HIS DRIVER

An Instalove Road Trip Romance

VIOLET CALDWELL
Copyright © 2021 by Violet Caldwell
All rights reserved.
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 CONTENTS

1. Marisa
2. Cameron
3. Marisa
4. Cameron
5. Marisa
6. Cameron
7. Marisa
8. Cameron
9. Marisa
10. Cameron
11. Marisa
12. Cameron
13. Marisa
14. Cameron
15. Marisa
16. Cameron
17. Marisa
18. Cameron
19. Marisa
20. Cameron
21. Marisa
22. Cameron
23. Marisa
24. Cameron
25. Marisa
26. Cameron
27. Marisa
28. Cameron
29. Marisa
30. Cameron
31. Marisa
32. Cameron
33. Marisa
34. Cameron
35. Marisa
36. Cameron
Epilogue #1: Cameron
Epilogue #2: Marisa

About the Author

 MARISA

“Mr. Cole?” I can usually tell at a glance whether a rider expects to be

called by their first name or last. This guy, decked out in a full three-piece
suit that looks overdone even in the state capitol of Sacramento, is
definitely a last-name-demanding type of guy.
“Yes, thank you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, and as usual, I feel a bit of
relief that I don’t have to deal with his reaction to my scars. I hate that
about me. Not the scars so much, but the fact that even though it’s been
years, I still haven’t learned to manage my reaction to other people’s
reactions. And it’s always the first thing people notice when they look at
me. Someday, if I can afford therapy, I might try to get help with that. For
now, I just dip my head and get creative with makeup.
I pop the trunk and make a move to get out, but perhaps surprisingly,
most men are either too courteous or too macho to let a woman handle their
luggage if they’re able to manage it themselves. Sure enough, he waves me
away and hoists his nondescript suitcase into the trunk of my serviceable
compact car.
In the moment that it takes for him to close the trunk, slide into the back
seat, and buckle up, I’ve done a quick inventory of all my expenses, not the
least of which is the lease on this car. The app tells me I’m taking this
uptight man of business or politics to the airport, a trip that should take
about half an hour and net me about ten bucks, more if he’s a decent tipper.
With these types, you can never tell.
“Can you turn on the air conditioning,” he asks. Then, almost as an
afterthought: “Please.”
 “Yes, sir.” It’s a slightly strange late-December request that makes me
wonder how this guy fares in the one-hundred-ten-plus summer heat. But I
crank the AC, though it means dollar signs in the form of gasoline. I want to
tell him that he could take off his tailored jacket, but that’s not my place.
And I do know my place.
“It will be Terminal B,” he says, as if he’s confident I will remember
that in a half an hour when we get to the Sacramento airport. Actually, I
will.
I focus on the road. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s drive. My
parents made sure the wreck didn’t scare me away from cars. I didn’t
disagree. If anything, my injuries made me more determined to be the one
in control.
The stereo is playing, and I turn it up when I realize that this guy isn’t a
talker. I’ve got a few channels on my presets for the riders—inoffensive
stuff like classic rock or Top 40. When it’s just me in the car, the presets are
for country, alt rock, and public radio.
I catch a glimpse of sudden movement in the back seat and tense up,
which is silly of me. But then again, maybe not. Who knows what could
happen with a young woman alone in a car with a stranger? Sure, we’re in
the city, and the app company knows who’s who, but that won’t help me
much if someone decides to go berserk on me. I haven’t told my parents
I’m a rideshare driver; they would lose their minds.
Mr. Cole—Cameron Cole, the app informs me—leans forward. He’s
good looking, because of course he is. Through the rear-view, I observe that
his light brown hair is closely cropped, and his blue eyes crinkle slightly
around the edges. I’d put his age at early to mid-thirties, at least a decade
older than my twenty-one years.
“Sir?”
“Just turn the music off, please.” He leans back with a sigh.
“Yes, sir.” My arm shoots out to switch off the stereo system.
“Do you have water?” he asks in a clipped tone.
“Pocket in the back of the seat,” I reply, my voice just as short as his.
What I want to say is: I’m not your dog. It’s the type of thing I’d wanted to
say to everyone who made fun of me in high school, calling me Scarface
and shit like that.
 The next thing I know, he’s handing me one of the bottles of water.
“Thirsty?”
“Um, no thank you.” I’ve been a rideshare driver for months now, and
this is the first time that a rider has offered me water. It’s a bottle I bought
myself, but still. I’m more used to the random low-key insult or proposition.
Or, more commonly, just being ignored.
A ripple of warmth runs through me, followed quickly by resentment.
Am I that bad off that I amplify the slightest gesture into an extreme
kindness? At this rate, I’ll be in love with Mr. Cameron Cole by the time we
get to the airport.
“Fuck.” He utters the word low, but I hear it. Then he amplifies the
curse. “Fuck!”
I grip the steering wheel. I’m used to riders having all manners of weird
transactions, relationship dramas, and so on play out in my back seat.
Sometimes, I ignore it. This isn’t one of those times.
I steady my voice. “Everything all right, Mr. Cole?”
“No,” he snaps, and I can see him in the rearview scrolling through his
phone. We’re only about twenty minutes from Sacramento International
Airport. “I just got a notification that my flight has been cancelled. Keep
driving to the airport. I’m going to make them find me another flight.”
“You were nicer a minute ago,” I mutter under my breath. But he’s
already punching in numbers on his phone.
I don’t know if I expect him to be an asshole to the agent, but he’s not.
He’s matter of fact, like he’s used to people doing his bidding. I’m not
surprised, with that voice and those looks. The beautiful people of the world
know how things work. I’m not bitter. I used to be one of them, using my
pretty face to get what I wanted, whether it was a store discount or a role in
the school play. The joke was on me, though, because I finished out high
school by making out with Parker Stevens, who then proceeded to tell me I
should put a bag over my head. Then I spent my first year and a half of
college avoiding guys in favor of grades that may not end up mattering. So
don’t blame me if I’m shut down sexually.
This time, though, the pretty man is not getting what he wants.
“I understand that there are no more flights to Tucson out of Sacramento
today. But if I can get to Phoenix, I can rent a car…” He pauses, listening to
the agent. “Tomorrow night is too late.”
 He suggests other airports in other cities, and I can tell from his reaction
that it’s a no-go. I hear him literally count to three under his breath. Maybe
Cameron Cole not being as asshole comes harder than I thought. “No, a
flight out of Oakland or SFO won’t help. No. Fine. I’m sorry, too.”
I butt in. “Sir? Perhaps Sac to Reno to Phoenix?”
He looks up as if he’s forgotten I’m here. But he nods politely and
suggests the route to the agent. His face falls a moment later, and for
whatever reason, I feel bad for him. This brusque, mysterious man is going
to miss his business meeting or bachelor trip or whatever it is.
 CAMERON

Fucking nightmare.
“There must be another option. Can you please check again?” I grit my
teeth so hard I think they’re going to chip. “Perhaps through LAX or
Burbank?”
I shift my gaze to the front seat while I listen to the agent tap away on
her keyboard. I can see the driver looking at me in the rearview, her pretty
brown eyes framed by long lashes. A momentary distraction from the hell
that’s raining down on me. She’s polite and patient, but then again, that’s
her job. I notice that she turns her head slightly toward the driver’s side
window and I can’t see her entire face.
The agent is back, telling me I’m out of options. Planes are grounded,
etcetera, etcetera.
Unbelievable. Today of all days. Why can’t a widespread aviation
shutdown take place when I’m traveling to another stupid trade show or
even vacation? This is life-or-death shit. Literally.
My stepmother said my father only has a day or two left.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth with the airline rep, I call
another airline, then my travel agent, before I give up. And Cameron Cole
does not give up.
My father’s words enter my mind unbidden, and I dig my nails into my
hands to make the memories go away. I squeeze my eyes shut, then stare
forward. Once they focus, I see the pretty driver assessing me with a look of
empathy that makes me draw in a breath.
 The only good thing about this day is that I get to eyeball my hot
rideshare driver. She barely looks old enough to drive. Okay, that’s
hyperbole. She looks about twenty. Too young for me to be ogling, but with
the shit show of a week I’ve had, I feel like I deserve a treat, and this young
woman is definitely eye candy. Even in my distracted state, I couldn’t help
but notice her gorgeous curves as I got into the car. And that long, dark hair
that would look like black velvet wrapped around my hand as I…
I force myself to abandon the fantasy. I’m not a lecherous asshole, just a
regular asshole. The hotness level of my driver is irrelevant to the task at
hand. It’s just another thing to notice, like the stock market numbers or the
figures on my bank account. Important things.
“That’s it,” I say aloud, in tandem with the thought. “You can drive me.”
“Pardon?” In the rear-view mirror, I see her eyebrows rise and her full
lips purse together, then release.
“You can drive me to Tucson.” My idea isn’t genius, but it’s the only
option I can think of. I add charitably: “Or Phoenix.”
“Arizona?”
“Is there some other Phoenix?”
“There’s one in southern Oregon, sir.”
I want to snap back at her, but I stop myself. I’m suddenly dependent on
this young, earnest woman with a sensible car and an even more sensible
way of dealing with me.
Instead, I say: “Please Miss…”
“Marisa,” she provides. She pronounces the “i” with a long “e” sound.
“Marisa, I need to be in Arizona by…” I count the hours in my head, as
if what my stepmother said is some kind of finite timeline, like my dad will
turn into a pumpkin if I don’t get there by midnight. Instead, he’ll turn into
nothing, and I have zero control over when it happens. “I need to be there as
soon as possible, okay?”
If we head south now, and make good time, my chances of catching
Sebastian Cole alive are decent. My chances of catching him lucid are less
so. Either way, I get my inheritance.
“Is this a family thing?”
I infer from her question that family is important to this girl. She
probably has an array of equally gorgeous relatives waiting for her at home.
Which makes it even more surprising that she’s even considering driving
me hundreds of miles two days after Christmas. “Yes. Please, turn the car
around,” I bark.
She eases to the side of the road, preparing to execute a perfectly calm
and safe turn. “I’ll head south,” she says calmly, putting on her blinker to
merge back into traffic. “But I’m not sure if I can do what you ask.”
I count one-two-three in my head like my therapist taught me, forcing
my frustration down. People generally end up doing what I want, but my
batting average is down today thanks to the airlines. I need to convince
Marisa that it’s in her best interest to shelve whatever she had planned and
tote my ass to Tucson.
 MARISA

We’re back on the road, heading in the opposite direction, and my rideshare
app is flashing violently.
“Look, if I take you, even at the rate the rideshare place will charge you,
I won’t see that in my bank account until…” I trail off. Until it’s too late.
“How much money do you make in a day? In an hour?” His voice is
stern and demanding, and I hate that it rattles me. There’s a lot about this
job, gig, side hustle, whatever you want to call it that is not great. In the
past six months, I’ve been yelled at, stiffed for tips, and even received a few
ethnic slurs.
“About two hundred a day, twenty an hour.” I’ve rounded up, but he
doesn’t need to know that.
“I’ll tip double your daily rate,” he says. “And I’ll cover your drive back
as well. Or turn off the app and I’ll pay you cash. I just need to get south,
and I can’t waste time finding another ride.”
Damn. I do the math in my head. I’m good at math, top of my class, not
that it matters anymore. If he pays me four hundred in tips, add that to what
the rideshare assholes kick down… it’s still not enough.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cole. It’s against company policy.” I pause, not sure
how much I should tell him. “I mean, it’s not like I’m afraid to go rogue on
them. It’s more that without their tracking and security measures—”
“You think I’m dangerous?” He doesn’t sound offended. He sounds like
I’ve hurt his feelings.
“I mean no offense—”
 “I’m not dangerous.” He loosens his seatbelt and finally takes off his
jacket. I force myself to keep my eyes on the road, because while his
muscles may be to die for in the figurative sense, they definitely aren’t in
the literal sense.
I pull onto Interstate 80, still headed south. It’s fifty-fifty that I’m taking
this guy any farther than Stockton, but I might as well get him headed in the
right direction. Maybe he can find another driver who is willing to play this
game.
He slaps a driver’s license and business card onto the center console.
“Sir, I’m driving. I can’t look at those.”
His picture is displayed on the app on the phone mounted to my
dashboard. I’m sure he looks just as chiseled and just as stern in his
government-issued ID. I can’t imagine what photos he puts on his dating
profiles. Maybe one of those bathroom mirror selfies. Him at a board
meeting, or maybe working out. I steal a quick look behind me. He
definitely works out.
He’s leaning forward, peeling off bills like Richard Gere in Pretty
Woman, and I feel more like a sex worker with each hundred that drops
onto the seat beside me. But I have to swallow my pride, because each of
those crisp bills is another step close to my goal.
“Here’s two thousand,” he says, his tone gentle now. “Please, put it in
your glove box or your purse or whatever you want.”
I pop open the compartment and shove the stack of bills in alongside my
mace and my snack stash, keeping my eyes on the road the entire time. I
reach up and log out of the rideshare app. Then I send a quick voice-to-text
to my best friend, Lucia. I keep it short and sweet.
I hand the guy my phone, the message app still open. “Take a picture of
your license and text it to my friend, please.”
I hear a click and a whoosh before he hands me back my phone.
“Done.”
“You have a deal, Mr. Not-Dangerous Cameron Cole.”
The sigh of relief he lets out almost makes it worth the literal pain in the
ass this is going to be. I’m stuck with this guy for the next eleven hours,
minimum.
“Where in Arizona are we headed?” Not that it matters. But I’d at least
like to know what I’m going to be dealing with in terms of road conditions.
 “It’s just north of Tucson.”
He names a town, and memories flood my mind. My team had passed
by signs for the area during a youth soccer tournament in Phoenix.
I swallow hard. “I know the place.”
I’ve finally surprised him.
“What’s your name?” he demands.
I bristle. I know that drivers, like most service workers, are often treated
like robots or worse, but with this much road left to go, he needs to at least
treat me like a human being. “I told you. It’s Marisa.”
“Your last name,” he clarifies.
I glare at him in the rearview. “Just Marisa, thank you.”
He backs down and shifts tactics. “Don’t you have to be somewhere for
New Year’s, Marisa?”
I don’t owe him an explanation. Maybe I have no family, like Sandra
Bullock in While You Were Sleeping. Maybe I don’t celebrate holidays.
Maybe a new year is an arbitrary construct. Most of all, maybe it’s none of
his damn business.
Instead, like an idiot, I blurt out the truth: “Gotta work. Need the
money.”
And that’s the truth. I have until the first week of January to come up
with the money to pay tuition for Spring semester and replace my lost
scholarship. I was afraid to tell my parents at our Christmas gathering, not
that they could have done anything about it. Whether I selfishly put myself
first is still up for debate. Regardless, when it comes to the financial fallout,
it’s all on me.
Cameron accepts my answer and leans back. He whips out his cell
phone, the universal sign for “I don’t want to talk to the driver.” I breathe a
sigh of relief. Some days, I enjoy talking with the riders, but today all I can
focus on is money and making it through a long drive with a grouchy alpha
male who isn’t used to taking no for an answer.
He doesn’t talk for the next hour, and I can see him in the rear-view
mirror staring at his phone.
As I navigate the freeway, I let my mind wander, one of my favorite
driving pastimes.
I’d once imagined marrying a guy like him: smart, handsome, built,
with a bright future. The night of the accident, Keaton and I were going to
finally “do the deed,” as my friend Lucia calls it. Keaton had been my
boyfriend for a full year, since we were both sixteen, and we’d already dealt
with the Catholic guilt of hand jobs and roving fingers in his daddy’s pickup
truck.
That night, we were celebrating the fact that my future college plans
were set. We were going to get a room at a mid-priced chain hotel and,
armed with an embarrassing amount of condoms, dispense with our
respective virginities.
Instead, Keaton rolled the truck, and I spent the next three weeks
racking up hospital bills. By the time I got out, Keaton had moved on. All I
had was greeting cards and wilting flowers. As Lucia would say, “Womp,
womp.” If it weren’t for her unwavering sense of humor, and my family, I
don’t know if I would have made it.
Since then, few men had caught my eye. Even Parker Stevens, of “bag
over your head” fame, was more of a dare. I don’t know if it’s a trust thing,
or what. Lucia says to quit blaming the scars for not putting myself out
there, and I try to listen, because she’s probably right.
Lately, though, I’ve legit had zero time thanks to this financial
emergency of my own making. I know for a fact that my parents paid well
over twenty thousand dollars in medical bills out of pocket after my injury.
It’s because of me that they probably won’t be able to help my little sisters
with college when it’s their turn. I can’t live with myself if they miss out
because of me.
I need to stop living in the past. A more present need is illustrated by
my waning gas gauge.
“Mr. Cole? Cameron?” I have to repeat myself before he looks up from
his phone.
“Yes, Marisa?” His voice is a deep rumble, and he pronounces my name
perfectly. I feel an unfamiliar tug between my legs. It weirds me out that
I’m attracted to Cameron Cole. Even his name is poetic. I briefly imagine
us saying each other’s names in bed. I’m an actual fool.
“We… We need to stop for gas.”
 CAMERON

