Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(45)

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 f*cking 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.