chapter 10
1148 Words
Chapter 10
Camile – POV
His voice did something to me.
Not just the way he growled it like a promise, but the way it carried something deeper—possessiveness, apology, longing. Maybe even love. Maybe.
But I didn’t ask for love.
I asked for loyalty.
I let him lay me back on the bed, my breath catching as his weight hovered over me, his lips ghosting across my collarbone like he was trying to memorize me. My thighs tightened around him instinctively, my hands still gripping his shoulders, skin hot and trembling beneath my fingertips.
This wasn’t just s*x.
Not this time.
Barry didn’t tear my clothes off like a man starved—he peeled them from me like they were something sacred. His hands, once harsh and commanding, now moved like he was trying to make amends with every glide of his palm. My breath hitched when his fingers brushed down the valley between my breasts, across my stomach, and lower… slower… like time didn’t matter. Like it was just us in this broken world.
“Say it again,” I whispered, eyes meeting his in the dim light.
His lips quirked into something soft. “That you’re mine?”
I nodded, jaw tight.
He leaned in and kissed my sternum, then lower, his voice muffled against my skin. “You’re mine, Camile. No ghost, no memory, no other woman’s name will change that.”
My eyes stung, but I blinked the emotion away. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t going to cry like some fairytale princess just because my husband finally chose me.
Still… the way he touched me—like I was his salvation and his sin—made it hard to breathe.
When he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t rough or fast. It was slow—agonizingly slow—like we were rewriting all the pain we’d carved into each other’s bones. My legs wrapped tighter around his waist, anchoring him to me. Our foreheads touched, breaths mingling. My fingers traced the nape of his neck, his back, every scar I’d learned over the years.
The only sound in the room was our mingled breathing, the soft creak of the bed, and the kind of sighs you only make when your heart finally catches up with your body.
“Barry…” I moaned softly, my voice raw, guttural. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He moved slow, deep, precise—every thrust like punctuation to words we hadn’t yet dared say. And when I clenched around him, my body arching from the bed, he groaned my name like it hurt to hold it in.
We came together—messy, real, aching—and collapsed in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat.
I rolled onto my side, letting my hand rest on his chest. His heartbeat was still wild beneath my palm. And I could feel it—that shift. Something unspoken passed between us.
For once, he wasn’t thinking about her.
He was here. With me.
“Are you going to stare at me all day or say something sassy?” Barry asked, his voice still breathless but laced with that stupid smirk I hated loving.
I scoffed. “You got one decent stroke game and suddenly you want to have a conversation?”
He chuckled, that low rumble vibrating against my cheek. “That wasn’t decent. That was god-tier.”
“Delusion’s a disease,” I muttered, biting back my smile.
He reached over and smacked my ass lightly. “I’ll show you delusion.”
“Touch me again and I’ll knee you in the balls.”
He raised a brow. “You’re moaning two seconds ago, and now you’re threatening my lineage?”
“Balance, baby,” I whispered, tracing a finger down his chest. “I’m a Libra.”
He rolled off the bed and grabbed his briefs, slipping them on as he headed toward the door. “I’m gonna make something to eat.”
I blinked. “Wait. You?”
He paused, turning back. “Yeah. Me.”
“For real?”
He tilted his head. “What, you think I can’t cook?”
I snorted. “Barry, the last time you touched a frying pan, the fire alarm had a panic attack.”
“That was five years ago.”
“And what? Your culinary skills evolved overnight?”
He just smirked and left the room.
I sat up, wrapping the blanket around me like some confused, half-naked empress. My heart was doing that annoying flutter thing again. Not because of the s*x—though, damn—it was because he cared enough to try. To do something simple. Something soft.
Barry wasn’t a soft man.
I got dressed slowly, slipping into his shirt instead of mine. The fabric hung loose on me, smelling like his cologne and sweat and something deeply familiar.
When I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.
He was there.
No shirt. Boxers hanging dangerously low on his hips. A spatula in one hand, eggs sizzling in the pan. He was humming. Humming, for f*ck’s sake.
I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You look like a husband,” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes raking me in. “You look like my next bad decision.”
I laughed. It was short, sharp, but real. “You really trying to be domestic now?”
He flipped the egg like a chef. “I’m trying to be a man who makes breakfast after nearly crying on his wife’s tits.”
“Nearly?” I walked over, sliding behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. “You were sobbing.”
“You’re delusional.”
“No. I’m sassy. There’s a difference.”
He turned around, egg forgotten, and pulled me up onto the counter, settling between my thighs. His hands rested on my hips, eyes locked on mine.
“I know I hurt you.”
I tensed, instinctively defensive.
“And I know I’ve been stuck in the past,” he added, voice low. “But this… you and me? I want to try. I want to stop being the guy who looks backward.”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Because I didn’t know if I believed him.
But I wanted to.
So I kissed him again—gentle, slow, like the way he held me last night.
When I pulled back, I whispered, “You burn the eggs and I’m divorcing you.”
He smirked, grabbing the spatula. “I’ll make pancakes to win you back.”
“Pancakes and a foot rub. And maybe, maybe, I’ll let you survive.”
He grinned wide, boyish and beautiful. “Deal.”
And for once, it didn’t feel like pretending.
It felt like the beginning of something reckless and real.
Something only two crazy people like us could survive.
- Writer