I pay for the gas, of course. I just slide my AMEX Platinum in before she
can say otherwise. I consider offering to pump the fuel, but I’m not clear on
the line between chivalrous and chauvinist in these situations. Marisa seems
more than capable, so I leave her to it.
I notice that she keeps her head pivoted away from me, in a pose that
seems almost automatic.
“Coffee?” I ask. She wrinkles her nose and it’s fucking adorable. I
picture myself spinning her around and planting her ass on the car so I can
—
“Yes, please.”
I return with the coffees just as Marisa is replacing the gas cap. She
doesn’t see me at first, and I catch her stretching. A sliver of skin is
revealed between her A-line skirt and a sweater that hugs her curves. I’m
instantly half-hard. This beautiful young woman shouldn’t be out driving
strangers. She could get hurt, or worse. A protective instinct surges over me
and I tamp it down. Marisa No-Last-Name is not my responsibility. She is a
means to an end. My driver. That’s it.
I have packets of cream and sugar in my hand, but Marisa shakes her
head, smiles, and downs a long sip of the brew I’d retrieved from an
ancient-looking machine in the mini mart.
I take a sip and have to keep myself from spitting it out. “This is vile.”
“People say vile?” she asks, sassy now that she has my two grand. No
matter. I have plenty more where that came from.
 “I say vile if something is vile. Like this coffee.” I dump the entire cup
into a nearby garbage can. “How can you drink that?”
She shrugs and takes another sip. “It’s not horrible. Just a little—”
“Vile?” I supply.
A grin spreads over her face, and my heart skitters. I can’t deny it any
longer. I want this woman more than I’ve wanted anyone in my life. She’s
quick, clever, capable… and, because she’s in my employ, too young for
me, and I’m currently experiencing a family crisis of the highest magnitude,
completely off-limits.
Marisa takes one more sip of coffee, grimaces, and then tosses her cup
into the trash as well. She lets out a small giggle of surprise that leads me to
believe that she doesn’t do a lot of wasting of things.
“I need to use the restroom,” she says. “Next stop, you’re buying me
some good coffee.”
While she’s gone, I stretch my legs and appreciate the seasonal escape
from the valley heat. Even the desert is cool this time of year.
I don’t want to think about what’s waiting for me near Tucson, so I
finally give my mind permission to think about Marisa. I don’t know much
about her beyond the fact that she’s good behind the wheel and she’s not
interested in putting up with my bullshit. And then there’s the fact that she’s
beautiful.
Once I get shit situated with my father, I’m going to need to find a… I
hate calling them hookups, but that’s what they are. Sex meetings. A mutual
getting off. I don’t date, and I make sure every woman I’m with knows that.
For now, I’ll just need to ignore whatever chemical glitch has me lusting
after a woman whose only job is to get me from point A to point B. I’ll give
her politeness and respect, but that’s it.
My resolve lasts about five minutes until Marisa returns and I see that
she’s quickly braided her hair into shimmering black ropes. I squeeze my
eyes shut and curse my luck. Why couldn’t I get some grizzled old cab
driver out of Central Casting instead of this vision of youth and sass?
I open the back door. Marisa opens her mouth to say something, then
shuts it.
“What?” I demand. “Just say it.”
She finally turns, and I can see her entire body. I give her my full
attention. Long legs. Capable hands with nails neatly polished. Pert little
tits. That sleek black hair that falls almost to her waist. Brown eyes. And an
angry, jagged scar running the length of her left cheek. It’s like a capital C,
cutting from the corner of her eye to the curve of her pretty mouth. She
stares me down, as if daring me to acknowledge this wound, this flaw in the
painting. But I don’t, because she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve seen
in my life and I give absolutely zero fucks about a scar.
“I was just going to say,” she says, turning again and pulling open her
door, “that you might as well sit up front. It’s a long drive.”
“I’m fine in the back.”
“Suit yourself.”
Without a word, I leave my briefcase in the back seat and do something
nonsensical. I walk around the car and place myself in the passenger seat a
foot away from the woman I want to kiss—to fuck—more than anything in
this world.
I force myself not to stare at her. To imagine what it would be like to be
with her. Inside her. Making her mine.
“You afraid of my face?” Her words are a challenge, but I hear her voice
shaking.
I hide my surprise because I’m good at it. Experience in steeling my
emotions has gotten me to the point of barely having any at all. I hope that
holds true when I get to my father’s bedside.
She couldn’t be more wrong. “You seem hung up on how you look,
Marisa,” gritting my teeth. “I have no problem with your face, or any other
part of you.”
If she could see my dick right now, she’d know it’s true.
But the last thing I want to do is freak her out. She’s about to be in a
closed space with me in the middle of nowhere, albeit on a major highway.
So I leave it there. I don’t tell her that I don’t care about her scar, or that
I want to sit her on the top of this car and spread her legs. I simply slide into
the passenger seat and adjust it to my size.
 MARISA

So, this man can be rattled. Good to know. The flip side is so, too, can I. As
soon as he’s beside me, I regret my invitation. His body is big and warm
and just… there. Some kind of energy radiates from him, and when he
shifts in the seat, or speaks, or anything at all, really, it’s like a tether to my
core.
“We have quite a few miles to go,” I say needlessly. I’m still unmoored
by his non-reaction to my scar. “Would you like to put on a podcast or
something?”
“You can if you’d like,” he says politely, as if I’m not driving. As if I
have an unlimited data plan.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I keep my eyes on the road, wondering when this
attraction will subside. I’m increasingly worried that it won’t.
Cameron fiddles with the controls on the stereo, then his phone. Then
nothing.
Finally, he says: “Do you want to talk?”
I grin broadly. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking if you want to talk. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Right,” I volley. “I think, Mr. Cole, that you just want me to be the one
to ask, so you don’t have to admit you want to talk.”
The way he presses his thumb and forefinger to his head before
answering shows me I’m correct.
“Pretty sassy now that you have my money.”
“My money now, thank you.” I get a little chill thinking of how much
closer this crazy trip will bring me to hanging on to my dream. With Mr.
Arrogant here’s cash, I’ll have eight thousand dollars, money I’ve been
scrimping and saving. I’ve been eating untold amounts of ramen noodles in
the time since I got confirmation that switching my major would eliminate
my merit-based financial aid. I’ll have only a few days to come up with the
last five thousand, but I’ve done harder things in my two decades on this
earth. Like moving hundreds of miles from home to attend college on a
STEM scholarship only to throw it all away on selfish impulse.
“Okay.” Cameron exhales, like it’s the world’s biggest concession. I’d
almost forgotten the subject. “Let’s talk.”
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” I reveal. I don’t care if this man
unburdens himself on me. Okay, that’s a lie. To be honest, I’m curious.
Plus, the more he talks about himself, the less I’ll feel obliged to talk about
myself.
At first, he tells me about his business, which is more interesting than
I’d have expected. Something to do with data mining, but I can’t tell if it’s
for good or evil. If I wasn’t trying to be on my best behavior, I’d try to find
out.
He’s not boastful, exactly. More matter-of-fact. But I feel like I’m
getting the elevator pitch, not the man.
“And what do you do for fun?” I ask.
“I don’t have much of a private life,” Cameron says bluntly.
“Seriously? No hobbies? Interests?” Girlfriends?
“I go to the gym, I go to work, and I go home,” he says. “Sometimes I
read business books.”
“Sounds fun,” I say dryly.
“Having a successful business is ‘fun.’ Making money is ‘fun.’” The
derisive tone in which he says “fun” leaves me no option but to take it as an
insult. Especially given my recent life choices. Instead of snapping back, I
ignore him altogether for the next eight-five miles. I also put the radio on a
county music station, as if daring him to object.
We ride in silence like a bitter old married couple until I can’t hold it
any longer.
“I need to use the facilities.”
“What?”
“A rest stop.”
“What?”
 “I have to pee, okay?”
“Oh. Fine.”
“Thank you for letting me pee,” I say sarcastically. He’s stuck with me
now, so I might as well get some of this off my chest.
 CAMERON

There’s another hour of silence that I can’t even appreciate because I feel
like crap for snapping at Marisa. Finally, she speaks.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.” Marisa has a wry edge to her voice,
and I’d totally get off on it if it didn’t worry me.
“What?” I reply. “Should I brace myself?”
“Maybe, based on your reaction to me needing to use the restroom
earlier.” She keeps her eyes to the road. It’s getting darker and the car’s
headlights are glinting off the road markers. “At some point, I’m going to
need to sleep. I started driving at six this morning. Picked you up at twelve-
thirty. It’s now nearly seven. I’ve been driving for almost eleven hours.”
Holy shit. I am an actual idiot. “Marisa, fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t
thinking.” I want to reach out and like… rub her back or something. I was
so focused on getting to my father’s bedside and fulfilling the terms of his
stupid will that I didn’t even register the fact that she must be even more
exhausted than I am.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. I’m used to driving a lot,” she says.
“But at some point in the next couple of hours, I’m going to need to get
some rest. I got us through L.A. I can push through to Indio, maybe, but I
don’t want to be driving through the desert this late.”
“I could drive.” I’m grasping at straws. If I’d been thinking rationally,
I’d have realized that no one sane drives all the way from Sacramento to
Tucson in one go.
“No,” she says quickly. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust you with my
car, but you don’t look any more awake than I do.”
 I’d put my head down during the L.A. part of the drive, glued to my
phone as Marisa navigated rush hour traffic that can’t have been fun. “So,
we’re in…” I open my maps app and try not to wrinkle my nose like the
classist jerk I was raised to be. “San Bernardino.”
“We’ve passed it and are nearly to Redlands now.”
“You really know this route.” I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until she
answers.
“Yes,” she says without elaborating. “And that’s why I know there are
only a few little towns, some factory outlets, a casino, and a dinosaur
monument coming up. Then, unless we dip down to Palm Springs, it’s a
whole lot of nothing.”
“Palm Springs,” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says. “In fact, isn’t there an airport there?”
“I thought you were the transportation expert,” I say, but I’m already
pulling up an app to check for direct flights from Palm Springs to Phoenix.
There’s nothing flying direct until tomorrow afternoon, and I don’t know
why what I feel is relief.
I’d actually welcome another five hours in the car with Marisa, even if
it means I’ll be hiding an erection for much of the drive.
“Anything?” It sounds like she might welcome my company, too,
though maybe I’m reading too much into things.
“Nothing,” I report, setting down my phone. During our last stop, I’d
made a call to my stepmother, Caroline, and learned that my dad is still
hanging in there. Maybe some part of him wants to actually listen to me.
But it’s doubtful.
“We’ll be there in about an hour,” Marisa says. “Look for a hotel close
to Interstate 10. We can be back on the road at sunrise.”
I make a few calls, but every hotel I reach says they’re full. Even my
rich-guy tricks don’t make a room appear.
“It looks like there’s a place right off the highway. No one is answering,
but we can pull off and check when we get there.” Then I say what I was
putting off earlier. “I’m sorry for being rude back there.”
Rather than accept my apology, she laughs aloud, her cute nose
crinkling. “Which time?”
I can’t help grinning, and the expression feels unfamiliar on my face.
 MARISA

So Mr. Arrogant knows how to apologize. Good to know.

“Look,” Cameron says, and then pauses. I’ve known him for a few
hours, and I can already tell he’s about to drop something personal on me.
Finally. I watch his hands clench. With his jacket off, I can see his muscles
bunch up with each movement. He’s… delicious. And also, it seems, very
troubled.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” I assure
him. I of course expect the same courtesy. I wish I didn’t care what this man
thinks of me, but regardless, I’m in no hurry to reveal what a mess my life
has become.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m going to see my father. He’s apparently on his
deathbed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.
“Me too,” he says, “for a variety of reasons.”
I wait to see if he elaborates, but instead he changes the subject slightly.
“I haven’t been back home in long time. Nearly ten years, actually.”
I can’t resist asking: “And you’re how old?”
He grimaces, but I’m not sure why. “I’m thirty-three. I got my degree at
Arizona State, then my MBA at… Well, in the Los Angeles area. Moved up
to Sacramento to start the company with my college buddy. Been busy ever
since.”
It’s the barest of details, but I still feel the need for a quid pro quo. “I’m
a student at Valley University. I have a job on campus, but I’m trying to
cram in as much extra work as I can during Winter Break. I’m looking to
change my major from mathematics.” I don’t tell him how little hope there
is of successfully executing that plan, not without a big influx of cash or a
complete overhaul of the nation’s student loan system.
“And your age?” I could swear he’s holding his breath.
“Twenty-one.” He releases the breath and I not sure if that’s the answer
he wanted, or why he would even care.
“Why mathematics?” he asks. I brace myself for sexist generalizations
that don’t come. He seems genuinely interested.
“Two reasons, mainly. I’m good at it. And there are a lot of directions I
could go in career-wise with a math degree,” I explain. “I could teach, of
course. But I could also go into tech, or shift to engineering with more
schooling.”
“And why not mathematics?”
I weigh my answer. I’ve gone over it in my head a hundred times: what
I’ll tell the dean. What I’ll tell my parents, who sacrificed so much to give
me a leg up for college. For years, they supported me in traveling soccer,
spending thousands of dollars and logging thousands of miles so that I
could compete with the big dogs. When that plan blew up, they still had my
back. But I don’t want to tell Cameron about any of that. I’d rather have
him think I’m selfish or flighty than an object of pity.
“Math was always my Plan B,” I explain. “After the car wreck that
stunted my social life, I threw myself into my studying and found out that
math is my thing. Academic Decathlon, Mathlete, Quiz Bowl—the nerd
trifecta.”
Cameron looks genuinely impressed, and actually I am pretty proud of
myself. I just wish I wasn’t on the brink of losing all my momentum—not
to mention my scholarships.
“So, if I need any calculations done, you’re my girl?”
“Your woman,” I correct, then regret it when my face heats. “And yes.
In fact, if you tell me how many miles it is to Palm Springs, I can calculate
how long it will take to get there based on my precise rate of speed,
adjusting for traffic at a factor of…”
I trail off, because I’ve now gone full math geek.
“Amazing,” Cameron says.
“I can also calculate someone’s height based on pictures of them
holding everyday objects,” I can’t resist adding.
 “Seriously? I’m impressed.”
“I think you’re the first man who’s been wowed by my numbers skills,”
I admit. “Maybe I should add that to my Tinder profile. If I had a Tinder
profile, I mean.”
My face burns hot. Why did I say that?
 CAMERON

