Page 4 of The Malibu Secret

His voice drops to a rasp. "I need you to unzip your jeans. Just enough for me to see the bruising."

My fingers tremble at the zipper. The metal teeth part with a sound that echoes in my ears like thunder. I ease the denim down, revealing the thin strip of my thong and the curve of flesh beneath. The cool air kisses my exposed skin.

"It's spread lower," he murmurs, his breath warm against my back. Ice touches my skin—a shock that melts instantly into heat as his fingertips trace the edges of the bruises. His touch is clinical, but my body doesn't know the difference. Every nerve ending ignites.

Two decades of dawn runs and punishing squats have sculpted me here. I know what I am. And I know what his quickening breath means as his hands work over me.

He applies heated towels, but they're nothing compared to the inferno building between my legs. I bite my lip to keep from arching back against him, from begging his fingers to slip beneath the thin fabric, to feel his mouth replace the ice. I want to burn. I want to shatter.

Dammit. I'm burning alive. Every nerve ending screams, my skin electric under his touch, my core clenching with a need so fierce I can barely breathe. I have to do something before I combust.

I flip onto my back, the sudden movement making him jerk backward. His eyes—those impossible eyes that shift between oceanic blue and forest green depending on how the light catches them—lock with mine, pupils dilating instantly. He swallows hard, that perfect throat working as he tries to drag his gaze away from my exposed skin. I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it up, revealing the purple-blue stain across my abdomen. "This needs your attention too," I whisper, my voice husky, unrecognizable.

His hands hover, trembling slightly, before pressing the ice against my skin. I gasp at the shock of cold against heat. His fingers work the tender flesh, and I arch involuntarily into his touch. He's looking everywhere but at my face, while I'm desperate to capture those kaleidoscope eyes, to make him see exactly what he's doing to me.

“Doc,” I begin.

“Don’t call me doc, please. I’m not your doctor right now, god forbid. After you were discharged from the ER, I ceased being your doctor.”

“You’re so sensitive about that.”

“I need to be. Because doctors can’t do things like this with their patients.”

“Things like what ?” I ask innocently. I slip open the first button of my blouse, then the next. The bruises from the Jeep accident map across my skin in purple-green constellations. Cameron's eyes widen as I reach behind to unhook my bra.

I slip open the first button of my blouse, then the next. The bruises from the Jeep accident map across my skin in purple-green constellations. Cameron's eyes widen as I reach behind to unhook my bra. This is reckless.

Celeste would never forgive me. Her golden rule: friends don't hook up with friends' relatives. Especially not her husband's brother. The Kensington family gatherings would become unbearable—and I've already missed their famous annual gala last year with the living art installation. Art is my weakness; I never miss the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna if I can help it, and from what I hear, Asher did something similar as that Laguna festival at last year’s Kensington gala. I want to attend this year's gala where Asher's planning something spectacular again, and it’ll be…uncomfortable…if Cameron and I hook up and I have to run into him there.

If Cameron and I crash and burn like all my relationships... but God, the heat spreading through me demands satisfaction in a way logic can't touch.

He's shy. I've watched him shrink into corners at both weddings, his eyes darting away whenever a woman approaches. Even with that jawline—the kind that could cut glass—and those broad shoulders straining against his tailored suit, he'd rather study the pattern in the carpet than meet a woman's gaze. I've seen them circle him like sharks, touching his arm, laughing too loudly at his mumbled jokes. Each time, he'd flush crimson and find an excuse to escape. If I want him, I'll need to be the predator here.

"Cameron," I say, arching my back until my breasts nearly graze his chest, "does this bruising look serious to you? Feel how tender it is." I’m pointing at the bruise across my now-bare breasts.

"I—Christ—I can't—" His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black, fixed on my skin like he's drowning in it.

I shove him onto the other end of the couch. "You can and you will." I devour his mouth, and Christ, the taste of him—dark chocolate and sin. My body ignites. Bruises? What bruises? Back pain? Gone. There's only him, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, his tongue claiming mine. He kisses me with a violence that matches my own, and I know with absolute certainty he'll obliterate every sensation except pleasure. I need him to burn through me like wildfire, scorching away everything but this moment. This isn't about connection—it's about consumption. He's a feast laid out before a starving woman, and I will take, take, take until there's nothing left of either of us. Right. Fucking. Now.

His voice breaks. "Oh, god. This is so wrong." He shakes his head even as his mouth travels from mine down to my neck, then finds my tender, sore breasts. My fingers work at his buttons, revealing a chest that could have been carved from Carrara marble perched right above an eight pack.

Damn, this man is fine.

My fingers trace the ridges of his abdomen. I've worked marble before—know the patience required, how the chisel must strike just so. For my final art class project, I'd copied Michelangelo's David, spending hours studying the perfect proportions, the tension in the muscles, the subtle asymmetry that makes it feel alive. That sculpture remains my favorite, though I create original pieces now. It captures human perfection in a way few things do.

Cameron’s body rivals it.

"God, you're beautiful," I whisper as his lips trace my arms, my breasts, moving down to my stomach. "I need those endorphins flowing through me right now."

He looks up, eyes dark. "Orgasms are known to relieve pain."

"Yes, doctor," I breathe. "So get busy."

He rises suddenly, his hands gripping my shoulders as he pushes me back against the leather. His eyes darken, pupils dilating. "Your body is exquisite," he growls, voice dropping an octave.

"Right," I challenge, breath catching. "If you prefer Picasso's chaos to John Singer Sargent's Madame X."

"No." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "You're perfect." His mouth descends on the purple-black bruise marking my abdomen, tongue tracing its edges before pressing against the center. I gasp, arching involuntarily as his teeth graze my skin, his hands already tearing at the thin fabric barrier of my underwear. The sound of ripping lace barely registers as his burning mouth claims me completely.