never came back.”

“My father . . . he didn’t know what to do with me. And he didn’t try to learn. He didn’t raise me. He ruled me. I was more like furniture in his house—something expected to be useful, silent, invisible unless needed.”

His arm tightened around her ever so slightly, as if he could will himself into her past and rewrite it.

“I wasn’t a daughter to him—I was a thing. Something to clean up after him. Cook. Stay out of sight. Speak when spoken to.” She paused, then added, “When I cried, he told me I was weak. When I smiled, he reminded me I hadn’t earned it.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed through. “He never hugged me. Never told me he loved me. Just gave orders and punishments. I wasn’t a daughter—I was a burden. A servant.”

She felt him tense slightly, like he wanted to hurt the man who had hurt her, but his arms only pulled her closer.

“I used to think something was wrong with me,” she continued softly. “That I wasn’t lovable. That love was always supposed to come with conditions or pain.”

She lifted her head then, propped herself up on one elbow to look at him, her eyes glistening but open, unflinching.

“And then you,” she said. “You looked at me like I was worth knowing. You were patient. You never asked for more than I could give, never made me feel small. And somewhere along the way . . . you taught me what love is.”

The dim light caught the lines of his face, softened the intensity in his eyes. He looked at her like she mattered—like her scars didn’t make her unlovable, but more real. Her voice cracked at the edges, but she didn’t hide it.

“You let me be myself. You listened when I didn’t know how to speak. You waited when I didn’t know how to trust. And you showed me love . . . not with words, but with every quiet thing you do.”

He started to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, a tremulous smile breaking through.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you because you saw me when no one else ever did. Because you gave me something I didn’t think existed. Because with you . . . I feel like I can breathe.”

He kissed her fingers, slowly and tenderly, and pulled her into his chest.

And for the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged—like maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t something to survive.

It was something to live in. Something free. Something wonderful.

“I love you too, sprite,” he whispered against her hair. She closed her eyes and absorbed those words. They were heartfelt. Honest. True. “I’m in awe that you are giving that to me. That you are able to love so freely. I grew up surrounded by love. My parents, grandparents, extended family―there was always love and laughter. My mom still gives me that in each phone call to check up on me. I closed myself off from it for a long time. I didn’t let that love in. I didn’t feel worthy.”

He paused and looked deeply into her eyes, like he could see a simple truth in her soul. “I learned from you that love isn’t about self-worth, but about acceptance. It’s not a performance or a feeling to be manufactured, it’s simply being present in the moment. And I want to be present in every moment with you.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. A solemn kind of kiss. One that said everything without words.

And in that moment, held tightly in the arms of the only man who had ever truly seen her, she finally understood what it meant to be home.