I am impressed with Marisa’s math skills. But that’s not what’s drawing me
to her. I could already tell that she is smart and motivated. Even if she
hadn’t given me her academic history, I would have seen it in her
commitment just to get me, a rude stranger, all the way to their destination.
Sure, the first thing I noticed about her was her looks, but the more I listen
to her, the more I’m attracted to the whole person.
For all the good that does me, which is none.
Still, when I see her blush, I can’t resist: “Hold up, Marisa. Tinder
profile? I hope you’re being careful out there.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” she retorts. “And neither is my friend
Lucia, the one who insists that I need to make said profile.”
“I wasn’t trying to boss you,” I say. Because I wasn’t. No matter how
much it grates at me that she could be out there being taken advantage of by
random men who may not appreciate her. Who may treat her poorly. A
surge of some protective instinct washes over me. I’m insanely jealous of
any man who gets to undress Marisa, touch her body, and bring her
pleasure.
“I haven’t dated much,” Marisa says. I don’t know what to make of her
statement—or is it a confession? “I was focused on getting into college,
then staying in college. As for the dating apps, I’m… Well, as you can
probably tell, I’m a little self-conscious about my scars. Plus, stranger
danger and all that. I’ll drive random people, but that doesn’t mean I want
to meet up with them in the wild.”
 “Stranger danger, I get,” I tell her. “But as for the scars, any man who
would treat you as ‘less than’ for something like that isn’t a man who
deserves your company.”
“Thank you for saying that,” she says. “But it’s still a hell of an
icebreaker. Not all men are like you.”
Intriguing statement. “Like me, how?”
“Like… Not caring about scars, I guess? I don’t know.” There’s
something she’s not saying, and I’m dying to know what it is.
“You don’t know?” I prompt.
She focuses her attention on a safe lane change before answering. “The
scars go all the way down the side of my body. I’m not sure if that would be
something to mention to a guy early on, or just wait for the ‘big reveal’. Or,
like you implied, maybe I’m making too much of it and instead it’s some
other issue.”
“What kind of issue?” Issues are something I know a little about.
“I don’t know.” She taps the steering wheel in frustration. “My friend
Lucia, the psych major, has posited everything from fear of intimacy to
PTSD.”
“Sounds like something that would require a professional diagnosis,” I
comment. Then, unbelievably, I open up. “My therapist traces my
commitment issues to my mom leaving when I was seven.”
Her eyes move to mine. “Your mom… left?”
Instantly, the memories wash over me. Seven-year-old me coming home
from the first day of second grade, excited to share a new chapter book,
only to find that my mother had given up. Bailed. Left me alone with him.
No birthday cards or holiday gifts sent from parts unknown could ever
make up for that.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Actual parental abandonment in the legal sense. I
think I’ve funded my therapist’s summer home.”
“And now your dad is dying.” Empathy infuses her voice, and I know
she’s got the wrong idea about my father and my relationship to him. But I
don’t want to fill her in and add to the pity party.
“It looks that way.” I think of all the times my dad threatened to send
me to an orphanage when I was too young to realize that orphanages aren’t
really a thing these days.
 “Lucia says everyone is messed up in some fundamental way,” Marisa
says. “Once she’s a licensed psychologist, she is either going to help a lot of
people or make bank listening to them pour their guts out.”
“But here we are pouring our guts out to each other for free.”
“You’d be surprised what I hear in this car.” For some reason, her words
diminish our conversation. Is she just listening to me because it’s her job?
Or to kill time? I want to take back everything I’ve shared.
“I can imagine,” I offer.
She seems to pick up on my retreat. “But you’re the first person I’ve
told any of my shit to, Cameron.”
Again, that warmth washes over me. “Cam. My friends call me Cam.”
 MARISA

“Well, Cam, you are a good listener.”

He’s so close to me I can literally feel his heat. Can he read my mind?
Does he know that I’m insanely attracted to him, and how that’s thrown me
completely upside down?
I live inside my head until we reach Palm Springs and Cam navigates us
past rows of palm trees to the hotel he’d found online earlier.
“Just park by the office, please,” he says. “I’ll get us set up with a
couple of rooms.”
Once he heads toward the lobby, I grab my phone out of its holder and
make a quick call to Lucia. She knows only the bare details that I’ve
accepted a side job driving and that my client is almost certainly not a serial
killer. And if he turns out to be the next Ted Bundy, at least my friend has
his driver’s license.
“I Googled your sweet ride,” Lucia says immediately. “He owns
GeoCam Data, which employs nearly one hundred people in its Sacramento
and Davis offices. He must be rich as fuck.”
“Stalker,” I blurt. I don’t know if I want to know more about Cam or as
little as possible.
Lucia ignores me and continues. “My brief research indicates no red
flags with a Mr. Cameron Cole. No murdering, for sure. Murder would be
bad for business.”
“Good to know,” I say grimly.
“I’ll always have your back.”
 I swallow a lump in my throat and aim for levity. “You just don’t want
the trauma of identifying my body.”
“Baby, I live for trauma. Trauma is my business.”
“You’re… weird, Lucia.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s on his way back. Gotta go. Thanks, Luc.” Cam is walking out of
the lobby. His face is unreadable, but the way he moves his body is all
confidence and control. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it
would be like to watch him lose that control. To give it up to me. Like he
did with that smile. That laugh.
My pointless imagining doesn’t get any further because Cam gets back
into the car, shaking his head.
“Full up,” he says. “No rooms at any price. Something to do with the
holidays combined with some regional music festival for New Year’s. She
said the only place that might have rooms is up the road a few miles.”
I turn on the ignition. “I don’t care if it’s a haunted murder hotel. If
there are rooms, we’re getting them.”
 CAMERON

This woman amuses the hell out of me, and makes me feel… lighthearted? I
don’t even know the name for it; it’s so unfamiliar. “I, for one, would pass
up a murder hotel.”
“Are you superstitious?” she asks, as if the conversation is a perfectly
natural one instead of something out of a Hitchcock movie.
“Actually, a little,” I admit. Marisa hands me her phone so I can punch
in the address of the second hotel. I want to add my phone number to her
contacts, but I resist. “Mainly, I don’t want to get murdered. Especially in a
hotel.”
“Where would you prefer to get murdered?”
“Are you seriously asking me if I have a murder location preference?” I
slip the phone into the holder on her dashboard and give her a moment to
get her bearings.
“No, I accept that zero murder is acceptable,” she says. “Forgive my
gallows humor. I blame my friend Lucia.”
“The same friend who psychoanalyzes you for free?”
“The one and only,” Marisa says. “But she loves me to pieces, so I take
the bad with the good.”
This time, when we get to the hotel, Marisa comes in with me.
“You’re in luck.” The clerk, who is about Marisa’s age, looks up from
his phone. “I have one room left.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I look over and Marisa is rolling her
eyes. “That does not happen in real life.”
 “Is there a problem?” the clerk asks dryly. I read his name, Bradley, off
his name tag. “It’s the holiday season. This is a resort town. Call around if
you want, but you’ll find yourself right back here.”
Bradley taps his pen with the impatience of someone who can take your
business or leave it. I hate being in that position. Usually, people are
begging to do business with me. It’s taken me years—decades, even—to
build up my confidence level. Power helps. Money helps even more.
I snap back to the present. “No,” I say. I slap my credit card onto the
counter. “No problem, Bradley. Thank you.”
He takes the card, then gives the two of us a closer look. I catch him
grimace when he sees Marisa’s scar. A wave of protectiveness, or maybe
it’s possession, comes over me. No fucking way is this guy going to make
her feel inferior.
“Here are your room keys.” Bradley places the plastic cards on the
counter, looking at me only and speaking in a monotone. “One for each of
you. Have a pleasant stay.”
I want to tell him off, but more than that, I don’t want to embarrass
Marisa by calling attention to the situation. Still, I am fucking pissed. I
count in my head to calm down. One, two, three…
 MARISA

He wanted to tell off that clerk. Maybe Cam is embarrassed at the obvious
mismatch between us. Before the accident, I could have been paired with
someone as hot as him. Keaton was the star quarterback, and even though I
wasn’t from the “rich” side of town like he was, my looks almost made us
equals in the eyes of the cliques at our high school.
I should be immune to grimaces from strangers by now, but this one still
stings. Cam—Cameron—is my passenger. A payment. He’s nothing to me.
I keep reminding myself of this. So why do I care that this random guy
thinks someone like him would never be with someone like me? I shouldn’t
care. I don’t.
I turn toward the door of the lobby, but before I can process what’s
happening, Cameron is spinning me back around. His face is close to mine
and I can feel his breath in my ear, sending a tingle down my body. “Can I
kiss you?” he whispers.
“Um, yes?” The answer comes out before I can stop it. And then his
mouth is on mine. He’s kissing me: long, deep pulls of his lips on mine.
And I’m kissing him back, at first tentatively, but within seconds I’ve
parted my mouth and am nipping at his bottom lip. Cameron tastes like
mints and passion, and his kiss is so intense that I almost believe that this
public declaration is real.
“Looks like we get to spend the night together after all, sweetheart,”
Cameron says for our audience of one. Bradley is wide-eyed, probably
thinking we are engaged in a torrid affair, or a couple saving ourselves for
our wedding night.
 But I couldn’t care less about Bradley in this moment. I float out the
door, back to my car. Somehow, I know that Cameron didn’t kiss me out of
pity. Somehow, I know that there was a percentage of that kiss that wasn’t
fake.
“That was—”
He gives me a heated look and fills in the blank: “Enthusiastic?”
“That, too.” I don’t want to say it. I hate that I have to say it. “You
didn’t have to.”
His eyes bore into me, and he answers in a clipped tone. “I wanted to
kiss you. You agreed. I enjoyed it, and I think you did, too.”
“Fine, then.”
We get in the car, and the literally thirty-second drive to the parking
spot in front of the hotel room seems to take one billion awkward years. I
stop and pop the trunk. I grab Cameron’s cash—my cash—from the glove
compartment and shove it into my purse. He reaches into the back seat for
his briefcase. Wordlessly, we get out and head to the trunk. I mentally thank
Past Marisa for making sure I always have emergency clothes and toiletries
on hand.
“Look, I can sleep in the car,” he says.
I’m surprised. No one wants to sleep in a car. I’ve done it myself and it
never stops sucking. I also feel a stab of disappointment.
“You don’t need to sleep in the car, Cameron.” I hoist my bag and then
his out of the trunk. It was automatic.
“Marisa, you’re not my… I mean, you don’t have to…” He looks
mortified and I love it. I’m grinning. I do have power over this man.
“Go on, sir.”
A different look comes over his face, one with a heat that makes
wetness gather between my legs as I take a step back, gauging his reaction.
“Don’t call me sir,” he says quickly. “I know that you’re… performing a
service, but let’s just…”
I let him off the hook. “It’s fine, Cameron. Cam. I’m just messing with
you.”
“Messing with me?”
“Um, joking around? Being silly?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you
unfamiliar with the concept?”
 “Somewhat,” he says wryly. He picks up his bag and gestures toward
the door. “Let’s put our stuff away, find some food, and then sort things
out.”
 CAMERON

Half an hour later, we’re at a chain diner close to the hotel. I’m not even
hungry. I just needed to get distance between Marisa and me and that hotel
room. I saw immediately that there was only one bed, because of course
there was. After having had a taste of this woman, it’s going to take all my
willpower to fall asleep without imagining her body on me, under me, and
—
“So, I’m thinking breakfast for dinner.” Marisa is scanning the menu
while I try not to objectify her. “Specifically French toast. With a side of
eggs.”
My eyes scroll past pictures of stuffed hash browns, eggs benedict, and
omelets until I see cinnamon roll pancakes and my heart stops. Fucking
memories. I shove the menu away. “I’m not hungry.”
Marisa’s not buying it. She places a hand over mine. Warm.
Comforting. Here. “Are you okay?”
Fuck it. I won’t be seeing her again after this trip. And my therapist
hasn’t managed to break through this particular wall. I swallow hard. I point
at the photo on the menu. “My mother used to make cinnamon pancakes. I
forget about her, and then I see something random like this and… Never
mind. It doesn’t matter. They’re just pancakes.”
Marisa squeezes my hand. I look up, fearing the pity I will see in her
eyes. Instead, all I see is empathy. “It matters, Cam. Don’t think it doesn’t.
Everything that happens to us matters. That’s just the way it is. I’m sorry.”
I ask her the question that runs through my head on a loop at times like
these. “What kind of mother makes her kid cinnamon pancakes from
scratch one day and disappears the next?”
“The kind who doesn’t deserve you, Cameron.” I am half in love with
Marisa in this moment. If I could trust, or love, this is the type of woman
I’d marry. Who the hell am I kidding? It’s Marisa herself who I want. I’d
somehow talked myself into thinking my attraction to her was all sex and
lust; a fluke of the human body. But it’s more than that. She’s special. I’ve
known her less than a day, and already I feel closer to her than I do to
almost anyone in my life. Is that pathetic, or is it fate?
Thankfully, the server comes to take our orders. Once she leaves, I use
the opportunity to lighten the mood.
“Anyway, my mother is dead now,” I say bluntly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I bare my wounds further. “I only found out a couple of
years ago. My therapist urged me to track her down, for ‘closure’ or some
shit, and through public records I learned that she’d died when I was ten.
I’d spent two decades of my life resenting a dead woman who couldn’t
come back for me if she’d wanted to.”
 MARISA

I can’t muster much empathy for Cameron’s dead mother. Before I can
think better of it, I say: “I wish you could meet my parents.”
“What are they like?” He ignores the inappropriate intimacy of my
question. Of course my rich rideshare customer isn’t going to meet my
parents.
“They’re not perfect,” I say. “They’ve been overprotective, especially
after my accident. Part of the reason I went to a college hundreds of miles
away was to get out from under their thumbs. But our relationship is pretty
good now. I have three younger siblings for them to harass.”
My heart speeds up, a jolt of anxiety as I remember that I still haven’t
dealt with the fallout from my plan to change my major.
“Seems you’re the wild child,” Cameron says.
“Hardly. Maybe in my parents’ eyes, but ask any of my friends and
they’ll tell you I’m the cautious one.”
“Good.” He doesn’t elaborate, leaving me to wonder why my risk
assessment should be of any interest to him.
Our food arrives and we continue to low-key interrogate one another.
This man who was so resistant to sharing anything about himself is now
opening up to me. Our worlds and even our ages are so different, it’s a
wonder we have anything in common. But we do. Turns out that he likes
cats more than dogs, but still likes dogs. He’d rather go hungry than eat a
cooked carrot, yet raw ones are fine. But he claims to hate romantic
comedies.
 We’re laughing as I drive us the short distance back to the hotel. “The
movie thing is a deal-breaker,” I tell him. “I suppose you call them ‘chick
flicks,’ just to be even more cliché.”
“I’m disgruntled,” he counters. “I haven’t had the opportunity to explain
myself.”
“By all means,” I tell him. “Please elaborate and become gruntled.”
“Gruntled isn’t—”
“Don’t change the subject,” I scold. We’re almost back to the hotel and
it’s going to get awkward again. And I don’t want awkward. The more we
talk, the more the idea takes shape in my head. I want this disgruntled,
complex, sexy man to be my first lover.
All the reasons add up. I’ve never wanted a man before. I mean, not like
this: a burning, irresistible desire. I’m twenty-one years old and a virgin.
But I know from that kiss alone that we are compatible. How long will it be
before I feel this pull with someone else? Maybe never. And if I do, what
are the chances that it will be with someone who takes me as I am, not
caring about my scars or asking about my plans for the rest of my life or
anything like that.
Cam makes me feel good. And I keep thinking about that one bed.
I may be making a big mistake, but I’ve never wanted to err so badly in
my life.
 CAMERON

Back in the hotel room, it’s awkward.

