Page 63 of The Leaving Kind
Shit, that meant the kitchen windows were open.
From somewhere inside the house, Dexter wailed. Honey yelped back.
“I have to close the windows in the kitchen.” Victor took off in that direction, his feet squelching, his clothes—chosen so carefully for this ... this ... whatever this was—flapping wetly around him. Cam appeared no better off, his green Shepard’s polo plastered to his skin, his jeans a darker shade of indigo. Muddy puddles spread from his boots. “I’ve got some towels in the laundry,” Victor added.
He ran into the kitchen and spied a wet black cat engaged in a furious bath by the door. “Get caught outside, Sin?”
Sinister didn’t deign to respond.
Cam chuckled at the sight, and Honey padded over to the scraggly cat. Sinister paid no attention to the dog, either, as if acknowledging Honey would make her real. Apparently stumped, Honey sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and thumped her little tail.
Victor started on one side of the kitchen, pulling the windows closed. Cam began on the other side. They met in the middle, both of them standing in puddles of rain that had blown inside. “Good thing you have a tile floor,” Cam murmured, looking down at their feet.
“Yep.” Victor chose to look down also—away from Cam’s shoulders, broad chest, his Adam’s apple, a chin darkened by stubble. His mouth. Taking a step backward, Victor pointed toward the laundry. “In here. I can grab those sweats again if you want to change out of your wet clothes.”
Cam’s gaze traveled the length of Victor’s body, leaving a heated flush, and then a chill. A half smile crooked one side of his mouth. “Sure.”
Rather than trail water all the way upstairs, Victor followed Cam into the laundry. He’d grab a towel first. The room was long and narrow, the washer and dryer side by side, with a shelf above. Folding closet doors covered the opposite wall, ending in an alcove for the fuse box and generator connections.
“The dryer is ...” Victor gestured toward the second unit.
Cam flattened himself against the wall so Victor could pass. But when Victor was in front of him, their chests an inch apart, their thighs almost touching, Cam put a hand to his shoulder. Victor looked up, his eyes once again level with Cam’s chin. His lips.
“What smells so good?” Cam asked.
“You stopped me here, right here, to ask what smells so good?” Victor said to Cam’s chin, his mouth. He glanced up.
Cam’s eyes glinted in the sketchy light. “No. I ... Yes. Jesus, Vic.”
He grabbed Vic’s other shoulder and held him in place—the space between them now not enough to slide a piece of paper through. The laundry was not a party room. But with Cam in front of him, his body heat evident through their wet clothes, Victor’s libido was already sliding into disco mode.
When Cam dipped his chin, Victor lifted his.
He expected Cam’s kiss to be rough and urgent. For his mouth to crash down and claim. For there to be a loss of control, however slight. Any kiss would definitely signal a loosening of both their wills. Instead, Cam’s lips brushed his. Once, then again. He exhaled, his breath hot. He dripped, water from his hair dappling the side of Victor’s face.
Victor was the one who pulled them closer.
With a groan, he tucked one hand behind Cam’s head and drew him down so their lips meshed together properly. So the kiss could deepen, broaden, grow to encompass the entirety of Victor’s world. The firmness of Cam’s lips, the taste of rain, the scent of his soap and deodorant, the musk of sweat beneath. The prickle of his stubble—and then the gentle insistence of his tongue.
It was only when Victor let his hips rock forward, another groan tearing free, that he remembered this wasn’t supposed to happen. But Cam felt so good against him. Hard and warm. Giving and forgiving.
Cam had wanted to kiss him. What were their reasons for not doing this?
Why weren’t they pulling off these wet clothes and getting down to business?
Oh, right. Victor was done with love.
And Cam apparently didn’t do ...
Cam’s tongue slid along his, and Victor lost all thought. Their hips bumped together, and Cam’s groan traveled through their lips and down Victor’s torso.
Fuck. Me.
Mustering every ounce of his will, Victor broke the kiss. He wedged his arms between them and flattened his palms over Cam’s warm, broad, hard, wet chest. The beat beneath his fingers had to be Cam’s heart knocking out a siren tattoo.
Dear lord.
“We shouldn’t,” Victor more gasped than said.