More Than Forever
Page 75

He pulls the car over into a parking lot. "Fuck."
Score one for me.
"What the hell are you doing?" he clips.
I bat my eyelashes. "What do you mean?"
He shakes his head, his darkened eyes burning with lust. "You're gonna get me in trouble, Luce."
I try to hide my smile.
He looks around the lot. "Two minutes," he says to himself, before hitting the accelerator. His tires spin as he drives away. He squirms in his seat, continuously adjusting himself.
Score two for me.
***
He takes us to a storage warehouse. "This is... um..."
He laughs once, taking my hand and helping me out of his car. "What? Like that time I took you to see Filmore?"
"A little, yeah."
We walk past five rows of storage units before he stops. "This is me," he informs, pulling keys from his pocket.
I start to shrug out of my jacket, but he stops me. "You might want to leave that on for a little longer."
"Okay?"
He smiles down at me, before holding my face in his hands and kissing me. "I love you, Lucy." He unlocks the door and slides it up.
And my eyes are everywhere, all at once, taking everything in. "What is this?"
"Mom," he says.
"This is your mom? What?"
Heather's laugh kicks sense back into me. "Bye kids," she says. And then she's gone.
"What the hell?"
He slides the door back down and walks over to me.
"I needed Mom's help. That's why she was here. It's also why I told you to keep your jacket on, but now that you're here..." He unbuttons my jacket and slides it off my shoulders, exposing me to him. But my eyes are too busy looking around at the paintings on the wall, the sketches all over the place. There are light boxes and draft tables and a..."Candlelit dinner?"
He laughs. "This is my studio. Mark helped me find it. He leased it out for a year. This is where I came to make your murals and the sketches in your room. I come here to work, study, whatever." He leans against a light box and watches as I take everything in.
"You're starting to paint a lot with colors." I glance at him quickly. "This is amazing, baby."
He doesn't speak. Just continues to watch.
"Are you thinking of changing majors? Change to art?"
He stands next to me now, taking my hand in his. "No. I've realized my passion is in design. The art stuff, that's just for us."
I turn and look up at him. "I'm kind of speechless right now. I'm... I don't know... it just seems wrong for me to say I'm proud of you, because I didn't really do anything to help you but I feel—"
"Of course you did, Luce," he cuts in. "You believed in me. That meant everything."
I blink back the tears and inhale deeply. "So candlelit dinner?"
He nods and then points to the floor.
I drop my gaze. "Rose petals?" I squeal. I hadn't even noticed.
"And," he says, walking over to a fire pit. He spends a few seconds lighting it before he says, "Open fireplace."
I pout. "Like you wanted for our first time?"
He nods again. "This is the first of many first times for us. It doesn't matter that we've experienced it all. It's different this time; there are no questions, no uncertainties. You and me, babe, forever."
Score one million for Cameron.
But I don't mind, because it's score infinity for me.
***
We eat dinner and talk, and laugh, and get to know each other, like it's the first time. And we fall even more in love. Afterwards, he asks me to sit for him on the pullout sofa bed he has in there. So I do. He takes his time sketching me. And every time he looks up from his sketch with a slight smile on his face, he makes me feel beautiful. And I know that I could be wearing what I'm wearing, or I could be wearing my frumpy pajamas, and he'd still look at me that way. Because he always has, and he always will.
He doesn't show me his work when he's finished. He says that it's just for him so I leave it alone. "Now a nude one," he says.
I laugh.
"You think I'm kidding?" He flops on the sofa bed next to me and pulls me to him. "I'll make a deal. You pose nude and I'll get you off. I know you're going crazy."
My jaw drops. "I am not—I can—you don't—it's not—"
His head throws back in laughter. "Luce, you don't think I know what you're doing? I know you. I know your body. I know that it's driving you insane that I haven't touched you."
I pounce on him, and sit on his waist with my knees on either side. "Why haven't you?"
His head lifts off the cushion, just so he can watch his hands roam up my thighs, softly pushing my skirt higher. "I just didn't want to do anything before you were ready. Are you?" he asks sincerely. "I mean emotionally."
I think about his words, and I think about him, and everything he means to me. "Yes."
He licks his lips before sitting up and pulling me closer to him. He kisses me slowly, deeply, for minutes that feel like seconds. And I can't get enough of him. Physically. Emotionally. All of it. His warm hands grip my waist, under my tank.
And then I panic. I push his hands away, and pull back from his kiss.
"What's wrong?"
I swallow the knot in my throat and look away, but his hand on my chin turning me to him doesn't let me stay there for long.
"Babe?"
I try not to cry. I try not to ruin the moment. I really do. But I can't hold it in.
"Hey," he soothes, wrapping me in his arms and rubbing circles in my back. "What's wrong? Talk to me."
"I have a scar," I whisper. "And it's ugly."
Gently, he grasps my shoulders so he can push me away and look in my eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
I shake my head, feeling small and insecure.
He looks away and releases a breath. "I don't know what to say," he admits. "I don't know how to make you feel better about that. All I can say is that I think you're beautiful, every single inch of you—scar or not. And if there's a way that I could prove it, I would. If you feel self-conscious about it, you don't have to show me, but I'd like to see it. It kind of belongs to both of us, don't you think?"
I inhale a confident breath and slowly take my top off. His eyes stay on mine. Then slowly, he flips us over until I'm on my back, and he kisses me. First my mouth, and then down my neck. His tongue darts out, leaving a trail between my breasts. He unhooks my bra, and slowly pulls the straps down each arm. His eyes focus on my breasts. "Beautiful," he murmurs, before paying them individual attention with his mouth. His tongue. His teeth. I close my eyes and let him take me in. His hands tug at my skirt until it's over my hips and down my legs. He kisses my stomach, down to my belly button. Tears fall from my closed eyes when I anticipate his next move—when he sees the ugly scar that mars my so-called-beautiful body. My breath catches when I feel his lips there, an inch above my pubic bone. He places open mouth kisses along the length of it; all four inches. He takes his time, letting my body shake with the sobs that I can't contain. "You're beautiful, Lucy," he croaks. And I cry harder. But he doesn't stop with the kisses, he moves further down my body, removing my panties, my suspenders and my stockings all in one move. He stands at the end of the sofa, his eyes burning with lust. He licks his lips, before dipping his head between my legs.