“So, again, I want to offer that I can sleep in the car,” I say. I can be a
gentleman, even if my dick thinks otherwise.
Marisa turns from where she’s unpacking her overnight bag. “That offer
was made and rejected, but thanks anyway.”
“That was before we knew there was only one bed.”
She shrugs, as if I’m a platonic friend at a sleepover and not a man who
wants to bury my face between her legs until morning. “It’s a king-sized
bed.”
“I think it’s a queen,” I argue.
“You’re very… precise.”
She’s correct. Precisely, I’d like to spend the night getting to know her
body, which I’m almost as obsessed with as I am her mind. I keep the
thought to myself, of course. Instead, I turn on the television.
“Maybe you should wind down with a horrible rom-com.” Playing film
critic is easier than talking about my feelings. But Marisa is two steps ahead
of me.
“Tell me what you hate about romantic comedies and I’ll consider
putting on something from another genre.” Her eyes bore into me as she
sizes me up. “You probably tell people you like action adventure, but really
you’re into the classic stuff. Or documentaries.”
“Both,” I admit. She’s so right, it’s uncanny. I decide to reward her with
the truth. “The setup annoys me. How the couple meets. Some guy’s dog
takes a dump in front of some woman’s flower shop or indie bookstore or
whatever, and they go from arguing to true love in the space of two hours.
Completely unrealistic.”
“I’ll overlook the fact that you’re generalizing,” Marisa says patiently.
“Also, it’s called a ‘meet cute.’”
“Did we meet cute?” I can’t resist asking.
She actually ponders my question, as if it’s deserving of serious
consideration. “You were grouchy. That fits.”
“I’m still grouchy,” I say grouchily.
“But we didn’t… We aren’t…”
If she didn’t have my full attention before, she does now. “Because it’s
not realistic. Thus proving my point.”
Her face falls and I don’t know why. She sits down on the bed and pulls
a pillow protectively onto her lap. “Remember earlier when we kissed?”
Okay, I’m fully hard now. “Of course I remember. Should I apologize?”
“No. Why would you apologize? You asked permission. It was like a
college orientation tutorial in consent.”
“They have tutorials in consent?” I latch on to that part of her statement.
“Men don’t know how not to be assholes without formal lessons?”
She raises an eyebrow and I feel like apologizing for my entire gender.
Men, in fact, can be assholes. I was a week into rushing for a fraternity
when I bailed because of an especially disgusting competition involving
sorority girls and copious amounts of alcohol.
 MARISA

“Don’t answer that,” I blurt. I grab the remote and switch off the TV. “I’m
not in the mood for a movie. I’ll probably just shower and get ready for
bed.”
Just saying the words “get ready for bed” with Cameron in the same
room makes my stomach do that stupid flip-flop thing.
“I could probably use a shower, too,” he admits, and of course I
instantly imagine him nude, water sluicing over his body, trickling down the
lines of his muscles, settling in the divots of his… “Marisa, are you okay?
You can shower before me. I wasn’t trying to take cuts.”
He’s so damn cute, his chiseled face scrunched up with concern, that it
brings me back to reality. To my goofy side. To my comfort zone. “Take
cuts?” I tease. “Are we in grade school? There’s no cut-sies. You go first. I
don’t care.”
“We’re not buddies on a road trip, having some sleepover.” This man
either doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor, or he’s more uptight than it
already seemed. But he grabs one of the hotel’s white towels and
disappears, fully clothed, into the bathroom.
As soon as I hear the water running, I grab my phone and call Lucia. I
need my best friend’s feedback on what I have in mind.
“What’s up with California’s sexiest chauffeur?” I can hear the TV in
the background; she must be watching reruns of The Bachelorette again.
“Turn down that hot mess of a show,” I demand. “I have an update for
you, my favorite stalker of men.”
“You say stalker, I say helpful researcher.”
 “Listen, Lucia, Cameron will not murder me.” I stare at the closed
bathroom door as my imagination conjures up dirty scenes. “In fact, I think
he might be just the man with whom to cash in my V card.”
“Cringe,” my best friend says. “Are we still saying ‘V card’? I thought
we’d moved past that as a society.”
“Ugh, I was using hyperbole.”
“That’s not… what hyperbole is,” she says slowly. “Maybe stick to
math.”
“Okay, fine. Here’s some math: me plus hot dude equals potential
orgasms and breaking the seal on my future dating life.”
“Okay, that I can get behind.”
“So, should I, like, proposition this guy?”
Lucia pauses, like she’s actually giving it some thought. “What’s the
worst that can happen?”
I could actually catastrophize all day on any number of topics. But I
answer, “Bad sex and a really awkward car ride?”
“My risk assessment would say go for it.” I can almost see my best
friend chewing her bottom lip over the phone. “But…”
“But what, Lucia? If you have something to say, hurry up and say it.
He’s almost out of the shower.”
“I’m afraid it will mean more to you than it does to him, and you’ll
catch feelings.”
“That will not happen,” I say more confidently than I feel. “I can
compartmentalize my brain from my...”
I trail off and turn to face the wall so I’ll stop trying to use my non-
existent x-ray vision on the bathroom door.
“Jeez, Marisa, if you can’t even say it, should you be putting things in
it?”
“My pussy, okay? Are you happy?”
I’ve spoken too loudly, and when I look up, the man I’ve been
fantasizing about is standing just outside the bathroom, a towel wrapped
around his waist. “Gotta go, Lucia. Bye.”
I hang up and wait in vain for the floor to swallow me up.
“Is everything okay?” Cameron is wearing a look of concern and a too-
small towel. “I heard you kind of… shout.”
 “Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m about to clarify that my pussy is also fine, but
thankfully my brain starts working again. It’s a miracle, since it’s taking
most of my mental energy to avoid staring at Cam’s chest. Turns out his
business suit didn’t tell the entire story, because it looks like he could have
stepped out of a movie set. His muscles are defined, he’s got a thin dusting
of hair on his chest, and he looks nothing like any boy I’ve ever dated. He’s
a grown-ass man, and I am in over my head.
“So… do you want to shower? I’m sure there’s plenty of hot water,” he
says politely, as if he’s not a god sent down to earth to taunt a silly, sex-
starved virgin.
“Shower yes will do I get in it.” Words tumble out of my mouth in
random order as I grab my pajamas and escape into the still-steamy
bathroom.
 CAMERON

Marisa is as adorable as she is sexy. I cannot figure her out, which I admit is
part of the appeal. The mix of confidence and shyness. Of daring and
reserve. I glimpse myself in the mirror and I have a stupid grin on my face.
All I heard was “pussy,” which was shocking enough, but from the way she
blushed there must have been more to it than that.
I hear the water running, so I take my time toweling off my body,
spending a few seconds too long on my half-hard dick. Fuck. I almost
stroked myself in the shower, thinking of Marisa in the next room, but I was
a gentleman for once and resisted. I glare at myself in the mirror as I use the
towel to dry my hair. No. You will not hit on the beautiful young woman
you’ve hired to tote your selfish ass from Point A to Point B. You will not
imagine how it would feel to bury your cock inside her and fill her up. To
make her yours. And not just for one night.
I throw on a t-shirt and track shorts before my misguided fantasy can go
any further. I’ve lost my mind, clearly. I’d spent the last two minutes of my
shower with the water on cold. It didn’t help. Something tells me nothing
will, and the sooner Marisa can get me to my destination and herself back to
safety, the better. For both of us.
After I brush my teeth, I assess the bed situation. I lift one side of the
covers, sliding myself underneath while keeping my bulky body as close to
the edge as possible. I won’t be able to fall asleep with her beside me. The
least I can do is make sure not to toss and turn so that she gets some rest. I
get out my phone and check for messages that may have come in while I
was showering, but there’s nothing.
 A few minutes later, Marisa emerges from the bathroom. Her hair is
loose, and she’s wearing a pajama set that’s just baby doll shorts and a tank
top that’s so sheer I can see her nipples through it. Fuck me.
“You ready for bed?” she asks, stretching over me and reaching for the
light. Her top rides up and I see a bit of bare flesh, and the knotted
discoloration of a scar. I could almost swear there’s something in her tone
that wasn’t there before. She exudes innocence, but something about her
here, now, makes me wonder if she wants me to want her. Or maybe that’s
just a trick that my perverted mind is playing on me. That kiss felt real.
“Yes,” I grunt. She turns off the light with a click, but there’s still a
sliver coming from the bathroom door that she’s left ajar.
“You don’t…” She pauses, her voice almost timid. “You don’t mind that
I left the bathroom light on? Like as a nightlight?”
“That’s fine.” Is Marisa afraid of the dark? She wouldn’t be with my
body wrapped around hers all night long.
I roll over and stare at the wall. The wallpaper is cracked in a few spots
and the baseboard is cracked, too. I haven’t stayed in a hotel this low end in
years. It’s clean, but that’s about all I can say for it.
I hear a rustle as Marisa crawls into bed. I clench my fists as my dick
hardens. I picture her sweet little body sliding along the rough sheets. She
deserves sheets with some super-high thread count. And good pillows. I
wonder how she would react if I invited myself to my side of the bed and
pulled the covers up over the two of us. Showed her how I really feel. Got
my mouth on her.
I’m an asshole. That’s been established. But even I’m not enough of an
asshole to make a move on a girl who’s a dozen years my junior, someone
I’ve hired to drive me. Someone who is at a financial and geographical
disadvantage.
“It’s weird.” Marisa’s voice carries in the dark.
“What’s weird?”
“Well, all of it,” she says lightly. “But specifically it’s that I’m not tired.
Even after all that driving. It might be the mocha you finally bought me
or…”
She trails off. “Or what?”
Her voice lowers, as if she’s about to tell me a secret. “I’ve never shared
a room with a man before. And I’ve been thinking.”
 Now I’m fully erect. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? “Marisa.”
My tone is a warning.
She continues as if I’ve said nothing. “I’ve been thinking, there are
some things I’ve done with a guy, but a lot of other things that I haven’t.
Things that I want to do. Try.”
I draw in a breath, my body still as my heart pounds. “I’m sure you’ll
get to do those things, Marisa.”
I listen to her breathe in and out for so long that at some point I wonder
if she’s fallen asleep. “I was thinking, Cam, that I’d like to do some of those
things with you.”
 MARISA

There. I’ve said it. I’ll either be mortified by rejection or shocked by

acceptance. And what does it say about me that I’m hoping for the latter?
“Casual sex is a thing,” I say. I leave out the part about how nothing
with Cam feels casual. “Remember, the apps and all that?”
“I’m familiar with the concept.” His voice is tense and unreadable.
Almost grim.
“Just for fun, you know,” I elaborate. “People meeting people at a bar
and going together.”
“That’s not safe.” His voice rises, a low rumble just inches from me.
“You had better not be doing that.”
I reach over and rest my hand on his arm. His muscles bunch up. He’s
tense, frozen. “I’m not doing that,” I say. “That’s the point. I don’t feel
comfortable with that. And that’s not how I want to lose my virginity. But I
feel comfortable with you, Cam.”
“You shouldn’t,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Shouldn’t want to get it out of the way, or shouldn’t want it with you?”
“Either. Both.” Finally, Cam turns to face me, and the movement makes
my hand fall from his arm. I position myself in a mirror image to him. I can
see the scruff on his face that wasn’t there earlier in the day when I picked
him up. It feels like I’ve known him so much longer. Or maybe that’s just
something I’m telling myself so that I can go through with this.
“Why not?” I know my tone is petulant, but at this point, what do I have
to lose besides my pride, and, I hope, my virginity.
“It’s a big deal.”
 “Who says?” I counter.
“Um, society?”
“Exactly.”
He squeezes his eyes shut as if he’s in actual physical pain. “Regardless,
your first time should feel special.”
“That sounds cliché,” I say. “Plus, who’s to say this doesn’t feel special
to me?”
“You deserve more than a two-star hotel room with a guy you just met.”
“Don’t make me feel cheap,” I volley back. “I’m pretty sure it’s three
stars, plus you bought me breakfast for dinner first.”
“That’s not funny, Marisa.”
“It’s maybe a little funny?” I say hopefully. Am I supposed to bat my
eyes? Push my boobs together seductively? I should have done more
research. Then it hits me. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s me.
“What’s wrong?” Judging by the concern in his voice, I figure I must
look as stricken as I feel. I scoot backward until I’m almost falling off the
bed.
“Shit. I’m sorry. Damn. Hell.” I use all my low-level curse words. “I
thought that since you liked kissing me, you would, I mean, you might, I
mean… men… most men—”
“Do I seriously have to tell you I am not most men?” he demands. “And
do you seriously think that I could be inside you—fuck you—and have it
mean nothing?”
“Umm… maybe?” I gather the sheets against my body. The light from
the doorway plays on his blue eyes, and they are flashing with intensity. He
pulls the sheet away from me, and the rush of air brings my already-hard
nipples to points. Then he pulls the sheet off his own body. I gasp when I
see Cam’s tented erection.
“I want you, Marisa. I’ve wanted my cock inside you for most of the
day,” he says, stroking the outline of a very large, very intimidating bulge.
“If I do this, if we do this, isn’t a fucking favor.”
 CAMERON

This girl needs to know that she’s playing with fire.

“Is that a pun?”
“Is what a pun?” I cannot keep up with her.
“You said ‘a fucking favor’.” She smiles, but she’s trembling a little.
Nervous, but trying to protect herself with humor. Well, it’s too late for that
now. She should have protected herself from me, but now she’s offering
exactly what I’ve been wanting, and I might be too much of an asshole to
say no.
Most men would jump at the chance for a no-strings-attached lay,
especially with a woman as hot as Marisa. But that’s not me, and that’s not
what attracts me to her. It’s something deeper, more intense, almost
frightening. I’m not just picturing myself having sex with Marisa. The
movie playing in my head has me taking her home with me, putting a ring
on her finger and a baby inside her. It’s insane, and I don’t know where it’s
coming from. I shake my head to clear it.
All I can offer is my body, and as much as the voice in my head tells me
to shut down this dangerous game, I want to play.
“You want this?” I ask, crudely planting one of my hands on her breast,
over her sheer top. She gasps, and I feel her nipple pebble under my touch. I
look her in the eyes as I pinch her lightly between my fingers.
“Yes,” she insists, her breaths coming faster now. “I do, Cam. Please.”
“You want this?” I lean into her chest and open my mouth around her
other breast as my fingers continue to work her nipple. Through the fabric, I
use my tongue to flick and pull at her sensitive flesh.
 “Yes, yes, I want all of it.”
I move my mouth to her lips and kiss her deeply. She lets my tongue
explore her mouth, kissing me back. When I nip at her bottom lip, she yelps
and pulls away, startled.
“That’s just it, Marisa.” I release her body from mine. Release her from
what she’s proposed. “I don’t know if I can be gentle with you.”
“What do you mean?” She’s clutching at the sheet again, as if it
provides her some physical or emotional distance from the brute that I am.
That I will always be.
Fine. She wants to know, so I will tell her. I lever up so I’m sitting with
my back to the headboard. Through my shorts, I wrap my hand around my
dick, squeezing it to relieve the ache. “Baby, I don’t want to hurt you. But I
have a big cock and I want you so fucking bad. I’ll start off slow, and I’ll
stop anytime you say the word, but once I’m inside that tight little pussy
you mentioned, I’m going to want to pound the hell out of you. Do you
understand, Marisa? You can ride my dick or I can fuck you into the bed,
but either way, I won’t be able to hold back.”
I watch her reaction, expecting to have shocked her, but she shocks me
instead. “That’s exactly what I want, Cameron. You, fucking me, hard.”
The voice in my head fucks all the way off.
 MARISA

“Tell me your rules,” Cameron demands.

