Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was something women referred to, or maybe it was men—she couldn’t remember which in this moment. She was sated and complete, everything feeling so right, as if all the stars had aligned or something, as she laid against Cameron. He was a hard wall of muscle, and the circle of his arms was a perfect pillow.
The last time, he’d pulled her astride him and let her ride him while his hands guided her, played with her breasts, and touched every inch of her before she cried out his name and fell on top of him, and he’d held her tight for a moment. His hand now was drawing circles on her back, her leg tossed over his, and every bone in her body had turned to a limp noodle. She couldn’t walk if she wanted to, and if she died right now she’d be a happy woman. She pressed a
