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“I love you, Cam,” I whisper. “So much.”
“I love you, too, Tabs,” he says reverently, like he still can’t believe this is happening. I understand the feeling completely.
He grabs my hips, and I shift my weight on my knees. I place a hand on his muscular chest and rock up and down, his cock sliding in and out of me.
I swear that one motion reaches every cell in my body. Just knowing that I’m here, with this man—with Cam—means everything to me, and I’m lost in a feeling like nothing else.
The physical pleasure is incomparable, but it’s so much more. When he opens his eyes and catches mine, I feel the connection straight into my soul. The electricity amplifies and the orgasm that’s been building takes control. I lose it, bucking my hips, grabbing my own breasts while I writhe and grind on his amazing cock. I come hard and loud and with so much energy I don’t think any other orgasm will ever compare.
Cam’s shout echoes through the room, and that sound coupled with the feeling of his cock inside me as he comes is enough to send another orgasm coursing through me.
I sag against him, completely spent, and he wraps his arms right around me, sitting up with me still clenching around him.
“That,” Cam pants, staring at me, wide-eyed, and says nothing more.
“That,” I repeat, breathing just as hard, “was,” I pause again, because I don’t know what the word that I’m feeling is.
We sit like this, chests heaving together, his cock slowly retreating until I can barely feel him inside me anymore. Finally, it comes to me.
“Transcendent,” I say.
I lean back to see his expression. His brow wrinkles and he looks confused. Pained even.
“No,” Cam shakes his head. “That—was all wrong.”
CAM
Tabs gasps and tries to pull away. “Let me go,” she snarls.
I pull her closer, so tight I can feel her heartbeat against my sweaty chest. “No.”
She struggles. As much as I hate restraining her, I cannot release her before she understands what I said. Before she knows the truth. Then, if she still wants to bolt, which she very well may, I’ll give her all the space she needs.
“That’s not what I meant, Tabs. Please, stop fighting me. Let me explain.”
She finally stops struggling, but the hurt expression on her face makes my heart ache.
I loosen my hold and place my now free hand over her heart. “I need to show you something.”
“Okay…” she says tentatively.
I open the drawer to my bedside table and pull out a journal, gripping it like it might fly out of my hand and escape on its own. “There’s something I want you to see.”
I hold it out to her but don’t let go when she takes hold of it. “I’m sorry I’ve kept this from you for so long. I hope you’ll understand.”
I release my grip and the journal slips from my fingers, and I know there’s no turning back.
I don’t take my eyes off the woman who has been the inspiration of virtually every word I’ve written in my daily morning pages practice. Words, feelings and fantasies I have in the precious moments before my brain fully engages and starts to think, question, and edit how my body feels.
She opens the journal to the first page. It’s dated from about four months ago. Of course, I can’t remember what I wrote on that day—or any day—but I know that she’ll see her name. I know that she’ll read something that just a best friend should never write about or feel for his ride or die.
I can’t read her reaction. It seems too calm. Almost disconnected. Tabs reads silently, her lips moving ever so slightly, the way they do when she’s lost in a story.
Does she not understand that I’ve just torn out my heart and placed it in her hand? I dare not make a sound.
She flips to the last page with my handwriting on it; yesterday morning’s entry where I’d written that I was thinking of telling her how I feel.
“You were going to tell me you love me,” she whispers. “Even if I didn’t say anything today.”