“Rules? I don’t know if I have any rules.” I’m not sure what he’s getting
at, but I hope it means that he’s agreed to my plan. “Do you mean, like,
limits and stuff? With the sex?”
He gives me one of his rare smiles, then brushes my hair out of my face.
“Any of it. If we do this, I don’t want you to have any regrets. I want you to
tell me what you want, and what you don’t want. And what you want to
happen… after.”
I nod, giving his communication the attention it deserves. It doesn’t take
me more than a minute to gather my thoughts.
“Can you, like…” I’m embarrassed to say it, but it’s what I want, and
when will I have another opportunity like this, with a man like this?
“Explain things? Tell me what you’re doing? Not in a scientific way, just…
with words?”
Cam leans in and kisses me, and I feel the curve of his smile against my
lips. “Dirty talk? Is that what you want, Marisa? You want me to talk dirty
to you?”
My face heats. That’s exactly what I want. “Yes. A little. Or a lot. If you
don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” His hand trails down the side of my face and I
reflexively draw back. Why can’t I stop caring about my stupid scars?
Cameron obviously doesn’t mind. Then again, he hasn’t seen me naked.
Yet.
 I scoot to the edge of the bed, eyeing the bathroom door that I’ve left
ajar. “Maybe I should turn off that light.”
“No,” Cameron says sharply. “I’m not doing this unless I can look at
you.”
“You won’t respect what I want?”
“I won’t let you hide from me,” he says. “I want to see that pretty pussy
before I lick between your legs. I want to look into your eyes and see your
expression as I slide into you for the first time.”
For the first time. Are there going to be additional times? I squeeze my
legs together. I vaguely remember we were supposed to agree on what
happens afterward, but I’m distracted by the sight of Cam stripping off his
shirt. Something about the way his body moves, the confidence with which
he carries himself, makes me glad that this is the man who will help me get
it out of the way. I’m worried, though, that maybe he’s not a get-it-out-of-
the-way kind of guy.
If he gets to look at me, then I get to look at him. It’s a trade I’m willing
to make.
“You’re really good-looking,” I say. “I mean, yes, light stays on, okay.”
“And I want to touch you, Marisa.” He looks at me pointedly. “All
over.”
“Fine.”
“And taste you.”
“’Kay.” My breath is short, like I’ve forgotten how to form words. All
I’d asked for was for Cam to take my virginity, but he wants more. His
fingers reach up under my top and then his hands are on my bare breasts.
“Marisa, I need to see you.” He’s begging now, but reflexively I hold
my top down over my side, my scars. “Please.”
It’s the “please” that does it. I strip off my shirt and squeeze my eyes
shut. When I open them, I brace myself in case he’s staring at the knotted
flesh that runs the length of my hip. Instead, he’s caressing me, pinching my
nipples lightly, leaning in to kiss me on the mouth. The more he works my
breasts, the more my clit throbs, needing release.
“I ache down there,” I admit. Desire outweighs shyness now.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.” Cam slides down my body,
grasping both my hips. Then he stops short, narrating: “Gonna kiss you
there, between your legs. Lick your pussy. Gonna find your little clit and
flick it with my tongue. Learn your body. See what you like.”
Then he buries his face between my legs.
When his tongue hits my flesh, I arch off the bed. The feeling is
incredibly intense, more so than anything I’ve ever managed by my own
hand.
“Cameron. Cam. That feels so good. More, please.”
“Good girl,” he prompts. “You talk, too. Tell me what you need. Gonna
touch you now. Gonna rub you while I taste you.”
“Okay, yes, do that,” I agree greedily. “Lightly though.”
He gathers me closer and brings his thumb up to brush my clit as his
tongue presses into me. “Mmmm,” he hums into my core.
“More, there,” I direct, and he shifts his hand, so he’s pressing a little
harder. He’s intent on my pleasure, gauging my reaction. “Yes. Yes. There.”
I’m breathing hard, my eyes shut tightly, overwhelmed with sensation.
Cameron pauses just a moment. “Can you come for me, Marisa? You’ll feel
so much better if you do. I promise.”
I think he’s right. I will feel better. This ache; I need it gone. I feel my
control slipping. I grapple at his hair and press his face into my pussy. “I’m
so close.”
 CAMERON

This amazing girl fucking explodes, coming all over my face as she lets out
sweet little cries.
When I feel her pulse slow, I lever up so I can see her flushed face. Her
beautiful tits. Everything.
I’m on my knees, my clothes stripped off, more aroused than I’ve even
been in my life, when I see her eyes widen. I freeze, my fist around my
swollen cock. “You okay, Marisa? We don’t have to do this.”
I want to be one hundred percent sure that she’s in this with me. I don’t
want to see her hurt, much less be the one who hurts her. It’s bad enough
that I’m letting her believe this is a casual thing for me when it’s anything
but that.
“I want it!,” she says insistently. “I mean, I want you.”
I lean forward, and she freezes again. “Then what is it? Tell me, baby.”
She dips her head. “I just didn’t expect… I mean… It’s so big.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’ve seen a man naked before, right? You told
me about your high school boyfriend.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “Technically, yes. I mean, not upper and
lower half together. What I mean is, he wasn’t built like that.”
I release my cock and it bobs up and down. She brings her hand around
and it feels so good that I let out a hiss. “Yes, Marisa. Play with my dick all
you want.”
It doesn’t take her long to build confidence. She tugs gently at my cock,
then more firmly. When she brings her other hand up to cradle my balls, I
moan. “You like that?” she asks. “When I touch you there?”
 I grasp a handful of her beautiful dark hair and gently tilt her head up so
she’s looking into my eyes. “It’s fucking perfect, Marisa. Your touch.
Everything about you. Don’t doubt for damn second that this is where I
want to be.”
“Yes. Right here.” Her eyes darken and that’s how I know she needs my
words. She needs to hear how amazing she is, and I’m happy to tell her.
“Baby, you are gorgeous and sexy and so damn smart and sweet.” I
loosen my grip on her hair and lean in to kiss her. “I can’t want to bury
myself inside you. I promise you, it will be good. I’ll go slow, Marisa, until
you adjust. You can set the pace. Ride me. Whatever you want, sweetheart,
you’re in charge.”
“I’m really wet, I think.” She sounds so damn innocent it almost breaks
my heart. She deserves better than a near-stranger in a hotel room for her
first time, but I’m still going to give her exactly what she’s asking for. She
doesn’t need to know that this isn’t just sex for me. That when I slide inside
her, I’ll be claiming her as mine.
“Show me, Marisa,” I command. She lets go of my dick, grasps my
hand, and shoves it between her legs. She’s so slick my fingers just slide
between her folds. “Baby, you’re fucking drenched. You’re so ready for
me.”
“Tell me, though, everything. Tell me it dirty.”
This woman. I am wrecked. She is so fucking perfect for me and I’m so
wrong for her. I need to protect her. I lean over to the nightstand and open
my wallet, finding a condom I’d stashed there. I turn on the light to check
the expiration date. We’re good.
“Let me leave the light on,” I plead. “I want to see my cock slide into
you. I want to see us joined up, you taking it. I want you to see it, too.
Please, Marisa.”
“Okay.” The second she agrees, I tear open the condom wrapper and roll
the thing onto my dick. I don’t want anything between us, but I will not be
that jerk who complains about a piece of rubber.
She’s lying there, waiting, and I realize she’s also waiting for the words.
But I don’t feel like dirty talk in this moment. I feel like saying sweet
things, tender things, things a man would say to his wife or lover, not a one-
night stand.
 I notch the tip of my cock into her entrance, and she looks at me with
trust in her eyes. She reaches both hands toward mine, locks our fingers
together, and my heart almost breaks. “Marisa.” I swallow hard. “I’m going
to be inside you in a moment, and I want you to know that it means
something to me.”
Her eyes widen, and I don’t know if I’ve calmed her or frightened her.
“I’m ready,” she says.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I plunge my cock into her slick heat,
through her barrier, all the way to the hilt. “I’m in you, Marisa, you’re mine,
I’ve got you. Oh, fuck.”
 MARISA

I feel… full. Cam is inside me, all the way. I feel his cock stretching me and
I feel my body responding, opening up to him. I gasp, and he freezes. The
look on his face is like pleasure mixed with pain.
He’s holding back.
“You’re holding back,” I accuse.
“Don’t want to hurt you. You’ll be sore.”
“I’m not sore. I want it to be good for you, too.” We’re arguing while
Cam is literally inside me.
“It’s so fucking good, Marisa, damn.” But he’s shaking.
“But what if you did it harder?”
He lets out a low moan and I feel him shift inside me. “Baby, if I did it
harder, if I pounded into you the way I want to, you’d like it. You’d feel the
ridge of my thick cock against your clit. I’d put my hand on there, too. See
if I could make you come again, but this time with your body around mine.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’d come so damn hard it would scare you,” he warns.
“Do it then,” I tell him. “Do it hard.”
Finally, finally, his control breaks. He tugs my body toward his, then
twists to one side. “You do it. Get on top of me, Marisa. You decide how
hard. How deep.”
By giving up control, he’s given me control.
I settle myself on top of his strong body. Impaled on his cock, I lean
forward, testing. Adjusting. “Oh, yes,” I moan without intention as his
length touches something inside me. He moves slightly and I feel my eyes
widen in response as the feeling intensifies.
“You like that, Marisa?” I look down at Cam and he’s smiling, a grin
that’s self-satisfied or indulgent or maybe both.
“I do,” I admit. And then, because who knows when I’ll get another
chance to learn these things I ask, “Why?”
“It’s just how your body is made. That place inside you, ready for… for
a man.”
For a moment I thought that Cam was going to say that my body was
made for him. That makes no sense. But as I rock my body on top of his, a
voice in the back of my head warns me that it can’t be like this, this good,
with just any man.
I block out my worries and focus on how it feels to have Cam inside
me. I lean forward, and, just as he promised, his dick provides
counterpressure against my clit and soon another orgasm is building, this
time from all through my body.
“Cam, you feel so good.” The words spill out of my mouth. I don’t
know if this is a time to be quiet, but I don’t care. I want him to know.
“Please, can you move with me?”
“Yes,” he groans, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask. Cam fucks me
from below, his powerful thighs working as his cock settles even deeper
inside me. There’s no pain now, only pleasure. I throw my head back,
feeling my pussy clench as that sweet pressure builds inside me.
But then Cam puts his hands on my hips, my scars, and I tense. My eyes
fly open and I look at his perfect, muscular arms, his smooth skin, his
strong hands.
He practically growls: “Your body is fucking perfect, Marisa.”
Finally, I give it up to him, and the tremors overtake me.
 CAMERON

When I feel Marisa’s pussy clenching around my cock, I know that I’m lost.
I was just going to make her come, then pull out, tell her to sleep well, and
call it good. Who the hell was I kidding?
I start to retreat, both physically and mentally, but she senses it. “Stay,”
she says, reaching down and tugging at my ass. “I want you to finish inside
me.”
“It’s too much. You’ll be sore.” I protest even as my dick screams at me
to shut up and pound into her until I explode.
“Do it,” she insists. “And tell me what you’re doing.”
It’s her request that convinces me. I love that she wants the dirty talk,
the narration, the story of me fucking her. I pull out and lever up on my
knees. “Then get on your back and watch me give you this cock.”
Marisa scrambles to do my bidding, and I take a moment to admire her
laid out for me. She hesitates for a moment, then stretches her arms up over
her head. A gift. “You can touch me.” She clarifies. “Anywhere.”
And so I touch her: with my hands and my lips I glide over her neck,
her breasts, her hips, her thighs, her scars. Every part of her is mine in this
moment.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I hitch her body toward mine. “Going
to give it to you now,” I inform her. “Slow, then fast.”
She bites her lip and lets out the tiniest whimper as my cock breaches
her entrance. “And you’re gonna come?”
“Hell, yes, I am,” I promise, already thrusting into her. “I’m going to
come so hard. Your pussy is so perfect clenched around my cock. It won’t
take but a minute, baby.”
Just a few pumps and I’m there. I hear myself repeating Marisa’s name
as I pulse inside her. After, I collapse beside her, breathing hard. After a
moment, I take care of the condom and just lie there next to her.
She’s the one who speaks first. “I don’t want it to be awkward in the
morning.”
I pull her toward me, wondering if it’s a mistake but not caring. I want
her in my arms in this moment.
“I’m not sure how to avoid that,” I say, stroking my hand over her hair
while I still have the privilege.
“Do you want to forget this ever happened?” Her words are wary, but
she tucks her face into the crook of my arm as she says them. It’s as if her
mind knows better, but her body, her soul, knows it’s mine now.
“Don’t think it’s possible for me to forget this,” I say with a lightness I
don’t feel. I know that I will carry this woman, this night, with me forever,
no matter what happens next.
 MARISA

“It was good,” I proclaim, finally rolling away from Cam and pulling a few
covers over my body. It’s too late, really, for such a protective move, but
even as I wait for regret to flood over me, it never does.
He barks out a laugh. “Thanks for the rave review.”
I giggle and turn back into his body. This man. My worry isn’t that we
shouldn’t have done this. It’s that it won’t be like this with any other guy. I
may have ruined myself, and not in the Victorian sense.
“I’m glad it was with you,” I whisper a few minutes later.
But he’s fallen asleep.
Hours later, I wake to an empty bed and the sound of running water.
Cam is at the sink, and in the mirror I can see him shaving. Watching him
feels intimate, like something a lover would do. But we’re not lovers.
We’re… nothing. A one-time thing.
And it’s awkward.
Cam turns, his hand on the razor in mid-stroke. That hand was all over
me last night. I shiver and shift in the bed, and as I do, I realize that not only
do I feel a little soreness between my legs, but I like it. Tangible proof that
last night wasn’t a dream. I’m no longer a virgin, and it’s because of the
man I just met who’s standing bare-chested just a few feet away from me.
“So, when would you like to hit the road?” he asks before turning
casually back toward his reflection to continue his task.
Okay, so maybe we’re going to pretend last night didn’t happen after all.
“Um, I can be ready in twenty minutes?”
 I hate that I end my answer on a question, my voice inflecting like
someone young and uncertain. Like someone’s employee.
Which is exactly what I am.
“Sounds good to me.” Cam rinses off his razor, dries it, and sets it in a
leather toiletries pouch that he then zips up. A place for everything and
everything in its place. I randomly hear my abuela’s voice in my head. My
place, from now on, is in the driver’s seat of my car transporting a man to
Tucson, Arizona.
That resolved, I get up and duck into the bathroom to pee and splash
some water on my body. There’s a little dried blood on my inner thighs and
I scrub it off, feeling what Lucia would describe as dissociative. Am I the
same person I was last night? Surely I must be. We were just two human
beings, a momentary connection, a scrap of flesh. No need to make more of
it than it was.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling out of the hotel parking lot. I don’t
even ask if he wants to get breakfast; I just swing into the first Starbucks
drive-through that we pass.
“Breakfast sandwich? Coffee?” I ask.
“A wrap, please. The spinach one.” He sounds calm and formal.
Nothing like when he was inside me, telling me in explicit terms exactly
what he was doing. “Medium coffee.”
I repeat his order to the disembodied voice, add my items, and soon
we’re back on the highway. Only five and a half hours of awkward to go.
 CAMERON

