Monica Campbell made him lose all reason. Filling her, thrusting into her—it felt so right. Made him block out all of his problems, all of his worries.
He sank into her, retreated, then did it again. She took every stroke, absorbed each thrust. Cal wanted her to come first, but bloody hell, he was close. Gritting his teeth, he tried picturing Monica in one of her somber suits. God, even that was a turn on, because he knew exactly what she wore beneath those drab clothes. Sexy red bras. Fuck.
Cal clenched his jaw and continued working in and out of her. Harder, faster. Filling her up. Fucking brilliant, that—being balls deep inside Monica Campbell. He didn’t want it to end, yet he needed release.
He let go of her nipple and slid his hand between her legs. Using his thumb, he flicked her distended clit. Back and forth, he grazed it. Still, he kept up the pace, driving into her without losing his rhythm. A difficult maneuver, but Cal was determined to give her the ride she deserved.
With a cry, Monica dug her nails into his shoulders and came. Now Cal allowed himself to come too. Helpless, he clamped down on her hip. With a flood of pleasure crashing through him, Cal pressed his lips against her hair and groaned. So good. So goddamned good.
Screwing his eyes shut, he continued to plunge into her, even after he was empty. And he remained inside her as he tried to catch his breath.
After a few minutes, his brain jolted back to life. “Well, was that hard enough for you? Any harder, and I might have knocked us into the next room.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “That was fucking awesome,” she muttered.
That might be the nicest compliment he’d ever received.
He supported her legs while she unwound them from his hips, then set her on her feet. “I concur. And that’s the quote I want on my sex trophy.”
Monica rested against the wall and laughed. Placing one hand on his chest, she gazed up at him. “I could walk before, but I’m not sure I can now. You may have to carry me to the car.”
Cal felt a little shaky himself. “Let me get you a towel.” If he had his way, she wouldn’t go home tonight. And he wasn’t above using bribes to get her to stay. He shut off the shower and stepped out. A lemon-scented fog clouded the room and coated the mirror.
After discarding the condom, Cal grabbed a thick white towel embroidered with the casino’s initials and took it back into the stall. Monica stood exactly where he’d left her, slumped against the shower tile. “There’s something you’re forgetting.” He bent down and started with her ankles, drying one leg, then the other. “I have chocolate cake.”
“I probably don’t need chocolate cake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, everyone needs cake. And I have a huge fluffy bed that needs to be broken in.”
“I think I’m broken. I can hardly move.”
“That’s because I’m so fucking awesome.” He continued to rub the backs of her knees, up her thighs, over her hips and belly. He took extra care when he got to her breasts, massaging the soft, textured towel over her nipples a few times. They beaded at the attention.
“I’m pretty sure they’re dry, Cal.”
“I do like to be thorough.” Cal motioned for Monica to turn around so he could dry her hair. She spun and flattened her hands against the wall. He squeezed the water out of the ends and patted at her scalp. When wet, her hair transformed into a much darker shade of blond, almost brown, but not quite. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled deeply. Her lavender shampoo mixed with the lemon scent surrounding them. Divine.
“You never answered me before,” she said. “Which do you like better, this place or your one-bedroom flat in London?”
He didn’t know why it mattered, but she had something on her mind. He didn’t have to see her face to know it—he could hear it in her voice. “This is nice, obviously. But the flat in London is fine too. I don’t get too worked up over accommodations.” He moved the towel over her shoulders, down her spine, and gave her ass a good rub.
“That’s because you’re used to staying in places like this. They don’t faze you anymore.”
Cal’s hands slowed. “Allie’s been married to Trevor for years now. Aren’t you used to places like this?”
“Not really. I grew up in an older neighborhood. Our house was falling apart, literally.”
Unsure how to proceed, Cal continued stroking her back. If he asked too many questions, she might stop talking. Yet this was really the first time she’d volunteered any personal information, so he couldn’t let it go. “Why is that? Couldn’t afford to fix it?”
“No. My mom’s medical bills were out of control. That’s why Allie and Trevor started the foundation, to help people like her.”
Cal finally understood her, a part of her anyway. Monica was a sensual person, with carnal appetites she tried hard to ignore. His poor darling must have a bitch of a time reconciling both sides of herself—the self-sacrificing philanthropist and the lustful thrill-seeker. And this dichotomy somehow tied in with her mother’s illness, although he wasn’t sure how, exactly. “Staying in places like this makes you feel guilty, doesn’t it?”
She didn’t say anything for a minute, and Cal thought she might change the subject. But then she swallowed. “I always feel guilty when I think about her.”
His hands stopped moving. “I feel that way about Babcock. By the end, she was unconscious most of the time. When she died…” He couldn’t even say it out loud, it was too monstrous.
“You were relieved?”
Cal dropped the towel. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder. “Yes.”
“Me too,” she said. “She suffered for so damn long.”
Cal had been carrying that disgrace with him for months now. To hear Monica admit the same thing took away some of the shame. “It’s because we loved them, I suppose.”
“It still makes us awful people.”
He nodded. “Perhaps.”
Monica shrugged her shoulder. Cal took the hint and moved back. She cleared her throat. “I should be getting home.”
“Absolutely.” His carefree tone sounded strained, but he carried on. “After dessert. You’re not going to make me eat chocolate cake alone, are you?” He didn’t wait for her to argue again, but simply left the shower and walked out of the room.
* * *
Monica watched Cal walk away. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel alone.
Monica’s mom had been sick for years, but when Allie talked about Trisha Campbell, she spoke only of the good times. Brynn would occasionally bring up a particular event, like the year all three girls got bikes for Christmas. Allie had received a purple ten-speed that made Monica so jealous, she’d stomped her foot and wrote a letter to Santa that morning, demanding an upgrade.
Nearly every memory Monica had of her mother was tainted by guilt and remorse—about past mistakes, about being resentful when her mom had been too sick to pay attention to any of them. But most of all, about feeling relieved when her mother slipped away. The years of suffering were finally over. And Monica was so glad.
While her family cried their eyes out, Monica remained dry-eyed. She realized, somewhere in the back of her brain, that her reaction wasn’t normal—that she was a horrible person. That’s when Monica’s life had spun out of control, which left her feeling even worse.
Allie was right—Monica rarely mentioned Trisha Campbell, usually left the room if her sisters started reminiscing. She rarely discussed her mother with Evan. Yet for some reason, she’d opened up to Cal.
And Cal, of all people, understood.
Monica stepped out of the shower and grabbed the hair dryer from beneath the countertop. Cal’s leather shaving bag sat next to the sink. She unzipped it, pulling out his brush. Mason Pearson. Jeez, even his man accessories were high-end.