Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (15 page)

Finding himself on the precipice of falling in love with Margaret, there was, quite simply, nothing he wasn’t willing to do in order to clear a path to her door.

He’d said it to her weeks ago—
When I come for you, there’ll be no half measures, Meggie. When I come for you, I’ll be coming with everything I’ve got.
And now? Now it was time.

Reaching over, he covered her hand with his and curled his fingers around hers. Without turning to him, she ran her thumb lightly over the back of his hand, and Cameron inhaled deeply, his decision settling in his mind with purpose, finality, and the deep satisfaction that he was finally taking his life in the right direction.

“Remember this morning in the lobby?” he asked her.

“Mm-hm,” she murmured, still staring at the musicians on the lawn, a lovely smile playing on her lips.

“Tell me more about how you’re falling for me.”

Her smile burst into a surprised giggle, and she turned to face him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to hear a little more about that.”

She took a deep breath and smiled tenderly before answering, “You make me feel new.”

“What a perfect fucking answer,” he whispered, leaning forward to cup her jaw and capture her lips with his.

He leaned over the arms of the seats, hooked his arm around her back, and pulled her closer as the tip of her tongue swiped over the seam of their lips. He groaned into her mouth, licking her tongue, his lips sealing over hers as she wound her arms around his neck.

Their tongues tangled together, and heat shot like a bullet to his stomach, spreading lower to his cock, which hardened, straining against the denim of his pants. He slid his hand back into her hair, and she changed the position of their lips, tilting her head the other way and sucking his lower lip between hers. And fuck if it didn’t feel so good, he couldn’t help thinking about the other body parts that wanted her lips sucking on them too.

Running his thumb along her jaw, he sucked her tongue into his mouth, listening for her whimper, waiting for the arching of her back and the curling of her fingers against the back of his neck. He trailed his lips slowly down the length of her swanlike neck, lingering just under her ear, where he panted against her skin.

“Let’s go back to the cottage,” she said, her voice breathy and soft, but still urgent.

He nodded, resting his forehead against her neck, his lips close to her throbbing pulse. “Yeah.”

She moved just a little, nuzzling him, opening her throat to him, and he answered her silent plea, pressing hot kisses along the delicate column of her neck until he made his way back to her lips, which he claimed again. Her mouth was open, warm, and wet as he slid his tongue against hers, eliciting a sigh from deep in her throat as her fingers spread into the hair on the back of his head.

“Cameron,” she moaned, her breath ragged and shallow, and he imagined that the muscles deep inside her body were clenching tightly, the way they would if he was buried in her. The thought was so arousing, the reality so completely fucking necessary, he groaned, biting her lip, wishing they were in his bed, or hers—or fuck, just anywhere that wasn’t surrounded by people. He tried to pull her closer, but the barrier of the chairs between them wouldn’t allow it, so he forced himself to pull away from her, feeling frustrated and drugged and in deep.

“The cottage,” he panted, staring at her lovely, dazed face.

She nodded, her well-kissed red lips tilting up into a relieved smile. “The cottage.”

He stood up, took her hands, and without a word they left Harrell Reserve behind and made their way as quickly as possible back to The Five Sisters.

***

Margaret’s racing heart slammed against her chest as they half walked, half ran back down the dirt road that separated the two vineyards. This was happening. She and Cameron were going to go back to her cottage, and they were going to . . . going to . . . Oh God, she could barely believe that, after a lifetime of longing, she was finally going to have what she wanted.

He squeezed her hand as they approached the cottage, then stopped and pulled her into his strong arms.

“You’re sure, Meggie?” he asked, his eyes managing to be desperate and restrained at the same time. They seemed to say that, even though it would take a Herculean effort, he would let her go if she said the word.

“I’m crazy about you, Cameron,” she said, smiling as his lips descended on hers, kissing her gently. She felt his relief in the way his hands, which had been fisted on her lower back, unclenched.

He pulled away, smiling at her with such intensity, she was almost blinded by it.

Almost,
because she was distracted by something behind him.

The door to her cottage was wide open, and she was sure that after dropping off her box of mementos and grabbing a sweater, she’d pulled it closed and locked it.

“What the . . .?” She wiggled away from Cameron and walked up the path to the door.

“Meggie?”