Last night, as I drifted off, I heard Marisa say she was glad that it—her first
time—was with me. Her words were barely a whisper, but they wrecked
me. I felt important and special and… like an absolute fraud. She’d given
me no signal that last night was anything more than a means to an end, and
here I am, wanting to treasure her until the end of time.
As if she didn’t have better things to do. Like her education. Like her
entire life.
She hadn’t wanted it to be awkward today, and I couldn’t even give her
that. I was a failure all around, apparently. As my father would say:
performed as expected.
I’d stepped outside before Marisa woke. I called my stepmother. A
woman I’ve never met in person, Caroline is my only link to the father I
hate. The man who holds the future of the family property in his hands.
Sebastian is still hanging in there, still alive. But he wants to pull the strings
on me one last time.
As I shaved, I ran through what Caroline had said. Almost
apologetically, my stepmother told me that my father is sticking to the terms
of his will. But now, not only do I have to appear at his bedside, I also have
to apologize. For not “respecting” him. For leaving. For a litany of failures.
If I can choke out this fake apology, I will inherit the place where I grew
up. The few acres of property. The house with the kitchen where my mother
made me cinnamon pancakes before she abandoned me.
Maybe fate will decide for me. Maybe I won’t get to Tucson in time.
 I tersely tell Marisa about an alternate route that cuts south at a sharper
angle. “We’ll get there quicker that way.”
“Yes, sir.” My groin tightens. Of course I imagine her saying that to me
in bed. Who wouldn’t?
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
Isn’t it obvious? “Because it makes it sound like you’re in my employ.”
“Two thousand dollars tells me that I am exactly that, Mr. Cole.”
I want to punch the dashboard, but that’s something my dad would do,
and also this isn’t even my car. “I’d be happy to do some driving,” I tell her,
ignoring the comment about the money. That cash is the last thing on my
mind right now. I haven’t even checked in with my office all morning,
which is nothing like me.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She keeps one hand steady on the wheel as she
takes a sip of her coffee. I watch her lips hit the edge of the cup and I
remember our kisses from last night. I remember how she let me touch
every part of her. And now she’s barely speaking to me.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,” I say.
“I think we’re making good time,” Marisa replies.
“Are you being purposefully obtuse?” I’m on some level aware that I’m
transferring my annoyance at my father to Marisa. (Thanks, therapy).
Unfortunately, I’m not self-actualized enough to not be a dick about it.
“Look, Cameron, we agreed that it wouldn’t be awkward today and yet
it is,” she says. “I don’t know if that’s my bad or yours. It is what it is. But I
was hoping we could still be friends. Or at least on friendly terms.”
 MARISA

Quietness fills the car, Cam’s lack of reply heavy and ominous between us.
I blink my eyes because I can’t shut them. I force myself to focus on the
road. On driving. My job. What Cam hired me to do.
After this, he will go back to his life, his business, everything else that
has nothing to do with me.
The tears fade as quickly as they’d appeared. Cam hadn’t promised me
anything. Quite the opposite. We’d agreed, maybe by default, that this was a
one-time thing, no strings, and definitely no relationship. I’ve built it up
into something it’s not, maybe because of the sex or the forced proximity of
the car ride, or the sharing of secrets. Maybe none of this was meant to be at
all.
Then why do I just feel like I’ve lost everything?
A half hour passes before Cameron speaks, and it startles me so much
that I tense up, clenching the steering wheel.
“I misled you about the reason for my trip.” His voice has lost the
formal edge he’d been carrying all morning. “I’m not just visiting my
father. I haven’t seen him in over a decade because he’s an asshole and I
hate him. He’s basically blackmailing me into seeing him, and making
amends for things I never did, just so I can inherit the property that’s been
in my mother’s family for generations.”
My heart clenches. “I’m sorry, Cam.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says sharply. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not your
problem. And I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just… it’s too hard.”
 My problems seem silly compared to this. I may be staring down a
quarter-life crisis and a financial and academic shitstorm, but one thing I
know for sure is that my family will always love me. I may disappoint
them, but I will never be mistreated or cast out.
“I… left out some stuff when I was talking about my life earlier,” I
offer. “I’m not the most reliable narrator here either.”
“Really?” He turns to me with interest, and I simultaneously feel the
need to distract him and unburden myself.
“Yep. I’ll tell you if you want.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to hear.”
The word “love” from his lips makes me want to spill my guts about
everything. I settle on just telling him about my current dilemma.
“I got into U.C. Davis on a soccer scholarship. That was my junior year,
toward the end of my first semester. I was only sixteen and my future was
already set. My high school posted about it on social media, and there was a
little thing on the sports page in the newspaper. My coach was so proud…”
My mind travels back in time. That was another person I’d disappointed.
My longtime soccer coach, followed by the coach who had recruited me.
After I’d reached out, he watched videos of my game play and advocated
on my behalf to the campus higher-ups. My parents bought me a blue-and-
gold sweatshirt with “Aggies” on it, and I wore it everywhere.
“I don’t know much about soccer, but that sounds huge, Marisa,” Cam
says.
I carefully take another sip of coffee before continuing. “It’s Division 1,
NCAA. Full scholarship. A big deal.”
“That’s impressive,” Cam offers warily, because he can probably tell
where this is going. This man knows what it’s like to excel. He owns a
successful company. And he has an MBA. In this moment I feel young and
stupid, but also old and jaded, as if I’ve squandered my potential.
“It was a short celebration.” I add a lightness to my voice that I don’t
feel. “A few nights later, I got in the car wreck. My boyfriend wasn’t drunk,
but he was driving unsafely. I should have made him stop, but I was hooting
and hollering and hanging out the window like a dumbass. My seatbelt
barely had a chance to save me.”
“Your scars,” he comments.
“The scars healed,” I tell him. “The issue was the concussion.”
 CAMERON

“Oh, no. Marisa.” I picture her motionless beside a truck, then in a hospital
bed. Her smart brain trying to heal. I know little about concussions other
than they can be career-ending for athletes and have lifelong repercussions.
“I’m recovered,” she says confidently. “It wasn’t a terrible concussion.
But, after talking to the doctors, my family and I decided that I shouldn’t
risk another one. The university was willing to work something out, but I
decided to go with Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“I should appreciate that I have—that I had—a backup plan,” she says
hesitantly, as if I’m going to tell her to check her privilege or something. “I
ended up with an academic scholarship to Valley University. They really
want women in STEM. Which is great, but—”
“But what?”
Marisa sighs heavily. “I’m good at those disciplines. Superior, actually.”
I see what she’s getting at. “But you don’t enjoy them?”
“Exactly.” I hear relief in her voice, as if she isn’t used to being
understood.
“You’re not obligated to commit to a career just because you’re good at
something.” I feel ancient as I’m telling her this. Me, who cowered as my
father yelled at me when I bombed the LSAT and gave up on getting into
the law school I didn’t want to attend. That’s when he cut me off
financially, which was fine by me because I had my undergraduate degree
and my buddy and I were well on our way to starting GeoCam Data.
 “But I do feel obligated.” Marisa’s shoulders slump even as she stays
focused on the road. “My parents were crushed when I couldn’t do soccer
anymore. When we found out that I could still get nearly a free ride based
on merit, I could see the relief all over their faces. Plus, there are so many
opportunities in STEM. I’d be a fool to pass them up.”
“What’s the point if you’re not happy?” I ask, as if I’m some kind of
expert on happiness.
“Theater.” Her voice rises, as if she’s trying to justify what she’s just
said. “Not performing so much, but stagecraft, direction—all of it. I was in
a couple of plays in high school, and then last year I took an Intro to
Directing class on a whim, worked on a show, and just fell in love with the
energy and the community of it all.”
Her beautiful face lights up. I want this for her. I want her to have
whatever makes her look this happy. “So why not do that?”
“I could say that the arts are frivolous, or a reach, or low-paying. But
I’m not sure I believe any of that,” she says. “The bottom line is a logic
problem. If I change majors, I lose my scholarship. I got in based on
declaring for mathematics.”
“So, it’s a money issue,” I say flatly. The easiest problem to solve, yet
also the hardest.
“Essentially, yes,” she confirms. “To a lesser degree, it’s that I don’t
want to disappoint my parents. I’ve already been there, done that, got the
wreck and the compression garment for the scarring.”
Again, I’m overcome with the desire to hold Marisa and tell her
everything will be okay. And to pay her tuition. But none of that is what she
needs right now. Not from me. This girl—this woman—is strong as hell.
She will figure it out.
“You’ll figure it out.” I say the words aloud.
“I’m lucky.” Her tone sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “I’ve
been good at two things.”
“But you don’t like math.”
“By the end, I didn’t much like soccer either.” Her pretty hands grip the
steering wheel tightly. She steals a glance at me, gauging my reaction.
“Nobody else knows that about me, except Lucia.”
My heart swells because she’s trusted me with this knowledge. “Why?”
“Why did I stop enjoying soccer, or why don’t I tell people?”
 “Both.”
She sighs, waiting a few beats before answering.
“I just tired of it. I’d been playing since I was, shit, four years old,
Cam.”
“I had no idea it was that… intense,” I offer.
“It’s basically a full-time job for a kid, if you’re in traveling ball. A lot
of them really love it. I did, too, until I didn’t. And people feel sorry for me
because I couldn’t play after my concussion, but really I didn’t want to play
anymore.” She says the words in a rush, her confession. “My parents, the
friends I had left after the accident, my coaches, were devastated for me.
My team had a damn goodbye party. People cried. And inside I felt like an
asshole, because I was relieved.”
“That had to have been hard, Marisa. You’d invested so much. But you
deserve to do something you love.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs as if she doesn’t believe it, and again I want to tell
her to pull over so I can take her into my arms. “I didn’t have the strength of
character to tell my parents I didn’t want to play anymore. After all the time
and money they’d invested. It would have broken their hearts.”
“If they’re anything like the parents you’ve described to me, they would
have understood.” I couldn’t relate to the idea of supportive parents, but I
believed in it for Marisa.
“They would,” she agrees. She puts on her signal and changes lanes.
“Gotta get gas before the big stretch of desert.”
A few minutes later, I’m standing beside her watching her pump gas. I
can tell that she’s debating what to say next. She’s so fucking brave, and
I’m proud that I’m the one she’s chosen to unburden herself to. It’s not as if
I have any meaningful advice, but I can listen. And I might even realize that
there’s some value in talking through my own shit with someone besides
my therapist, who usually just says things like, “So what do you think you
should do?”
“It took a car wreck and a concussion to get me out of something I
didn’t want to do anymore,” Marisa says, finally, as she replaces the nozzle
and tightens the gas cap.
I can’t tell if she’s arguing with me, or with herself. “But now you’re
taking the lead with theater,” I remind her. “That’s decisive. That’s action.
You should be proud of yourself for knowing what you really want to do
with your life.”
“That’s just it. I worry…”
She trails off. “Worry about what, Marisa?” I prompt.
“I worry that maybe it’s never been about soccer or math. Maybe I’m
just… I don’t know. Flighty or something. Fickle.” She opens the car door
and we get in. She turns toward me before turning on the ignition. “I feel
like I want too many things.”
“What things?” She stares at the dashboard, and in that moment I want
to give her everything.
 MARISA

What do I want? I feel so old and so young in this moment. I know what I
don’t want—math and soccer. Which leaves roughly a billion other things
that I could want, if all the options were open to me.
I mean, I also want Cam back in my bed and in my body. But that’s
impossible.
Lucia knows exactly what she wants and has for as long as I can
remember. She was psychoanalyzing our friends on the playground in grade
school.
I pull away from the pump and into a parking space. Cam looks at me
quizzically. “You’re not afraid to drive.”
“No.” I’m confused and then realize what he’s getting at. “You mean,
because I was in a terrible car wreck? My parents made sure that I got right
back on that horse. And I’m glad they did. I’d only had my license for a
short time, but as soon as I healed physically, I was out driving the family
sedan again. That thing is a freaking tank, which probably helped me feel
safer.”
Cam places his hand over mine. “Don’t make light of it, Marisa,” he
says quietly. “That’s big, and that’s brave. Many people have a bad
experience and then never want to be in that situation again.”
I shrug off his comment, but I don’t move my hand. Him touching me
now, so casually, reminds me of how his hands were all over me last night.
Thinking about how badly I want that to happen again makes me hot and
wet.
“It’s hard to get away with not driving,” I supply.
 “There are buses. Trains.” I know he’s right. I could have engineered a
life where I don’t drive. Thousands of people don’t, or can’t. I guess I
should feel proud of myself.
I offer a smile. “Yeah, I’m kind of a badass.”
He squeezes my hand and finally lets go. I pull out of the gas station
and then merge back onto the highway. We’ve traveled well into the desert
before Cam speaks again.
“Do you think we could… pull off somewhere?” he asks, almost shyly.
“You gotta pee?” I tease him, only because of how he was confused the
first time I needed to stop to take care of business.
Cam actually blushes. “No, it’s…” He gestures out the window and
instantly I get it. The landscape is barren, almost boring. But there’s
something about the desolation of it all. No cacti jutting up from the desert
floor here, just creosote bushes and yucca trees. The dry sand is shades of
tan. It’s peaceful.
I signal at the next side road and drive about a mile until there’s no sign
of civilization. It feels like we’re the last people on earth. And, I realize, I
want Cameron so badly that it hurts.
My only chance at saving myself, my heart, is to break the tension.
“Does this look like a good place to murder me?” I ask brightly.
“Sorry, no murder today.” He gets out of the car and gestures for me to
follow. The morning light casts the yucca trees into shadows. The scene is
so far from what I see on the freeway every day in Sacramento that it takes
my breath away.
“The desert is beautiful, even out here,” I observe.
“The scenery is about the only thing I miss about Arizona.” Cam’s voice
is almost wistful.
“Because of your father?”
He leans against my car, staring into the landscape. “Yes.”
 CAMERON

