Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(50)

But if you’re reading this, I bet you’re hungry.

When you’re ready, come downstairs.

Cam

xo

She took a deep breath, bunching her shoulders together and smiling at the note. Her memories of him arriving this morning were hazy, but nothing could make her forget the feeling of his arms around her, his strong, warm body pressed intimately against hers, his lips resting on her neck as she fell back to sleep.

Swinging her legs over the bed, she looked down and realized that her legs and feet were splattered with caked mud from last night.

“I need a shower,” she muttered.

She stood up and stripped off her T-shirt and sweatpants. She slipped into her thick, white terry cloth robe from the back of her closet door and tied the sash around her waist, remembering the first time Cameron had ever come out to The Five Sisters, several weeks ago, and knocked on her front door. He’d groaned softly, staring at her from head to toe, and her body, naked beneath the robe, had flushed under the heat of his gaze. She’d wanted him then, wished for him, barely daring to dream that he could ever belong to her.

Running her fingers through the tangled waves of her hair, she made her way downstairs, drawn to the kitchen, where she heard the sound of chopping and . . . singing. She paused to lean against the kitchen doorway and watch.

With his back to her, Cameron practically took up the entire space of the tiny kitchen. As he leaned over the counter, chopping what she assumed were vegetables, his bare feet stepped lightly to the music playing through his earbuds.

“Let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on,” he sang, his hips moving back and forth, showcasing his epic ass, tight and muscular in close-fitting jeans. “You got the healing that I want . . .”

She giggled softly, unable to look away and thoroughly unwilling to alert him to her presence. Still dancing, he reached down for something from the cutting board, and a moment later she had to cover her mouth when she realized he was using a cucumber for a microphone, softly singing his heart out.

“ . . . but I’d love to be in trouble with you . . .”

He set down the cucumber and chopped it efficiently. Then, with one hand still braced on the counter, he dropped to a dramatic squat, gyrating as he raised himself slowly, his hips moving rhythmically to a beat she couldn’t hear. Her jaw dropped as he laced both palms behind his neck and thrust forward against the counter with a groan that made her thighs clench.

Her man could move. And her mind couldn’t help but fly to one of her favorite fantasies: her small body covered with Cameron’s hardness as he used those hips to drive into her. A delicious shiver trailed down her back, and her grin faded as his dance lit a blaze in her belly and made goose bumps rise on her arms.

Of course this would be the moment, with Margaret standing there in a state of intense arousal, that Cameron decided to do a slow turn, crooning into a carrot microphone.

“ . . . until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on.”

He froze, his eyes widening and cheeks turning red as he threw the carrot over his shoulder and reached up to yank the earbuds from his ears.

“You’re up.”

She glanced down at the crotch of his pants and raised her eyebrows. “So are you.”

He looked down and chuckled lightly. “What can I say? I was enjoying a pretty graphic fantasy.”

“You’re quite a Renaissance man. Chopping vegetables, stripper dancing, and growing a huge boner all at once.”

“Did you just say boner?”

“If the shoe fits . . .”

“And stripper dancing?” he asked, with a cocky grin that was completely adorable. “Shock me and tell me you’ve actually seen strippers dancing.”

“I’ve seen Magic Mike,” she answered primly.

“Doesn’t count. Besides, you may not have noticed, but I’ve got all my clothes on.”

“Oh, I noticed,” she said, running her eyes down his body slowly, savoring every hard plane, dying to feel the ridges and valleys of muscle under her fingertips. “You’re a good dancer.”

His eyes darkened, and he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them in the tiny room. “You think so?”

She nodded and reached around him to pull the earbuds from his iPhone. The kitchen filled with the sound of a man and a woman singing a sixties-style duet.

“I like the way you move your body.”

“Is that right?” he asked as his hands landed on her hips. He pulled her against chest and moved her gently to the music.

“Absolutely.”

He wrapped an iron band of arm around her waist as his hips pushed deliberately into hers, one of his legs splitting open the front of her robe.

“What’s under this robe, Meggie?”

“A dirty body,” she said, her head tilted back so she could watch his eyes.

“Naked?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Fuck.”

He pressed his erection tightly into her stomach, and, holding her eyes without flinching, he commanded their movements, rolling his hips into hers, his jean-covered legs brushing into her naked ones, his bare feet careful not to step on hers.

“I don’t know this song,” she said in a breathy voice, her breasts thrusting into his chest with every shallow breath.

“It’s Meghan Trainor and Charlie Puth singing. Puth cowrote it with Julie Frost.”