Chapter 36: That damn dress

Chapter 36 ( Cameron POV) It’s morning. Another night of my wolf giving me the cold shoulder, and not acknowledging me in my subconscious.I’d almost welcome the brooding now, just for the distraction. Because right now, I’ve got a different kind of problem. A hard problem. Lying next to me. One bare leg thrown casually over my thighs. One tiny, dangerously short nightdress. And all of it belongs to Lenora. I glance down—and immediately regret it. Her chest is... everywhere. That flimsy excuse of fabric is doing absolutely nothing to contain her. I think I can actually see a nipple peeking out. Heavens help me. And that leg? If she shifts even an inch higher, she’s going to brush right up against my very hard situation. I groan internally. This is torture. Pure, carnal, slow-burning torture. And the worst part? I did this to myself. I told her yesterday—like a damn fool—that she could lie next to me instead of sleeping hunched up in that chair like a guard dog. I thought she’d decline politely. She didn’t. She said okay like it meant nothing. Climbed right into bed. And now here we are. Or more specifically, here I am: paralyzed by hormones and honor. She shifts again. Her face nuzzles into my chest. Her hand curls around my arm. She even hums softly, like I’m the world’s comfiest pillow and not a man on the verge of losing every ounce of self-control. How can she sleep like this? So peaceful. So unaware. So... tempting. Does she not see me as a man? Does she think I wouldn’t do anything? * "Cameron, I think I’m stuck!" The voice snaps me out of my thoughts and pulls me toward the kitchen. I’m already frowning by the time I round the corner—and stop dead in my tracks. It’s a scene straight out of a low-budget adult film. There, under the sink, are two bare legs sticking out. Two very familiar, shapely legs. A dress—if we’re even calling it that—is hiked up way past where it has any business being. And beneath that? Underwear that can only be described as suggestive at best. Practically nonexistent at worst. "Uh..." I clear my throat and resist the urge to cover my eyes. "What’s going on?" Her voice floats out from the dark space under the sink. "Come help!" "Help with... what exactly?" I ask, stepping a little closer, though every cell in my body screams at me to back away before I do something I’ll regret. "The thing." She says it like it’s obvious. I move in front of her, careful, cautious—trying to be professional, gentlemanly, human. But unfortunately, that puts me directly in front of her backside, which is arched in a way that makes staying professional a whole event. I stare up at the ceiling for strength. "The... thing. Got it." Her dress shifts slightly. I swear the universe is testing me. "I think it’s the pipe or something?" she adds helpfully, completely oblivious—or maybe not—to the absolute hell she’s putting me through. I clench my fists and bend down, resisting the primal urge to grab her by the waist and— No. No. I’m not that guy. I’m not. But Goddess help me, if she wiggles one more time— * I’m doing the dishes. Just... dishes. In a kitchen. Like a normal man. And then she brushes past me. I freeze. Because I felt it—her chest, right at my back. Soft. Barely there. But there. Okay. Maybe it was an accident. It’s a small kitchen, sure. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. I go back to rinsing the plate in my hands, trying not to think about how my back is suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The cool air. The warm water. The slight pressure that’s still tingling where her chest was a moment ago. Then she brushes past me again. This time, I step slightly to the side to give her room. Big mistake. She brushes right against me—there. My eyes widen. My grip on the plate slips. My brain short-circuits. That wasn’t even subtle. I glance over my shoulder. She hums. Hums. I swallow hard, set the plate down before I drop it. Then she does it again. This time, I know it’s deliberate. There’s no way it’s not. I don’t care how tight this kitchen is. I can feel the smirk in the way she moves. Slow. Effortless. Like her body was made for the sole purpose of testing my willpower. I stand there, stiff in every possible meaning of the word, soap suds dripping from my hands, wondering how exactly I ended up in this slow-burn porno of domestic seduction. One more pass, and I might snap. Because there is only so much a man can take while holding a dish sponge. * I sit on the blanket, legs stretched out, arms behind me. Apparently, we’re here to stargaze. Real romantic. Real peaceful. The night sky actually is beautiful—clear, endless, stars freckled across it like someone spilled glitter over black velvet. I take a deep breath and try to appreciate it. Try being the key word. Because the real issue? Isn’t the stars. It’s Lenora. And the damn dress she’s been wearing all day. It’s innocent enough at a glance—soft, floral, sleeveless. But on her? It might as well be a weapon. Every time she bends forward, I see everything. Every curve, every soft outline, every distraction my brain can’t handle and she’s been doing a lot bending today. I hear her footsteps behind me just as I’m about to lie down—and then suddenly she trips. Right. On. Top. Of. Me. "Oof—" I grunt, catching her before we both collapse backwards. She’s straddling me now, palms on my chest, face a breath from mine. And her cleavage? Full view. Center stage. Practically staring me down. "I—Sorry," she says, blinking wide-eyed and unconvincing. "I tripped." "Cameron Anderson, for fuck’s sake, won’t you fucking fuck me?" Lenora snaps, loud enough to scare a few birds from a nearby tree. Her voice is shaking with a mix of desperation and rage, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving—and not just because of the hike to this stupid stargazing spot. "..." I say nothing. Because what the hell am I supposed to say to that? She starts to push herself off me, frustrated, defeated, humiliated—and that’s when I grab her wrist and pull her back down.