Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(38)

Stifling his caveman instincts wasn’t exactly an easy feat, however, and without taking his eyes off Margaret, he turned to the bar and ordered a dry martini. Taking a throat-burning gulp, he stared at her over the wide rim of the glass, feeling a small measure of relief when an almost unrecognizable Priscilla Story entered the ballroom on her own and took Olson’s other arm. Dressed in a conventional white floor-length gown with sheer white sleeves and a prim chignon, she was the very picture of traditional grace and elegance . . . which surprised Cameron for two reasons: one, because she’d always been the wild sister, and two, because she was looking at Olson like he hung the moon.

Cameron watched with increasing curiosity as Margaret smiled warmly at Shane, then detached herself, urging her sister and ex-boyfriend to go get a drink. And then, as if the heat of his eyes had alerted her to his presence, his Meggie turned her big brown eyes to him, and she stood her ground alone, offering him the barest hint of an amused smile.

So she f*cking knows what she’s doing to me, huh? Okay, Meggie, he thought. Game on.

Ordering another dry martini and a glass of Cabernet, he held her eyes as he walked over and extended the wineglass to her.

“I’m so glad Priscilla walked in. I was about to break your ex-boyfriend’s neck.”

“That would have ruined your sister’s evening, I bet,” countered Margaret, running her gaze down the length of his body and up again. “Blood on the dance floor and all.”

“Drink that,” said Cameron, gesturing to her wine before tilting back his own drink, which, he noted with satisfaction, didn’t burn anymore.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because we’re going to dance in a minute, and I want you loose in my arms.”

She took a step closer. “I don’t need a drink to be loose in your arms.”

“Fuuuuuck,” he hissed.

“Eventually,” she answered softly.

He flinched, the quick image of her naked beneath him as he pumped into her making his breathing shallow. His cock was rigid under his pants, and the only way he could conceal it was to step a little closer to her.

She gasped softly, glancing down and then back up at his face. “Is that for me?”

“I told you I wouldn’t be able to say no to you, Meggie.”

“Cameron,” she said, “I’m not the sort of girl who forces a man to do something he’s not ready to do.”

“Do I feel unready to you?” he growled. “Finish your f*cking drink.”

Her lips wobbled as she tilted back the glass and breathed in deeply. “Earth tones. Pepper. Licorice. Wild fruit. Full-bodied—”

“Stop it,” he grated in a strangled voice, watching as her eyes opened slowly . . . dark, amused, cognac-colored, with gold flecks that mesmerized him thoroughly.

She licked her lips. “You teased me for years. You deserve hours of this, at least.”

He grabbed her unfinished glass from her hand and placed both drinks on the tray of a passing waiter. “We’re dancing.”

He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Pulling her into his arms, he realized that her dress was also cut into a V on the back as his palm came into contact with her warm, soft skin. He groaned, gritting his teeth as he looked into her eyes. “Did you wear this for my benefit?”

“What do you think?”

“I think yes. Why did you come with him?”

She shrugged. “He bought the tickets weeks ago, when we were still dating. Pris was a last-minute addition.”

“I’ve always been fond of Pris,” said Cameron, glancing over to where Olson and Priscilla were dancing as close to each other as he and Margaret. “Are they . . .?”

“Together?” Margaret exhaled deeply. “I don’t know. There’s a story there, but it’s Priscilla’s to tell when she’s ready.”

“He’s stiff as a board and as boring as a tax audit, and she’s . . . Priscilla. They’re not a very likely couple, are they?”

“As odd as a librarian and a hothead?” she asked.

His eyes whipped back to hers. “You and me?”

She shook her head, grinning at him. “I was only teasing.”

“What if we were?”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him from beneath long black lashes. “A couple?”

“Have you ever pictured it?” he asked.

All traces of her sultry teasing disappeared as she turned up her face, in all its fresh loveliness, to his. “Have you?”

“You know I have.” His chin dipped only once as he held her eyes, defeat imminent. “It’s all I’ve pictured for most of my life.”

He saw the confusion on her face—the brief narrowing of her eyes and furrowing of her brows. The way she seemed to search his face because she didn’t believe he could possibly be telling the truth. He held her closer, willing her body to listen to his and to hear the truth: that for all his life, Margaret Story had been Cameron Winslow’s favorite fantasy.

And suddenly he knew she’d somehow heard the whispering of his heart because her eyes brightened and she smiled at him with the beautiful lips that he’d loved twice with his own sweeping up into the sweetest smile he’d ever known.

“Truly?”