A pile of shattered glass lay on the threshold. Margaret pulled the door toward her to find that the window on the front of the door had been broken. The offending stone still lay on the ground just inside the door.

Cameron pulled her away from the door. His voice was low and clipped. “Don’t go inside. Get your phone out and stay here. I’ll be right back.”

The heart that had beat with passion and excitement only a few minutes before now beat with fear and anger as Margaret wondered who would have defaced her little home like this.

“Cameron?” she called after a few tense minutes.

“Just coming,” he said, his voice tight and furious.

“Can I come in?”

“Wait a sec, okay?”

When he returned, his face was grim. “No one’s inside. But someone was definitely here.”

She whimpered, placing her hands on her hips and looking up at him. “Why?”

He reached for her. “I don’t know, baby.”

“Can—Can I go in?”

He let her go. “Yeah. I’m right behind you. I just want to call the police, okay?”

“The police?”

“This was breaking and entering. Yeah. Definitely we’re calling the police.”

Cameron took his phone out of his back pocket and dialed 911while Margaret made her way into her cottage.

It had always been her treasured heaven, but now it felt unexpectedly foreign to her. Defiled. Even sinister.

In the snug sitting room all of her books had been knocked from the shelves and left in a heap on the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she noted her antique coffee table overturned, one of the legs broken. In the kitchen, the flowered china containers that held flour and sugar had been swiped off the counter and lay in pieces, covered in white powder and granules, on the floor.

With tears streaking down her face, she walked back through the sitting room and up the stairs to her bedroom. Unlike the sitting room and kitchen, her bedroom was mostly untouched, except for the rug at the foot of her bed, which was curled up, like someone had slid under the bed, and a sudden chill rocked through her as she wondered if they were still there.

“Cam!” she screamed. “Cameron!”

Within seconds he’d bolted back into the cottage and up the stairs, his eyes huge and focused, his body taut, on high alert.

“What? What happened?”

“Is anyone under the bed?” she asked in a very small voice.

“No, baby,” he said, pulling her into his arms and pressing his lips to her head. “No one’s here but you and me.”

Her tears fell freely then, wetting his shirt—in thanks for his comforting and protective presence, in frustration for the evening they’d missed out on, in anger for whomever had chosen to target her home.

“I’m s-sorry,” she sniffled, resting her forehead against his damp shirt.

His palms cradled her face, lifting it to face him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m just . . . Who would do this?”

He shook his head, looking terribly sorry and angry. “I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to find out. The police will be here in a few minutes.”

“O-okay. You know, I think I want to s-stay in Philadelphia tonight.”

“I was going to insist.” He brushed his lips against her forehead and pulled her back against his chest. “Did you notice anything missing?”

“Missing?” she asked, inhaling raggedly as she looked over his shoulder.

Wait a second. Missing. Yes.

“The box from this morning. The one with my yearbooks and pictures. It’s gone.”

Cameron loosened his grip on her, looking over his shoulder at the bureau behind him.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes. Remember? I took it from you and brought it upstairs, then grabbed my sweater before we went to Harrell. I put it there on the bureau. It’s gone.”

He crossed the room to check out the bureau just as a car pulled into the cottage driveway.

“Let’s go talk to the police,” he said, holding out his hand.

Once again, she felt profound relief that he was here with her, that she wasn’t alone. “Thank you, Cameron.”

He entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her toward her bedroom door. “Come on, baby. We’ll talk more on the way back to the city.”

***

After the police left, Cameron helped Margaret clean up her kitchen and sitting room. She found some cardboard and duct tape, and they covered the window as best they could. Tomorrow she would call Shawn and ask him to have the glass replaced.

The police seemed capable and said they would look into similar occurrences in the area, in addition to having a squad car patrol the road near the vineyards more regularly. Their theory was that one of the folks at Harrell’s wine tasting had had a little too much to drink and gone looking for trouble, a scenario that seemed possible, though Cameron hadn’t noticed any stumbling miscreants headed in the direction of The Five Sisters.

The whole thing frustrated him. The idea of Margaret’s safety in jeopardy was unbearable. As much as Cameron was disappointed that the break-in had crushed their romantic interlude, he wouldn’t have traded anything for the opportunity to protect and help her. Which is precisely how he knew, on the ride back to Philly, driving with one hand on the wheel and holding her hand with his other, that he wasn’t on the
precipice
of falling in love with Margaret Story. He was already there.

