His gloriously rough hand traces down my thigh, setting me ablaze as he grips my knee, raising it, and changes the angle of our meeting. I cry out, my nails digging into his back as my walls collapse around him in a ripple of seemingly endless fireworks and heat. Cameron stiffens under my hands and thrusts once, twice, three times more, his grip almost painful on my hips as he crumples forward, his finishing groan buried in my skin. I press soft, open-mouth kisses in a path from his ear over his cheekbones and back. He straightens, pulling from me, and I whimper at the loss of his heat.

“Deliciously frustrated?” he teases, when at last he finds his voice.

“Sorry.” I shrug and smirk as his eyes follow my breasts. “I meant to say horny. I was distracted into using big words. Speaking of…” I smirk again, self-satisfied, and his lips spread into a grin, even as his green eyes don’t stray from my bouncing nipples.

“The lighting in your workshop is impeccable.”

“I know,” I say. When he finally looks up, I make a point of dragging my eyes over every ridge and dip of his body, noticing the way a certain part of him seems to rise under my attention.

My eyes flicker to his and he grins, almost sheepish. “I told you, I brought three. Once will never be enough.”

“I’ve been wondering about that workbench over there,” I say. “Just got it. It’s an antique.”

“Think it’s sturdy?”

“Only one way to find out.”

22

CAMERON

I’M YOURS

KEVIN: Hey man. You should stop in when you get home.

CAMERON: I’m pretty beat. Rushing toward the finish line on the house. Rain check?

KEVIN: What I meant to say is your dad is here.

CAMERON: …

CAMERON: Fuck.

KEVIN: Sorry.

I pull my truck into my reserved parking space behind the distillery and shut off the engine. The darkness covers me, and my ears ring from the sudden quiet. There’s no way my dad is here for a good reason, and I don’t have the energy for anything else. I contemplate sneaking up the stairs to my apartment and leaving him high and dry.

But that would be the old Riggs. Running away is something I don’t do anymore, for better or, it seems, for worse.

I swing open the truck door, slamming it harder than necessary behind me, and stride in through the employee entrance of the bar. Normally, I’d stop and chat with the dishwashers or Beth, but I’m all business tonight. Any interaction with Paul Riggs is always business. I come out from behind the bar and Kevin nods toward a dimly lit corner of the seating area.

“What’s he nursing?”

“Water.”

Figures.

I consider mixing myself something strong for fortitude but decide against it. He’s my dad. Stop being such a tool and walk over there and sit down.