Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Zipper’s up. I’m focused on the task.” But even as I bark it, my brain replays Cam’s sleepy whisper: Borrow warmth. The weight of her trust and the fervent hum of wanting more.
Riggs flips open a case of RFID guest badges. “Task is on track. We’ve traced the flash-bang serial—mil-surp show from Arizona show last year. Lead is thin, but we’ll pull the thread.”
“Keep pulling,” I grunt.
17:47 — Ballroom main entry. I supervise the crew laying tempered-glass panels over the parquet floor—Camille’s idea so the swirling gowns will reflect color like a living kaleidoscope. She appears beside me in paint-dusted jeans, hair swept in a low knot, clipboard in hand.
“How many more vendors?” I ask.
“Just the floral ceiling team—they’ll rig the wisteria chandeliers tomorrow.” She glances at the new cameras mounted near the chandeliers’ anchor points. “You really thought of everything.”
I want to tell her I’m thinking of her—always her—but professionalism reins me. “Almost,” I say. “We install thermal imagers along the trellis after the floral is set. Any unauthorized heat signature pops on Command.”
She nods, lips parting as if to say something more intimate, then shuts them when Andersson arrives to ask about smoke-machine placement (denied; too many false alarms). I walk the crew through alternate haze options, but Cam’s presence at my shoulder hums louder than the drills.
21:08 — A hush settles over the estate. Vendor vans gone, Orange-Team on staggered patrols. Out on the east lawn, Malik’s silhouette glides along hedges, rifle slung. I finish logging the day’s contractor sign-outs, then force myself to eat a protein bar; it tastes like chalk.
My phone buzzes: Cam: Can’t sleep. Come to the studio?
Adrenaline spikes. I type On my way, check with Riggs (northwatch covered), then move.
The carriage-house studio glows low amber. I step in. Cam stands barefoot in one of my black BRAVO T-shirts—she must’ve raided my duffel—shirt hanging mid-thigh, paint streaks on her calves. Her hair is down and wild. She holds a fresh canvas the size of a door.
“I needed white space,” she says, breath slightly ragged. “All day I had noise.”
“Show me.”
She plants the canvas on the easel, then faces me across the drop cloth. “It’s blank, Sawyer. Sometimes blank is the scariest thing.”
“I know the feeling.” I shrug out of my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. “Where do you start?”
“Color first,” she whispers.
“Pick one.” My voice drops too. “I’ll load the palette.”
Her gaze flicks to the shelves of tubes, and she chooses a crimson oxide. I squeeze a bead onto the glass, adding ultramarine, and a dab of titanium buff. She dips her fingers straight into the crimson, steps to the canvas, and swipes a diagonal arc—blood-bright slash. Another stroke intersects—blue colliding, bruising purple.
I watch her body flow: foot brace, hip shift, neck arch—every move a silent percussion my pulse accompanies. She finishes a third line, breathing hard, chest rising beneath the borrowed T-shirt that skims curves I’m trying desperately not to stare at.
She turns, her hands red and blue. “Borrow warmth again?”
“Cam.” Just her name is a gravity well.
She crosses the drop cloth. Paint-flecked fingers rise to my chest, leaving two smears over my heart. “I tried, but I can’t wait till after,” she says, voice trembling. “Life’s not guaranteed between now and then.”
The truth slams home. Bombs teach you that tomorrow can misfire. Protocol or no, I want this now.
I cup her neck. She exhales a broken sound. I lean in, hover a breath from her lips. “Last chance to redraw lines.”
She presses up on tiptoe. “Lines are overrated.”
I close the distance.
The kiss is molten—nothing hesitant, all pent-up hunger unleashed. She tastes of mint and turpentine and midnight confessions. I angle her back against the canvas. Her paint-wet palms spread on my shoulders, leaving me marked. She gasps when my tongue sweeps her lower lip, then opens on a sweet moan as I deepen the kiss, anchoring one hand at her waist, the other threading into loose waves.
Colors smear where her back grazes the canvas. She hooks a leg behind my knee, and the T-shirt rides up, revealing the smooth plane of her thigh. My self-control riots—days of holding back shredding under the press of her body keen against mine.
But danger still looms, and even as I taste her, some part of me clocks every sound: the creak of rafters, distant footstep of an Orange patrol. I tear my mouth away, breathing hard against her forehead. “Doors locked, cameras covering. Still not enough.”
She trails kisses down my jaw, whispering, “We have minutes. I need to feel alive with you.”
I grip her hips, rest my forehead to hers. “Alive, yes. Safe, always.” My thumb traces the hem of the shirt at her thigh, and she shivers. “And when that bastard’s behind bars…”
“Then you won’t hold back,” she finishes, voice shimmering with promise.
“I’ll paint this whole room with us,” I vow.