As the city lights drew closer, he spoke softly.

“I need a week.”

“What?” she asked, turning away from the window to face him.

“I told you that when I came for you, there would be no half measures. Well, here I am. I want to be with you, baby. Is that what you want too?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“I just need a week to get my business under control. Will you wait for me?”

“Of course.” She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a long, sweet kiss to his skin.

“Next Saturday I want to pick up exactly where we left off . . . before we got back to the cottage. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Mm-hm,” she murmured. She rested her cheek against the back of his hand before kissing it again. When she finally lowered their hands to the bolster between them, she braided her fingers through his.

“I want to do this right, Meggie. For the first time in my life, I want to look before I leap. But I want you next to me when I jump.”

“We’ll jump together,” she said.

“Is this happening too fast for you?” He looked at her quickly before turning back to the road. “Us?”

“Us,” she answered, smiling as she half spoke, half breathed the word. “No, it doesn’t feel too fast. It just feels . . . right.”

“Next Saturday,” he said. He turned to her as he pulled up in front of their building and shifted the car into park. “I’ll meet you in the lobby again.”

She leaned toward him and reached for his face. “Pack a bag and plan to stay.”

His body responded to her simple request, his blood coursing to his cock in anticipation of spending the night with her. “Done.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“Don’t go back to The Five Sisters without me,” he said gravely. ‘If something happened to you—”

She cut off his words by leaning forward and pressing her sweet lips to his.

There was urgency in her kiss—
goodbye
and
I’ll miss you
and
I can’t wait for next weekend
—but mostly there was a warm woman who tasted of sweet grapes and sunny days, and his heart throbbed with devotion to her.

“See you Saturday,” she whispered near his ear, then opened the car door and closed it behind her.

Staring at the ceiling later that night, Margaret couldn’t fall asleep, wondering who in the world would have broken into her cottage and why they would have stolen a box of personal mementos. It didn’t make any sense at all. Her jewelry box was left untouched, but a box containing old photos and yearbooks was stolen? Those things didn’t mean anything to anyone except her. They certainly couldn’t be sold for any substantial profit.

Suddenly it occurred to her that the FedEx delivery Franklin had given her this morning had been on top of the box too. She groaned. Now she’d have to call her contact, José, at Cava San Luis, and ask him to send a new contract. He wouldn’t be pleased after taking the time to have the first contract hand-delivered on a Saturday, and Margaret wouldn’t look like a very responsible businesswoman.

She reached for her phone and had started writing herself a reminder to call José tomorrow when the phone buzzed in her hands. She closed the note and opened her texts.

Cameron Winslow: Are you awake?

A smile pulled at her lips as her heart fluttered with anticipation.

M. Story: Yes.

Cameron Winslow: I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about today.

M. Story: Which part?

Cameron Winslow: The break-in bothers me. The thought of something happening to you is . . . unacceptable.

Margaret settled back against her pillow and sighed happily despite the fact that they were talking about her cottage being broken into and her property being damaged. He cared about her, and she loved it.

M. Story: I’m fine. It was probably just some stupid kids, or someone who drank too much next door. You don’t have to worry about me.

Cameron Winslow: Too late.

M. Story: There were other parts of today that were more . . .

Her fingers paused as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth.

Cameron Winslow: Pleasant?

M. Story
:
My thoughts exactly.

Cameron Winslow: That kiss at Harrell. Christ, Meggie, where’d you learn to kiss like that?

M. Story: Where did you?

Cameron Winslow: Bree Ambler.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed with jealousy at the thought of Bree Ambler touching Cameron. She didn’t care that they’d probably been teenagers when it happened. It still made her bristle . . . and recall a certain summer when she and Bree’s brother Dash had spent a little time together as well.

M. Story: Dash Ambler.

Cameron Winslow: Shit! Why did you tell me that? I could have happily lived my life without picturing you and Dash getting it on. Great. Now I’m going to have to kill a childhood friend in cold blood.

M. Story: Well, picturing you and Bree makes me superhappy too. So I guess we’re even.

Cameron Winslow: The Amblers were pretty racy.

She giggled, nodding her head.

