Is it because he finally opened up to me, telling me about his loss and his childhood, which must have been far removed from my own? Is it because seeing his pain, filling in the gaps, makes me desperate to help him overcome the issues holding him back? I’m certain it was his father who left him the inheritance. The timeline fits, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to care if he loses every cent. That money represents more than a life-changing windfall. For him, it’s tainted, tangled up in rejection and pain and resentment. Even when he seems to be enjoying it, living a lifestyle most people would jump at in a heartbeat, deep down I’m certain Cam would be equally happy to return to his life before.
Cam’s in pain. He’s hurting. The big-spending gambler I first met is far removed from the real Cam North. The real Cam gives a wicked foot massage. The real Cam takes the time to talk and, more importantly, to really listen. The real Cam is a roll-up-your-sleeves kind of man: a man who loves the simple things in life—an ice-cold beer on a sunny day, a view of the sunset, throwing a ball for a delighted dog.
As fascinating and addictive as he is complex.
I push away from my desk in self-disgust, admitting my productivity is done for the day, and head to the hotel for a shower. As I turn on the water, tie up my hair and strip off, I berate myself further. It’s one thing to care about the wonderful, thoughtful and capable man I’m sleeping with—after all, I’m not a robot, despite what my ex-husband thinks—but to allow it to interfere with my work?
I’ve never once struggled with focus before, so why now? And why to this degree? There could be any number of explanations: jet lag, too much of what Cam likes to call playing hard, the pesky burn-out, which seems to be getting stronger, not lessening as I’d hoped.
But I suspect it’s just Cam. Clearly I underestimated how much of a distraction a man like him could be—stupid, stupid Orla.
Thinking about him has an inevitable effect on my body and I turn the water to cool to douse the reaction. Perhaps there’s such a thing as too much sex? If we’re not screwing, which is at least a twice-a-day occurrence, we’re teasing each other, whispering, sharing stolen secret glances, a torturous form of foreplay.
I step under the spray and lather my body with divine-smelling body wash. If only I could wash my confused and intrusive feelings away with the suds. Because they have no place here. This was never for keeps. Thanks to my father, my ex and my own high expectations, I’m just not emotionally built for relationships.
Why is this so hard, when I’ve never before struggled to compartmentalise sex? I can blame physical exhaustion. Between my own punishing schedule, the inability to keep our hands off each other and always exploring somewhere Cam deems essential, it’s no wonder I can’t think straight.
The last few days have been a whirlwind. An ice bar on our last night in Zurich, dinner last night on the one hundred and twentieth floor of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest tower, and, as today is opening day at the Meydan racecourse, we’re due to spend an evening at the races.
Despite my cold-shower distraction technique, waves of anticipation move over my skin—he’ll be here any minute. It’s as if my body has a sixth sense: Cam detection. Perhaps he’ll look for me and join me in the shower. But even as I feel the flutter of excitement low in my belly, I probe my feelings deeper. Yes, the sex is amazing. Yes, he brings out some sort of lust-craved wanton in me—who could resist such virile and enthusiastic attention? But he’s more than that; he puts my life into perspective. When I’m with him I almost forget that I’m Orla Hendricks, CEO. The bitterness I feel towards my father seems irrelevant and trivial. I don’t care about proving myself worthy. I don’t care about being the best. I can simply exist. No need to strive to be anything other than myself.
A woman to his man.
My sigh is shaky, tinged with fear.
Oh, no… No, I can’t do this. I can’t feel the things I’m feeling. Not for him, not for anyone. I swallow, forcing myself to be brutally honest. Despite the age gap and my determination to avoid relationships, Cam is exactly the sort of man I could fall for, and that’s bad.
B.A.D.
I freeze, the realisation of how dangerous Cam is to my resolve a shock, as if the water had turned instantly icy. Then I laugh aloud, although the sound is hollow and unconvincing. We’re too different. Cam would no more think of me as a relationship candidate than I would think of him, in our normal, everyday lives. He’s twenty-eight years old. I’ll be thirty-seven in a few months.
It’s ridiculous.
Even if I wanted a relationship, we’d never work. Deep down he’s a solid, steady, dependable man who says it like it is. I’m a hustler. I always need to be moving, striving, ticking off the next goal.
I try to visualise introducing Cam to my Sydney girlfriends over brunch, or picture him being content to see his woman once in a blue moon, if the stars align. My washing movements become slow, automatic, as I’m lost to the pictures my imaginings paint, as if they’re tantalising in their reality. I’ve never asked him, but surely Cam wants a wife and a family one day. I’ve long since sworn off such trappings, finding contentment in the one thing I’m good at: my career, making money for my clients and for myself along the way.
But is that enough any more? Can I go back to my sad, workaholic existence after Cam?
I slam off the shower spray, my irritation directed at my flights of fancy.
Of course I can. I’m set in my ways. This is my life, a great life I’ve built—self-sufficient, independent, successful. I’ll move on from my fling with Cam, just as I moved on from my marriage to Mark.
With my equilibrium restored by my harsh mental pep talk, I dry off and put on the modest green silk dress with buttons down the front that I’ve chosen for the races. I apply light make-up and slip on nude strappy sandals with a low heel.
When I emerge from the en suite bathroom, Cam is sprawled over the leather sofa near the window. I come to an abrupt halt, my eyes sucking in the sight of him, as if they know time is running out and one day he’ll only be visible in my memory.
He too is dressed in smart-casual attire for the races—chinos, a shirt and tie, and a blazer. His hair is tamed, slicked back from his handsome face with product, and he’s focused on the screen of his phone, his brows dipped in an act of concentration that should make him look adorable, if he wasn’t too much man for that particular adjective.
My stomach clenches at the sight of him, sexy, suave and in his prime, the epitome of masculinity. I tug my bottom lip under my teeth and close my eyes for a decadent second, remembering the way he woke me this morning before my alarm. Sleepy, warm and demanding, he’d dragged me close with one strong arm, spooning me from behind. As I nodded and smiled in agreement, his hot mouth had found my nipple and I’d arched against him until he’d seated himself inside me from behind—a perfect position for Cam to toy with my clit until I climaxed and he’d achieved the unforgettable wake-up call he’d wanted.
For some reason I kept my eyes closed throughout, and we didn’t speak, because it somehow felt different—slow, sensual, reverent—almost as if we were making love.
I shake the alarming thought from my head and clear my throat to alert Cam to my presence.
He looks up. A grin stretches over his face, but his eyes are hot, just like every other time he looks at me: full of promise, provocative, and deeply piercing, as if he sees me to my soul.
I approach, my legs shakier than they should be, given the stern lecture I’d only moments ago administered to myself. Cam stands, the perfect gentleman. I accept his hungry kiss, returning it with my own. It’s as if we’ve been separated for years, not hours, but with his mouth on mine it’s hard to overthink, so I simply surrender to the moment.
When