I feel ready to talk about my dad. To tell Marisa things that I’ve never even
told my therapist, whom I pay two hundred dollars per hour to listen to me
turn myself inside out.
Marisa positions herself a couple of feet away from me, leaning against
the car. “But you’re in a hurry to get to Tucson. Do you have things you
need to say to him?”
“Not really.” I’ve pictured the deathbed scene a hundred times, and it
never feels cathartic. Only painful.
“But like I said, if I don’t see him, my mom’s family’s property all goes
to his wife, my stepmother.”
“Please stop me if I’m out of line here, but do you need the money?”
she asks, her voice tentative. “Does the property hold sentimental value to
you?”
“No,” I say flatly. Then I process not just the words she’s saying, but the
meaning behind them. “No. Not anymore. I don’t need any of it.”
I glance over and Marisa is looking at me, her eyes shining. She
whispers: “What do you need, Cam?”
I pivot toward her. “That’s my newest problem, Marisa. I need you.”
She gasps and bites her lip and I want to cover her body with mine. “I
thought… we agreed… and then this morning you—”
“I what?”
“I woke up, and you were shaving and it was all… awkward.”
I run my hand over my chin. “My shaving was awkward?”
 She pushes my arm playfully. “No, silly, the morning was awkward.
Just like it wasn’t supposed to be.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “That was my fault. I spoke with my
stepmother first thing, and my head was in a bad place.”
“I didn’t know.” She slides her hand down my arm to twine my fingers
in hers. I feel comforted. Safe. Safe enough to say what I’m feeling for a
change.
“I was also trying to respect our intent to have it be just a one-time
thing.” I swallow hard and squeeze her hand.
 MARISA

It’s good that Cameron doesn’t want more. I’m not sure how much more I
can give to him without losing a part of myself. The virginity thing was
another issue, and, in retrospect, absurd. I wanted to have sex with Cam and
for some reason I had to make it about something else. Now, I may want
something more with him, and again I’m equivocating.
He’s about to be dealing with the death of his father. He’s scattered and
raw. What if he’s just trying to distract himself? If I make more of this than
it is, I could end up walking away—driving away—with a broken heart.
“You’re a good friend, Marisa,” he says.
It’s chilly in the desert winter, and I wrap my arms protectively around
my body. “Thanks. So are you.”
Without even asking, he moves toward me, offering his own arms. His
warmth. I step into his big body and he wraps himself around me. He
nuzzles my hair, one hand on the back of my head. “Hell, Marisa. We’re not
just friends.”
“I know,” I agree quietly. My heart is thumping, hearing what he’s
implying but not saying.
That’s when he kisses me. First on the back of my head, then spinning
me around and taking my mouth. “Marisa, I can’t lie to you,” Cam says
between kisses, which I return hungrily. “I don’t want this to be over
between us.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and close my eyes. “I don’t want it to be
over either.”
 “You’re so damn precious.” I feel his fingers coast over my lower lip. “I
can’t believe you let me do this.”
I try a joke: “And here I thought you were doing me a favor last night.”
“No,” he says deadpan. “And it’s you who is the gift.”
My heart races even faster. What is he offering me? More of the same,
or more of… more?
I know what I want. Or at least I feel like I know what I want. A chance
with Cam. To date. To get to know him in the real world. To learn the
possibilities. But can I trust my feelings? I thought I’d love soccer forever. I
thought I could make a go of a career in mathematics. In my life, when the
stakes have been highest, I’ve changed course.
“We’ve known each other one day, Cam.”
He looks down at his watch, which I presume is expensive. “We’re
almost into day two, sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes. Should I even try to explain? This man is so self-assured,
I don’t know if he’s second-guessed himself a day in his life. At least in
business. “I’m in the middle of figuring out where to go with my degree.
My mind is all over the map. I don’t know if I can handle a…” I swallow
the word “relationship,” because he hasn’t even said that’s what he wants.
“I don’t know if I can trust my feelings.”
“Many people change their majors,” he says, answering the least of the
questions I want to ask.
He’s not being condescending, but I’m instantly defensive. “A lot
people aren’t looking at a hundred grand in student loans if they give up
their scholarship.”
“You’re right. I haven’t had that experience.” He steps back and draws a
hand through his short hair. His shirt rides up, and I’m instantly reminded of
how I gripped Cam there, holding on as I rode him to orgasm.
“It’s okay,” I sigh. “It’s not your fault.”
“When I went to school, it was practically the Dark Ages. I think we
bartered sticks and rocks for tuition.” He grins. “My MBA final exams were
done on an abacus.”
I play along: “You are very old. The cost of attendance was much
different back when dinosaurs roamed the lecture halls.”
“Rawr.” He actually does T-Rex hands. I can’t believe it.
 “Cameron Cole, are you actually joking around?” I say. “It’s like I
barely know you. Oh, wait. I barely know you.”
His eyes narrow, and he drops the act. His voice comes out gravely and
sincere: “I know you.”
I gasp, my throat catching. In that moment, I feel like we know each
other, at least the most important parts, like our passions and our values.
And the chemistry between us. How rare is that?
Suddenly, I feel tears in my eyes. “Cam, it’s scary. The knowing you.
All of it.”
His tone grows even more serious. “How long do you need? I know
what I want, but I’ll give you all the time in the world. I’m not in any
hurry.”
“You are in a hurry. You need to get to Tucson,” I choke out.
He touches my chin, tilting it up so I’m looking at him through my
tears. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t care anymore when I get to Tucson. I
don’t care if I talk to my father. I don’t care about my damn inheritance.”
 CAMERON

“You don’t mean that,” Marisa whispers as a tear rolls down her cheek. I
don’t blame her for taking a while to come around. I only realized the full
extent of my feelings myself a few seconds ago, when I said the words.
But what I know now—what Marisa has helped me understand—is that
there’s no dramatic deathbed scene that will redeem my father or repair our
relationship or make any of this okay. He had the chance to do things right,
and he didn’t. It’s not my job to absolve him of guilt he doesn’t feel, any
more than I deserve to pay penance in order to inherit the family property.
Caroline can have the fucking land. The house. My stepmother can have it
all. I don’t care.
It’s so damn freeing, the not caring, that I’m exhilarated. I turn my head
to the desert sky and feel the winter air wash over me. Marisa stares at me
as if I’m some kind of weird desert creature, maybe a jackalope, appearing
in some kind of mirage of myself.
“Come here, Marisa.” I draw her into a hug, and when she wraps her
arms around me, it feels like friendship but also something more. “Thank
you.”
“What did I even do?” she mutters into my shoulder. Then she inhales
sharply.
I pull back and my face spreads into a wide grin. “Marisa, whose last
name I don’t even know, are you smelling me?”
“It’s Luna,” she says, “and, yes, maybe a little.”
I pull her back toward me, cup her head in my hands, and breathe in her
scent. Heaven. “I have a confession,” I say.
 “I didn’t know you were Catholic.” I’m pretty sure she’s teasing, but
still I picture the two of us at an elaborate church wedding with her
surrounded by her loving family members who I hope won’t kill me when
they find out I’ve fallen in love with their daughter.
“Oh, Marisa Luna.” I pull her even closer and laugh out loud as I think
about it: me, in my thirties, with a boatload of issues that perplex even a
trained psychiatrist. I have more money than I know what to do with,
dozens of people at my beck and call, and I’m still lonely as fuck.
At least, I was lonely until I met Marisa. Now, I can’t imagine my life
without her. I picture her with me in a cozy home. Her following her career
dreams while we raise our children together. I also picture my cock buried
inside her as she screams my name.
I don’t deserve this woman. I really don’t.
“What are you laughing about? What’s your confession?” Marisa runs
her hands down my body and actually tickles me.
I shift to one side. I didn’t even know I was ticklish. “My confession
is…” I bracket my hands on either side of her waist. “I don’t care about this
boring scenery. I asked you to pull off the main road because I wanted more
time with you. To talk.”
“Just… to talk?” I hear her sharp intake of breath. She almost sounds
disappointed.
Fuck. I feel like I’ll die if I can’t have her again. But the last thing I
want to do is change the rules we made or pressure her. This pretty young
woman trusted me to take care of her, to make her first time good, and if
that’s the only thing I accomplish in my sorry-ass life, I will die a happy
man.
“I just want you to know, Cam, that I really enjoyed last night.” She
stands up tall. “You made my first time not bad.”
I bark out a laugh. “So, I was tolerable?”
She moves to tickle me again, but I dodge her. “You know what I
mean!” She lowers her voice even though there is no one here for miles.
“You actually gave me orgasms and stuff. Like, bonus. I didn’t order up any
of that.”
I can’t help parrying. “Could do it again, baby.” I wave my hand at the
dirt and brush that surrounds us. “Could make you come right here in the
desert.”
 I hear her voice catch. Victory.
“You could?” She challenges. “Way out here?”
I take two steps forward and she’s pinned against the car, one of my
arms on either side of her. I don’t lose eye contact. I need to be sure she
wants this.
“We had an agreement,” I remind her.
“I know,” she whispers. I don’t move. I’m sure she can feel my heart
beating. Feel my arousal.
“So we should go?” I suggest, pulling away slightly.
“I didn’t say that.” Slowly, she moves her hands under my shirt. I
shiver. I’m rock hard. Then she reaches back and grasps my ass in her
hands. “We could make a new agreement.”
 MARISA

I thought I could protect my heart by limiting myself to one time with

Cameron. I was wrong. I already have feelings for him. So what’s the harm
in getting more of what he gave me last night? He liked what I gave him. I
can maintain an emotional distance. I think.
“I honor my agreements, Marisa,” Cameron says. But his voice is
strained and his dick is hard. I shift my body forward so I can feel him. He
gasps.
“I respect that,” I tell him. “But surely you’ve had deals you’ve…
renegotiated?”
Suddenly, he looks deadly serious. “You’re not a business deal, Marisa.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. Once I can breathe again, I
ask him. “Then what am I, Cameron?”
I instantly wish I could take the words back. Of course, he’s not going
to proclaim his love for me. I can’t process any of this. All I know is that I
want him again. My unpracticed hands grapple at his belt, then the button of
his pants.
“You want this?” He slides my hand over his bulge. “You sure,
Marisa?”
“Yes.”
“You want me?” The subtle difference in his question doesn’t escape
me.
“Yes, Cam, I want you. Inside me. Please.”
He spins me around and I plant my hands on the car. I hear a zip and my
legs shake in anticipation. Several long seconds later, I hear the crinkle of a
condom wrapper. I’m still a little sore from last night, but I don’t care. I
brace myself, expecting him to plunge into me, filling me in an instant.
Instead, he’s slow. He’s sweet. He’s gentle. Cam pushes one of my
braids aside and kisses the back of my neck. Then his hands glide around
my body and under my shirt, cupping my breasts.
He leans in and whispers in my ear. “Marisa, I’m worried I might be too
rough with you.”
Instead of frightening me, his words inflame me. “Maybe I don’t mind a
little rough.”
His hands dig into my hips, and he groans. “Marisa, could you be any
more perfect? Fuck, I need you.”
I’m losing control. I reach back and claw at his arms, his ass, any part of
him I can reach to try to pull him closer. “Get in me, Cam,” I practically
beg, splaying my arms out on the car, my ass in the air, skirt hiked up.
I feel his control slipping, but I don’t feel a moment’s danger. He wraps
my braids in his hand, and the slight tug shoots to my core. He checks in.
“You good? This hurt?”
“Don’t stop,” I manage. “Love it. Please, more.”
When he finally eases his cock into me, it’s perfect. The angle, the
depth. Everything. “Gonna give it to you hard, okay, sweetheart? Can you
take my cock like this? Wanna hit that special spot inside you.”
“Yes,” I moan. He’s so big that some part of him is rubbing against
some part of me, and there’s a sensation that’s different from what I felt last
night. That I can’t see him unless I turn my head somehow makes the
sensation more intense.
I want to scream.
So I do.
 CAMERON

I know now that she was holding back at the hotel. Maybe afraid someone
would hear. Not now. Now, my girl is letting go.
As I pump into her, I can see her tits bouncing and our motion reflected
on the surface of the car. I look down, palming her ass so I can see where
our bodies connect. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, shit.” My tone reveals my shock, because Marisa freezes.
“What is it, Cam? What’s wrong?”
Even though I’ve fucked up, I’m still hard as I pull out. I see where the
condom has separated from its rim. Fuck. She’s going to hate me. “Marisa,
the condom. It’s… broken.”
“Oh,” she gasps. I take the useless thing off and wrap it up. I’m such an
asshole that my dick isn’t flagging. The idea of coming inside her,
something I’ve never done with any woman, sounds like the best thing in
the world. Of course, I’d never suggest it.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s okay,” she interrupts. “Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m safe,” I assure her. “Been tested.”
She turns her head to look at me, and her expression holds no fear, only
reassurance. Is she really going to let me do this? The thought of spilling
my load inside her has me almost over the edge. I’m probably leaking
already.
“I haven’t been tested,” she says. “But, you know. The virgin thing. And
I’m on the pill, for other reasons.”
 “Oh, fuck, Marisa.” I gently push her forward so her hands are splayed
on the car and her ass is in the air. “You really want this cock bare inside
you?”
“Yes. Please,” she moans. I slide into her, and it’s heaven.
“Nothing between us, baby.” I grip her hips as I pick up the pace. “Feels
so damn good. This sweet pussy milking my cock. Makes me want to
smack your little ass.”
“Do it. And tell me what you’re doing.”
I give her a light swat.
“I’m fucking you.” I’m loving you. “My cock is so deep in your pussy,
baby.” I’m making you mine. “As soon as you come for me, I’m going to
fill you up and you’ll see my seed dripping out of you.” This is real.
“Yeah. Yes,” she mutters. “I want it. Give me that. Please, Cam.”
“Wanna rub you, please?” I’m already reaching for her clit, and as soon
as she nods yes, my fingers are stroking her.
“Yes, Cam, do that,” she says, and I feel like I’ve won the damn lottery.
“You gotta come first,” I pant. I can’t hold off much longer. My balls
are ready to explode. With my free hand, I grip the base of my cock to slow
things down.
“It feels good all the time you fuck me, Cam. I don’t need to come. I
want you to feel good, too.”
She’s so precious, and she’s pleading and I can’t say no to her. I need
this, and then I need to tell her how I feel. I want to give her a lifetime of
orgasms.
“Here, baby, take it.” I have no artful words and I’m grunting like a
crazed animal. That’s how into this woman I am. I feel the pressure building
and I know she’s going to be full of my come in a matter of moments.
“Yes, do it. Fill me up.” Marisa gasps in surprise and she pushes
backward into me. “I’ll come too, Cam. I will.”
That does it. I literally see stars as I shout into the desert and pump my
entire load into her. I feel her clench around me, milking my cock. Perfect.
 MARISA

