I grow hot under Cam’s focus. I want to rewind, to start over, to hold him until I’ve chased away the distress I’ve put in his eyes. But how do I repair the damage? We’re not a real couple. We only have a few weeks of shared history to fall back on, most of that superficial and impersonal, at my insistence. Why would he seek comfort from me of all people? And I shouldn’t offer it, not after admitting that my feelings are dangerously ensnared.
But…
I glance down at the racetrack. The race is over. ‘I’m sorry, it looks like Contempt of Court lost.’ I turn back to face him, seeing him, understanding him in a whole new light. ‘You’re right though—it’s a perfect name.’ A two-fingered gesture to a man he can’t confront any other way.
All the energy drains from my body. I’ve messed up. I should have known Cam would never do anything frivolous or erratic. He’s the most thoughtful and considerate human being I know. This is what happens when I forget my rules. This is what I hoped to avoid by keeping things purely physical. This feeling of failure. That I can’t do this. That relationships just aren’t my strength.
I should stick to what I know.
‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I want to touch him, to show him my regret for both his situation and for drawing out his secret pain. I want to get back to where we were this morning. Restore my own equilibrium and his in the only way I can allow: physically.
But not here.
His struggle to let go of the things I’ve dragged up passes over his face, but he finally nods and I gather my bag and hat.
The journey is tense, quiet, stomach-churning. Back at the M Club in Dubai’s downtown, I assume we’re heading for our room, but without comment Cam takes my hand and leads me to the basement club, which is alive with the insistent beat of some dance track. The last thing I want to do is dance, to pretend that everything between us is okay. But perhaps that’s exactly what I need to do. Pretend. Pretend this is still about no-strings pleasure.
I follow him, weaving through the crowds of clubbers.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ says Cam, his voice hard, all that lovely deep and sexy resonance rubbed away. ‘I’ve reserved one of the private rooms.’
I nod, my heart heavy, but I follow him to the club’s perimeter, where discreet private booths are located. The interior is decorated in signature M Club black—a womblike space, a fully stocked bar, a wide and sumptuous sofa, an adjustable PA system so the volume of the thumping music can be altered to personal taste or allow conversation, and a wall of one-way glass, to ensure absolute privacy, even as the occupants feel part of the club’s vibrant atmosphere with a view of the dance floor.
Cam hands me a Scotch, knocking back his own in a single swallow. He doesn’t adjust the volume of the music, but I don’t think we’re here for conversation.
I take a mouthful of my drink, my mind scrambling for something to say. I want to make things right between us. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I shouldn’t have lowered my guard enough to care. But I do.
‘Cam, I’m sorry.’
His fingers settle against my mouth. He hushes me as he glides the pad of his fingers across my sensitive lips.
He takes my glass and drains what’s left and then replaces his fingers with his mouth, parting his lips to allow a trickle of the liquor to pass from his mouth to mine in a decadent, provocative kiss.
I swallow, my lips clinging to his in silent apology. His kiss turns demanding, his tongue probing while his eyes burn into mine as if begging for something. Silence? Understanding? Escape?
He pulls back. ‘I don’t want to talk any more.’ His hands settle on my hips and his body starts to move to the pounding beat of the dance track. I move with him, lost in the intensity in his eyes, deep, dark desire concealing the earlier pain. I clutch the lifeline. The desire. It’s easier to chase because I want him, despite my other, harder-to-name feelings. Our need for each other is the only stability left now everything else feels as if it’s shifting underfoot.
He wants to hide. To retreat behind what we do, what we know—how to make each other feel good. I do too. Haven’t I done the same myself, more than once? Used him in the same way? Isn’t a part of me doing exactly that now? Avoiding the treacherous thoughts of us being more than this?
This whole proposition began because I wanted a distraction, and now so does Cam.
I loop my arms around his neck and kick off my sandals, my hips matching his rhythm, which is confident and inherently sexy—like everything else about him. He bends so low, our lips brush as we move, not quite a kiss, but somehow more, a presence, a reminder that the other person is there, breathing the same air.
His hands curve over my backside, his fingers curling and bunching up the silk fabric of my dress as he grinds me against his hard length. ‘Turn around,’ he murmurs against my mouth, his hard stare glittering with now familiar challenge.
I obey, pulse leaping. When I’m faced away from him, his big hands on my hips and my hands looped around his neck behind my head, I push my ass back to torture him some more. Him and myself. Because he’s hard and ready for me and I want him, as always.
We dance on, my back to his front, one of his arms around my waist and the other hand on my hip as we sway together in a way that’s more foreplay than choreography and would be completely prohibited in any other establishment in this country other than here in the privacy and decadence of the M Club.
The track changes, seamlessly blending into one that’s more sensuous. No longer content to merely tease, I drag Cam’s hands north to cup my breasts through my dress. He gives me a hint of friction, his thumbs and fingers rolling my nipples, but it’s not enough. I want more. I always want more of the way he makes me feel.
But can this, just this, ever be enough?
To switch off my mind, I tangle my fingers in the hair at his nape as I rest my head on his shoulder and turn my face to his, begging for his mouth.
‘Cam.’ His name sounds like a plea and it is. A plea to drag me with him into oblivion, to guide us both until we’re lost in sensation. Because otherwise I’ll think, and thinking about this man, and the way I am with him, is as addictive as it is foolish.
Cam presses his mouth to my neck, below my ear, and judders wrack my body—he knows how sensitive I am in that spot, knows it turns me on to feel his scruff against my skin and hear his breath panting because he feels the same need.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, twisting so I can capture his mouth, touch my tongue to his, swallow the sound of the low groan he lets free. I want to ensure everything is right with us after our fight. I want to know he’s still with me, still happy to travel to Singapore and then on to Sydney, our hometown, where this heady whirlwind will come to a natural end.
As if it’s still part of our dance, Cam nudges me forward, following close behind until I’m only inches in front of the wall of one-way glass that gifts us a panoramic view of the club. Before I can repeat my desire to take this upstairs to our suite, his hands slip to the button between my breasts and he slowly undoes one after another.
I gasp, the rational part of my brain tricked into believing the people dancing only a few metres on the other side of the glass can see us.
Can I do this? Here?
The answer is as clear as the window in front of me. The same answer as every other time Cam’s challenged me, or I’ve challenged myself.
Yes.
‘Tell me to stop.’ Cam speaks against my throat, his lips a sensual glide and his chin prickling my nerves alive.
Stop is what we should do. Not just this display of exhibitionism, but also the arrangement we made. Before I slip any deeper into the building feelings and before we push each other to expose more than we can recover from.
‘Tell