M. Story: And the Rousseaus were sophisticated.

Cameron Winslow: And the Englishes were Boy Scouts.

M. Story: And the Winslows were wild.

Cameron Winslow: This Winslow’s wild . . . for a Story girl.

Her heart fluttered as she touched his words with the pad of her index finger.

M. Story: The Storys were . . .

Cameron Winslow: Proper. (Except Priscilla.)

Proper. Margaret sighed. She knew this, of course, but she didn’t necessarily like it. She didn’t want to be prim and proper Margaret Story. She wanted to be the girl Cameron saw when he looked at her—the woman he kissed like the world was ending. Seduction wasn’t necessarily in her toolbox, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn how to put it there.

Cameron Winslow: Meggie? You still there?

M. Story: Tell me a dirty fantasy. One that you’ve had about me.

***

Cameron stared at his phone, his eyes widening in surprise, and his heart sped up as every filthy fantasy he’d ever had about Margaret Story crammed with lightning speed into his consciousness. Was she serious? His erection was thickening under the sheets, and Cameron slid one hand down his naked body to cover it with his palm, feeling it twitch and throb under his fingers.

Fuck.
He needed both hands to type, so he flipped over onto his stomach and rubbed himself against the sheets.

Cameron Winslow: I’m sorry. My brain just short-circuited from a lack of oxygen. The blood all went somewhere else. Can you repeat the question, please?

M. Story: LOL. Tell me a dirty dream that you’ve had about me.

Cameron Winslow: A fantasy or a dream?

M. Story: Either one.

Cameron Winslow: How dirty? Slightly smutty or offensively filthy?

M. Story: What’s in the middle?

Cameron Winslow: Down and dirty.

M. Story: Let’s start there.

“Fuck,” whispered Cameron, thrusting his hips slowly against the mattress so that the base of his cock felt the full pressure of his body weight. He groaned softly as he gripped the phone.

Cameron Winslow: Seriously?

M. Story: Seriously.

Cameron Winslow: Will you erase these messages after I tell you?

M. Story: No promises.

Cameron Winslow: You’ll keep it? Fuck, that’s even hotter.

M. Story: I might require them for later reference.

He groaned again, flexing his hips and rolling them so that his erection strained, hot and pulsing, between his stomach and the mattress.

Cameron Winslow: You’re blowing my mind.

M. Story: Just your mind?

Cameron Winslow: Where’s buttoned-up Meggie, the little librarian?

M. Story: Ah . . . “The librarian” again. Let’s start there.

Even though he was aroused to the point of pain, Cameron chuckled softly at her perceptiveness, loving how it made this entire conversation more intimate. Christ, how he wanted her. A week felt like forever.

Cameron Winslow: Are you sure about this? Once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop . . .

***

Margaret took a deep breath, then whimpered softly as she exhaled.

The hell of it was that he was literally
feet
away from her. Just a short elevator ride and a few steps down the corridor and she could be in his arms. But he’d asked for a week, and she’d given him the week because she wanted to be a priority to the next man she dated. She respected the fact that he was trying to sort out his life to make room for her. Well, her
mind
respected it. Her body—hot and bothered, writhing under the covers—was another matter.

She stared at his text.

Was
she sure? Could she handle whatever he was about to share with her? Her sex life had never been the most prolific part of her personal history, most boys mistaking her proper exterior for a proper interior, but the reality was that Margaret Story’s blood ran as hot as anyone else’s when there was something—or
someone
—she wanted.

M. Story: I’m ready.

Cameron Winslow: Damn.

M. Story: And waiting.

Cameron Winslow: Okay . . . here goes. It’s because of the way I’d see you in the elevator or coming and going from the building. Almost always in a business suit and silk blouse. High heels. Pearls around your neck. Perfect hair slicked back in a tight bun. And those sexy fucking glasses. That’s where it all started.

M. Story: Go on.

Cameron Winslow: So sometimes I’d imagine you getting on the elevator, and when the doors closed, instead of standing off to the side and accusing me of disliking you, you’d turn to me and start unbuttoning your blouse.

M. Story: In the elevator?

Cameron Winslow: The location’s irrelevant. Stop interrupting.

M. Story: Keep going.

Cameron Winslow: So you’d unbutton your blouse, and underneath it you’d have on a sheer black bra, and the tips of your breasts would be . . . hard.