Cam was right. I was dripping after we finished. I still am, actually.
It’s not even awkward as Cam hikes up his pants and then reaches into
the car for a box of tissues so we can clean up. I can’t believe this just
happened. But I trust him. It feels right, no matter what happens next.
“I’m ready when you are,” Cam announces.
I wipe the goofy post-sex grin off my face. In a rush, I remember
everything that Cam is facing at the end of this road trip. What he’s dealing
with makes my academic indecisions seem trite.
“I’m ready.” I guide us back to the highway, and once we’re back on I-
10, I put on some music. Alt rock this time. Cam reaches over for my hand,
and I hold it for a few minutes, enjoying the way his fingers feel against
mine.
After we let go, he fiddles with his phone for a while. He’s looking at
flights; I see a familiar logo in my peripheral vision.
“How long are you going to stay?”
“Not long,” Cam says absently, his finger scrolling the screen. “Shit,
maybe four or five days at the most. It depends.”
“I… I don’t need to be anywhere until classes start in a couple of
weeks.” I hope he will take the hint. I don’t feel insecure, per se, but I don’t
want to overstep either.
“I hope you have a good semester,” he mutters. Then he comes back to
earth and sets his phone on the center console. “Sorry, I was figuring out
some logistics. You have my full attention now.”
 I take a deep breath and lay it out: “I wouldn’t mind, you know, driving
you back to Sacramento.”
“Marisa.” I glance over and his face is so full of emotion I have to look
away immediately, which is good since I am driving.
“I mean, no pressure,” I add. “But I was thinking of heading up to
Phoenix and checking out some of the places I always wanted to see when I
was there for the soccer tournaments but never had the time.”
Cam looks out the window, apparently weighing my proposal. “If
you’re sure it’s no trouble. I’d really appreciate it,” he says. “But I have a
counterproposal.”
“Such as?”
“First, I’m paying you again. For the return trip.”
“But—”
“But nothing. If you’re not comfortable with cash, let me pay your
tuition,” he says. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I can easily afford it and
would be happy to take that burden off your plate.”
My jaw literally drops. I don’t feel offended. I feel overwhelmed. “Cam,
don’t make me cry when I’m driving. It’s not safe.”
“Marisa, I’m literally a millionaire, a few times over. Even without my
dad’s inheritance.” He picks up his phone again. “If you have the bursar’s
information, I can take care of it right now. You don’t even need to see me
again. No strings.”
“No!” I keep a tight grip on the wheel as I force myself to calm down.
“I mean, I’ll need to think about your generous offer. And I would like to
see you again. But I don’t want the things to be related. The offering and
the seeing. Please tell me you understand.”
“Of course I understand.” He sets the phone down again. “Would it
make you feel better to know that I make a large annual donation to my
alma mater, as well as to several Sacramento-area schools? We’d just be
cutting out the middleman.”
I grin, even as tears are still leaking from the corners of my eyes.
“Almost like I’m doing you a favor,” I say wryly.
“Exactly.”
He looks happy, like everything is settled, but I need to know. “I’m not
ungrateful. But I don’t want to be your… charity case.”
“You’re not,” he says quickly.
 CAMERON

I hope I haven’t ruined things with Marisa by offering to cover her tuition.
It’s true that I can easily spare the money. And that in the past I’ve seen
money as power. Her concerns are valid. She doesn’t know that I want her
in my life forever, and I don’t want there to be even the slightest chance that
she thinks there’s something transactional between us. I want to be fair to
her, but it’s too soon to tell her that I’m falling in love with her.
We chat about other things, things we have in common and things we
don’t, for the next long stretch of road. I learn that she still plays soccer for
fun, just casual games in the park with friends. I love her resilience. What
she sees as flightiness, I see as a sense of adventure. She’s not afraid to take
risks, and she values being happy. That’s a lesson I could learn.
I force myself to open up to her, offering little details until finally it
feels natural to just tell her random things about myself. Who cares if she
knows I’m scared of snakes? At least it makes for some decent Indiana
Jones jokes.
Over a late lunch in Phoenix, I realize that I’m actually being myself
with someone for the first time in a long time. With women, it’s mostly
been one and done. With guy friends, mostly surface-level bro stuff. And
with business, it’s—business.
My heart clenches at the way Marisa teases me sweetly when I ask for
extra cherries in my Shirley Temple, only to turn around and ask for extras
in her own Shirley Temple.
“I have a plan.” I’m thinking out loud, but as the idea takes shape in my
mind, I know it’s the right one. Marisa deserves time to consider whether
she really wants something more with me, and in what form she wants that
to take place. And she also deserves a man who isn’t plagued with issues,
one of which is just now coming to a head in the form of my father.
“Reveal your plan, sir,” she demands, stabbing a plastic dagger into her
last maraschino cherry and popping it into her pretty mouth. As I watch her
lips move, I visualize her mouth on mine.
“I told you,” I lean in, my voice gravely with lust and need, “not to call
me ‘sir’.”
Her tongue flicks out of her sassy mouth, and now I want it on my cock.
I lean back in my seat and adjust myself under the table.
“I am too old for you, Marisa,” I inform her. “But I’m a selfish old man,
and I want you. My plan is this: I’ll meet you in Phoenix on New Year’s
Day. That gives me a few days to sort through my personal shit and it gives
you a few days to think about whether you really want to spend another ten-
plus hours in the car with an arrogant, damaged man.”
“Wait, who is this arrogant, damaged man you speak of?” she teases. “Is
he hot? A celebrity? I just had really good sex, so I need to know their stats
—”
I am so fucking in love with this woman.
“Think about it, Marisa. Think about it seriously. Because this is not a
short-term thing for me.” I take a deep breath, hoping I’ve been clear
enough to be fair to her, without being so clear that I scare her. Marisa Luna
is going to be my wife.
She drops the joking tone. “I want to see you again, Cam. And not just
to drive you home.”
“Are you—”
“I’m sure,” she interrupts. “But I agree that we both need some time to
think and get things sorted out.”
I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. “Then we’re agreed.”
The next two hours go fast—too fast. The closer we get to my dad’s, I
notice that I don’t feel the sense of impending doom that I expected, but a
resolve. I need to wrap up shit in my hometown and then get back to Marisa
and my life in Sacramento. Our lives.
 MARISA

I drop Cam off in Tucson, since he refuses to let me take him all the way to
his family’s property. I understand, of course, but I still wish that I could be
with him, to offer some small comfort. Even knowing him for such a short
time, I feel like he’s opened up to me like he hasn’t with anyone else. I hope
it helped. But I worry.
Fortunately, the days fly by. In between checking out the places I
wanted to go in Phoenix, I pick up a lot of rideshare clients. People are
shopping, eating out, and otherwise in need of easy transport. Fortunately,
my phone’s mapping software does its thing and I don’t get anybody lost.
Cam and I keep in touch via text, and he sends me a selfie of him with a
stuffed horse from his childhood that almost brings tears to my eyes. I
immediately save the image to my phone. In another message, he reveals
that he’s had two remote sessions with his therapist, and jokes that my
friend Lucia has a challenging career in front of her if she gets clients
anything like him. He doesn’t mention his father to me at all, and I don’t
ask.
I keep my parents in the loop on where I am, but I don’t tell them about
Cam. I don’t want them to freak out. They need to hear this wild story in
person. We’d actually come within half an hour’s drive from my hometown
as we blew down Interstate 5 in California. I’d felt that emotional pull,
wanting to stop and see them. My family drives me crazy, but I love them
all.
On New Year’s Eve, I rack up so many cash tips from drunk revelers
that it’s totally worth what I pay to have my car cleaned the next morning.
When I’d checked my phone around midnight, there was a text from Cam
telling him where he wanted to meet.
I’m waiting at the appointed location, the Desert Botanical Garden,
wearing a new outfit that was a bit of a splurge at the Scottsdale mall: slim-
fit jeans, a peasant blouse, and tall boots. I usually thrift, so I feel
extravagant and excited.
Another rideshare driver drops Cam off, and I’m thinking of ways to
tease him about playing the field, but as he gets closer, he’s so good-looking
that it takes my breath away. He hasn’t shaved, but he wears the scruff well.
He’s ditched the business suit and is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt.
“You look happy,” he calls out, as if that’s the most important thing in
the world.
I must be grinning from ear to ear. To hell with it. I rush the few steps
toward Cam and throw my arms around him. “I am happy.” I nuzzle a place
under his ear I’d memorized. “You’re here.”
“Oh, Marisa.” He pulls back, and this time, he’s the one with tears in his
eyes. “Knowing that I would see you again helped me get through the last
few days.”
Immediately, I’m overcome with concern. “Are you okay? Is your father
—”
He shrugs. “He died. Two days ago. I listened to what he had to say,
thanked him kindly for his opinion, and spent the rest of the time in
meetings with lawyers. I had my attorneys draw up an agreement giving
everything I would have inherited to Caroline.”
“Cam, that was generous of you.”
“Believe me, she deserves it after putting up with that man,” he says.
“She’s actually a very nice woman. Deserved better than Sebastian. But
she’s young. And now she’ll have a decent amount of money. I packed up
the few things in the house that I cared about and had them shipped back to
Sacramento. I’m done with my father and I’m done with Tucson.”
“Poor Tucson,” I can’t help saying.
“I know,” he sighs. “It’s not Tucson’s fault. Speaking of which, thanks
for driving this far out. I’ve always wanted to see these gardens.”
“You grew up in Arizona and have never been?” Even my busy soccer
team had come out here one year.
 “Nope. My father kept me on a tight leash.” Cam leads me toward the
entrance, and already I can see all kinds of cacti and desert plants. “And as
soon as I left for college, I didn’t want to come back. Now, though, with
you, I want to check it out. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve got new walking boots
and everything.”
We’re almost in the ticket line, but Cam stops short and whispers in my
ear. “Speaking of which, I’d love to fuck you in those boots. You look
gorgeous.”
Instantly, moisture gathers between my legs. I cross them to ease the
ache he’s put there.
 CAMERON

We’d planned on getting a few hundred miles behind us before stopping for
the night, but at some point I realize that it’s a holiday, GeoCam Data has
been doing just fine without me for a week, and I can’t go any longer
without getting my mouth between Marisa’s legs.
She leaves the boots on, because I ask her to and because she’s amazing.
“Happy New Year,” I say as I kiss my way up and down her body.
“Calendar dates,” she gasps, “are arbitrary.”
“Don’t fucking care, baby,” I argue as I lean down to lick each of her
pebbled nipples. “Still made some resolutions. First one is to make you
come all over my face.”
“I’d love to see the vision board on that.” Her humor is strained because
she’s trying to not to cry out with pleasure. I’ve just thought of another
resolution.
After I make Marisa come with my mouth, I position my cock and sink
into her. It’s a long, slow stroke I hope shows her just how much I need this.
Need her.
“Watch me. Watch us,” I tell her. My sweetheart, my future, my love
opens her eyes and looks at where we are joined. I hear her gasp and feel
her pussy clench around my flesh. Heaven.
“It’s so good,” she exclaims, and the wonderment in her voice makes
me chuckle.
“Are you laughing at me?” she accuses, playfully arching upward. My
cock is shiny with her wetness and I’m dying to pound into her.
“Not laughing.” I look her straight in the eyes. “Just loving.”
 “Cam!” She moves with me, and it’s not long before she comes again,
and I finally release everything I have into her.
Afterward, we’re lying in bed both naked, not even boots.
“Did you give any thought to my tuition offer?”
Marisa sits up, flushed and triumphant. “I did and then I didn’t,” she
says mischievously. “I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know, Cam.
But after I dropped you off and got back to Phoenix, I called the financial
aid office at Valley University. I’d filed an appeal earlier but had little hope.
They ended up letting me keep a portion of my scholarship. So, combined
with what you paid me for the ride down, and what I earned driving in
Phoenix during the last few days, I’m able to cover it. For this semester, at
least.”
“That’s excellent news. Can I say that I’m proud of you? Does that
make it awkward?”
“Nope, it’s not awkward.” She trails a hand down my chest, which
wakes up my dick. “Plus, haven’t we already proven that we can make it
through ‘awkward’?”
I roll her body toward mine and kiss her. My heart is so damn full. I
don’t even feel like the same person who I was before I met Marisa. Hell,
how was that only a week ago? I can’t go back to being the person I was
before I met her: bitter and angry and driven to prove that money makes the
man.
“Like I said, I’m so proud of you. And I know you can do whatever you
set your mind to.” I have to kiss her a few more times before continuing.
“But I want you to know that if you need anything at all, whether it’s funds
for your education, or just my company, I’m here for you.”
“You can’t just show up out of nowhere and…” She swallows a sob.
“… change my life.”
I lift her chin tenderly. “Why not, Marisa? You changed mine.”
“Cam.” She looks at me with so much trust in her eyes that in that
moment I make it my sole annual and lifetime resolution never to
disappoint her. “In an unrelated matter, I think I love you.”
“Marisa.” I move my body to cover hers. “I know I love you.”
 EPILOGUE #1: CAMERON

Applause rings through the regional theater. The venue usually hosts
traveling Broadway shows, but this production features my very own wife,
Marisa Luna Cole. Yes, that’s her name, listed right there in the Playbill. I
still can’t believe she’s mine.
Usually, she’s behind the scenes, working tech, a position that combines
her engineering skills with her artistic mind. But for this play, she’s been
cast in a supporting role on stage and is loving every minute of it.
What none of them know is that under that costume is our future.
Marisa is glowing. Her breasts are higher and fuller. I can see from my seat
in the third row. Fuck, I want to jump up on stage and claim her. Lay my
hand over the skirt of her empire-waist dress and spread my fingers wide
across her growing belly. I can’t believe we’ve been together three years.
I sit back and smile as the curtain falls. She’ll tell them at the cast party,
and I will crow like the proud dad-to-be that I am. Her parents will be so
thrilled. Their first grandbaby.
I was nervous as hell when I met her parents on the drive back from
Arizona. She’d insisted that it would be fine, introducing me as her very
new boyfriend.
“My parents are nice,” she’d said, a tacit reference to my own mother
and father. “You can have them.”
“They won’t…” I’d trail off. Why would the parents she described, a
couple who sacrificed and supported their daughter in everything, want her
with a bitter man twelve years her senior?
 But she held my hand in her parents’ living room and claimed me as if I
was someone to be proud of. I’ve done my best to live up to her faith in me
ever since.
After the cast party, which included many toasts and cheers, I help
Marisa into the passenger side of our brand new luxury SUV.
“I can’t believe we bought this monstrosity.” I’m pretty sure she’s
rolling her eyes as she says it.
“It’s safe.” That’s all that matters to me. I didn’t present the SUV with a
giant bow in the driveway, because I knew she’d kill me for not consulting
her first. Never mind what my company cleared in assets this year. GeoCam
Data has expanded to offices in Oakland and Los Angeles. Phoenix,
Arizona may be next. Yep. The state I thought I never wanted to go back to.
It turns out, Marisa made me see a lot of things differently.
 EPILOGUE #2: MARISA

“You’re insatiable.”
“Is that a complaint or a compliment?” Cam’s wet face is framed by my
legs.
“Compliment,” I admit.
“Good.” He levers up, positioning himself. “Gonna come inside you.”
I think back to seven years ago when he told me he wanted to give me
babies, but that he was afraid he would be a shitty dad. I almost cried. Both
because he felt that way, and because he had the courage to tell me about it.
When our first daughter, Callie Rose, was born, he was instantly in love.
Cam likes to say that it was love at first sight with me, and I can’t really
argue with that. It doesn’t have to make sense; it’s just who we are.
I finally convinced my husband that we don’t need to cast The Sound of
Music or Cheaper By the Dozen with our brood alone. Three children is
perfect. Cam is the best dad ever. And my parents are over the moon.
I love my career in theater. I got my Bachelor of Fine Arts in theater
designs and technology before Callie was born and even did a fellowship
with the Shakespeare Festival up in Oregon. Cam has been one hundred
percent supportive all the way.
Thanks to the success of GeoCam Data, we can travel. Often, it’s the
entire family, even my parents and siblings. We saw seven National Parks
last year. Other times, we leave the kids with my folks and fly off to exotic
locales.
But sometimes, just for fun, we like to drive.
Unwrap another happily ever after with Bad Santa, a steamy instalove novella available now.

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other shenanigans.

Violet likes to bring the sweet with the steamy, with alpha males who obsess over claiming their
women, but still know that love is about partnership, not possession.

Learn more about Violet’s books at www.VioletCaldwell.com, follow her on Twitter at

@violetbcaldwell, on Instagram at @violetcaldwellauthor, and like www.Facebook.com/
authorvioletcaldwell on Facebook.

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