EIGHT: Reality Sucks

8:47AM

Cam's breath let out in a ragged moan as his hands slid from her ultra-sensitve breasts to her damp back, trailing his fingers along her spine. Awareness chased embarrassment and she tried to scramble off of him. He held her hips tight and she could still feel the hard press of his erection at her thigh. Oh God, what had she done? Loose with sleep she hadn't thought twice about curling into him. It had been so very long since she'd touched anyone--since she'd let anyone close enough to even think about touching her.

 

And he'd been so giving. She met his eyes, seeing the strain around his eyes and the tight jaw, she dropped her hands to his jeans to release him. He stopped her hands, brushing his nose against hers just like he'd done all those years ago. Eskimo kisses. She tried again, but he held her tighter, his eyes went from sleepy sex to clear. "No, Cam."

 

"But you--"

 

"I wanted just that."

 

Disbelief rode her about as hard as she'd just ridden him. She still couldn't believe she'd done that. "A girl dry humping you? I don't think so."

 

His lips twitched. "Best dry hump I've had since I was sixteen." He smoothed his hand down her hair. "If and when you decide you want more I'm game, sweetheart, don't think I'm not."

 

He shifted against her and she could see just how willing he was. Which was why she was so confused. Even before Lucas, she'd been with enough men to know that when it came to sex, there was little that a man could do to de-rail the need.

 

"Don't look at me like that." His voice was smokey and low. "I've got more control than the average bear, but I'm not a masochist."

 

She climbed off of him, and he let her this time. Uncomfortable with her own reaction to him, not to mention that he'd crawled into her bed and she hadn't been aware of it, she went into the bathroom without a backward glance. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, distracted by the well loved looking woman in the mirror. His hands hand been in her hair, his mouth at her neck--at...She closed her eyes in memory of his lips trailing down her neck, the tip of his tongue at her scar. How could he stand to touch it?

 

She opened the door in time to see Jon, tugging his shirt off, an overnighter settled in the tangled sheets as if it belonged there. Unnerved, her eyes skipped to his back where a series of freckles and muscles had her itching to touch. She'd felt that chest, and it was distracting as hell, but his back? There were muscles in places she didn't even know there could be muscles.

She closed her eyes. Now was not the time to be thinking about Jon's body. She curled her fingers into a stack of turtleneck sweaters, grabbing whatever was on top. Her jeans from the day before were draped over her reading chair--her underwear was in her armoire across the room, dammit.  

 

Jon looked over his shoulder, his eyes steady on hers as he stood there without his shirt. Disconcerted and itching to touch and to memorize all of him, anger replaced lust. She lifted her chin and stalked across the room. There was no need to be nervous. They were two adults and--

 

She closed her eyes. Two adults that had one marriage and one psychopath between them. Stupid, Cam...very stupid. A heavy pounding at the door startled her enough that she dropped all her clothes. 

 

"Jon? Ms. Blaise?" 

 

Jon bent down and picked up her clothes. "It's okay. It's Bruce, my private investigator friend."  He folded her hands around the pile of cotton and denim. "It's okay, Cam." He kissed her forehead, the line of chest hair that arrowed down his belly brushed her fingers bringing the lust back like a tidal wave. He grabbed his shirt and strode out before she could get a word out.

 

"Dammit," she muttered and dressed quickly. It was her house, her choice whether she let someone in. By the time she got into the room, Jon had his hands thrust into his pockets, the muscles of his arms locked and bulging under the close fitting t-shirt. The man that had to be Bruce was stocky where Jon was lean, his chest and shoulders had the look of a football player retired and gone a little soft around the edges. Salt and pepper hair that leaned heavily into the pepper was thick and unruly. Bruce wore all black in what looked like television SWAT gear with a gun strapped to his thigh and a holster at his back with another menacing black gun.

 

He turned to her, and intelligent dark eyes assessed her quickly. He held out his hand. "I'm Bruce Coltrane." His skin was of the dark, mixed race tones, with a nose that had been broken more than once. He was arresting and comforting all at once. Not especially handsome, but a face that made her want to break out her charcoals.

 

She shook his hand, quickly dropping it and folding her arms. "Cam Blaise."

 

"Jon tells me that you're convinced staying here is a good idea?"

 

She stiffened. "Yes, I think knowing my territory is better than going off somewhere that you deem safe."

 

One dark brow arched. He glanced at Jon, then back to her. "Then we'll be making this house as safe as possible and that means you don't leave this house without me, or one of my men for any reason. I don't care if you want to take a walk, I don't care if you want to go into town for a soda, you don't leave without an escort."

 

She shot a look at Jon. "So I'm a prisoner?"

 

Jon shrugged. "Yep."

 

Cam's fingers curled into fists under her arms. She'd been there done that and would not be doing it again, no matter what kind of good intentions he had. "You do know that if Lucas wants to kill me, he'll kill me. It doesn't matter how good you are Mr. Coltrane. He'll simply kill you like he did that poor officer." She turned to Jon. "And he'll kill you too."

 

Jon met her eyes. "He wants to show me up, Cam. He's not going to kill me unless he can do it face to face. He's not going to pick me off like that."

 

Anger blindsided her, erasing the cool detatchment she wanted so badly. "Oh and you're a profiler now, Mr. Rock and Roll?"

 

He shook his head. "I know people. I make my living reading people, and I'm the only person--hell, the only man, that has taken you away from him. He wants me almost as bad as he wants you."

 

"I--"

 

"I agree with Jon," Bruce said quietly.

 

Cam swiveled her head around to her new bodyguard. "You agree with him? And you're the professional?"

 

Bruce smiled tightly. "If you want a list of my credentials you can have it Ms. Blaise, but I work for Jon."

 

Rage squelched off the ability to scream at both of them. Didn't they know that Lucas could kill any and all of them? "Right, so the boss is always right? Even though it could get him killed?"

 

"While I respect my clients wishes, they know before they hire me that I'm the last word on any of these decisions. I've been watching over you for two years Ms. Blaise and you didn't even know it. Don't underestimate me."

 

She rubbed her arms. "That may well be, but don't underestimate Lucas. He's insane and that's a whole different kind of animal, Mr. Coltrane."

 

"I agree, that's why I want you in a safe house."

 

"What? So Lucas can just wait until you can't protect me anymore?"

 

"I can protect you for three lifetimes, Cam," Jon said quietly.

 

"Why?" Before he could answer her, she went back to her room and slammed the door. Why did he care so much? Why did he want to get himself killed for her? She wasn't worth all this. She gathered a bag and dumped clothes and a sketchbook inside it. Maybe if she disappeared then she wouldn't have to worry about getting anyone else killed.

 

It killed her to leave this little house, but any more blood on her hands and she'd lose whatever was left of her mind. She couldn't stand the thought of being under lock and key again--no way, no how.

 

She'd just have to wait for the right time, she thought as she stuffed the bag under her bed. When everyone was asleep.