Hard.

Oh. God.

She held her phone in one hand and ran her other hand under her T-shirt, over her soft, flat belly to one of her nipples, which was—just as Cameron fantasized—hard as a pebble under the light caress of her fingers.

Cameron Winslow: I’d take a step toward you, and, without asking, I’d reach for your breast, cover it with my hand, then dip my head and . . .

She fumbled for her phone, typing awkwardly with one hand.

M. Story: And?

Cameron Winslow: Put my mouth on you.

A rush of hot wetness flooded between her thighs, and Margaret groaned softly, flexing her inner muscles, rubbing and pinching her nipples, first one, then the other.

M. Story: More.

Cameron Winslow: Are you touching yourself? Right now?

M. Story: More, Cam. Please.

Cameron Winslow: I’d rip your blouse open, and you’d unhook your bra while I reached around you and unzipped your skirt. It would fall to the ground and you’d be standing there naked except for some lacy black underwear and your heels. And that pulled-back hair. And those glasses hiding your brown eyes.

M. Story: And then?

Cameron Winslow: The glasses come off first. Slowly. On purpose. Then I pull the pins from your hair, and you shake it free. That’s when I kiss you.

M. Story: Like today.

Cameron Winslow: Exactly like today, except your body’s practically naked, and my hands are everywhere.

M. Story: Where?

Cameron Winslow: On your breasts, on your back, touching your face, squeezing your ass, dipping into those black lace panties, hooking my fingers into them. Tell me you’re touching yourself, Meggie.

Her palm fluttered down, over her stomach and under her pajama bottoms, her middle finger sliding into the valley between her thighs to find her clit moist and firm. The mere touch of her finger made her shiver.

She managed to type with one hand.

M. Story: I am.

Cameron Winslow: Fuck, this is hot.

M. Story: More.

Cameron Winslow: I fall to my knees, the motion sending your panties to your ankles, and I lean forward, inhaling you, spreading your legs, and then . . .

She was rubbing faster and faster, moaning as she stared at the words on the tiny screen, the pressure in her body building, soaring higher and higher and higher . . .

Cameron Winslow: I taste you.

She whimpered again, her eyes rolling back, then opening again so she could read the rest.

Cameron Winslow: I lap at your flesh. I suck on your clit. I lick tiny circles around it until your knees buckle. I press a palm to your stomach to hold you up and bury a finger deep inside you while my lips kiss and suck that sweet little button just above.

Her moans were louder now, and she didn’t care. She was alone in her apartment, and with any luck, he’d hear her through the floor and know she’d never enjoyed a text conversation so much in her entire life.

Cameron Winslow: Another finger joins the first. Your fingers are wound so tightly in my hair that it hurts, but I fucking love the sounds you’re making so I don’t complain. I lick that sweet honey, fucking you with my fingers until . . .

“Please. Please. Oh God, please . . .” She arched against her hand, making sure to keep her eyes glued to the screen.

Cameron Winslow: You come against my mouth.

She dropped her phone and climaxed. In glorious, toe-curling, strangled-sound-making, fists-clenched-in-her-sheets perfection, she trembled as her body pulsed and rushed, her head pressed back into her pillow, her feet digging into her mattress, her body limp and sated when she finally picked up her phone again.

The messages had piled up.

Cameron Winslow: Meggie?

Cameron Winslow: You still there?

Cameron Winslow: Baby, are you still there?

And then . . .

Cameron Winslow: Fuck. Was that too much?

She sighed decadently.

M. Story: That was perfect.

Cameron Winslow
:
LOL. You’re back.

M. Story: I’m back. Is there more?

Cameron Winslow: Of course there’s more.

Margaret moaned, flipping over onto her stomach, readying herself for round two.

M. Story: Go ahead.

Cameron Winslow: No.

She frowned, leaning up on her elbows.

M. Story: Yes.

Cameron Winslow: No. You don’t get any more tonight. One orgasm per sext conversation.

He was audacious and dirty, protective and caring. And funny. Feeling drowsy and limp after coming so hard, she grinned lazily at her phone.

M. Story: Fine . . . but what about you?

Cameron Winslow: I’m holding out for the real thing on Saturday.