Midnight Mass (Camren)

CHAPTER 5

Thanksgiving dinner at Pickering Farm was a massive affair. More than thirty guests sat in the window-lined dining room while piano music drifted in from somewhere in the house.

Camila seemed listless the entire meal, pushing food around her plate and not eating, even refusing dessert and wine. She made half-hearted conversation with her parents' friends and attempted a smile or two, but otherwise she continued to look tired and out of sorts. I circled my hand around the middle of her back, pressing into the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, enjoying the feeling of her body melting into my touch.

Penelope, I thought. It must have been those two hours Shawn and I hid in the library talking guy stuff, and I'd left her (essentially) alone with a woman she abhorred.

Guilt chafed at me. What had I been thinking, leaving her alone like that? So I could be with Shawn of all people? And now she was probably socially exhausted and emotionally drained, and I hadn't done anything to help her.

I leaned in close, my lips grazing the shell of her ear as I spoke. "Are you okay, lamb?"

She looked down at the table, as if she were avoiding eye contact with me. But then I realized it was probably Penelope and Shawn she didn't want to look at right now. "Just tired," she said quietly.

"Do you want to go lay down?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, really." But she wasn't fine; a lone tear escaped out of the corner of her eye, trailing down her cheek as a single, clear droplet. I caught it with my thumb and pressed the thumb automatically to my mouth. It wasn't conscious or intentional, but the way Camila's eyes followed my movement with avid interest—the first spark of life I'd seen all night—sent a rush of blood to my groin.

I knew what I wanted to do. I still had to get her back for this morning, after all, and her family was sitting at the other end of the table...

I reached under the long tablecloth and found one smooth thigh, crossed over the other, and I slowly pushed those thighs apart, all while keeping my eyes trained on Camila's. She resisted at first, but the moment I mouthed lamb at her, her legs parted.

Maybe I didn't know what was wrong with her. Maybe I wouldn't be able to help her even if I did. But I could do this, right here and right now, reminding her of all the things we'd promised each other and God in that church three years ago. That we loved each other. That we belonged to one another. That our love would be eternal and all-consuming, patient and kind and would not boast or envy...

Okay, so I still had work to do with the envy part. But everything else, I could demonstrate to her in the way that we communicated best: with our bodies.

Keeping my upper body still and my expression neutral, I slid my hand higher, past the pleated skirt of her Saint Laurent dress and to her warm center. She took in a deep breath, her eyes flashing, and I paused, giving her a quirked smile with a raised eyebrow.

Do you want me to stop? I asked her with that eyebrow.

In response, she spread her legs farther apart.

At the other end of the table, a vibrant conversation about an upcoming tennis match had broken out, and at our end, the non-family guests were engrossed in some foreign-property-acquisition-gone-wrong tale.

Nobody was watching us.

I ran a middle finger over the damp silk covering her cunt, knowing without needing to look that she wore a pair of panties I'd bought for her just last month, for the express reason that I liked the way the fabric felt against my fingertips. And—yes—there was the little bow at the top and the lace trim around her legs...and all of my slow, gentle exploring was taking its toll on her. She squirmed in her chair, trying to subtly rock her pelvis against my hand, spreading her legs far enough apart that I could easily skate my fingers underneath the fabric at the crotch, which I did next.