Chapter 3: The Aftermath
The champagne flute felt slippery in my hand, its delicate stem a poor anchor in the swirling chaos of the Voltaire Estate drawing room. Across the sea of polished heads and designer dresses, Matt laughed at something his grandfather said, the sound familiar and yet entirely foreign here. It was the same laugh, but now I knew what it felt like vibrating against my throat in the dark of his dorm room.
“Smile, Camilla,” my mother murmured, gliding past with a plate of canapés, her own smile a fixed, polished thing. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
I forced my lips upward. That’s because it is, I thought. It’s the funeral of whatever we were before.
Everything was a performance. The way Matt’s hand rested on the small of my back as we posed for a photo, a gesture that once felt casual now sent a jolt straight to my core. The way we finished each other’s stories for the aunts who cooed over how “perfect” we were together. We were a beautiful, seamless lie, wrapped in the scent of blooming lilacs and old money.
The worst part was the tiny, secret thrill that ran through me every time our eyes met. A flash of the night before, of the weight of him, the taste of his skin. Then I’d see the slight tension in his jaw, the careful way he held himself, and the thrill would curdle into anxiety. We were balancing on a knife’s edge, and the entire party was watching, willing us to slip.
The underwire of my bra had been digging into my ribcage for an hour, a persistent, stabbing reminder of the constriction of it all. Every breath was a small agony. I needed it off. Now.
I slipped away while Matt was being engulfed by a group of his teammates from the soccer team, their boisterous energy a wall I couldn’t penetrate. I moved through the grand hallways, my heels sinking into the thick Persian runners, following the remembered path to the private family quarters upstairs.
His bedroom was an oasis of quiet. Late afternoon sun streamed through the large window, painting the hardwood floor in long, golden bars. It was so him, yet not. A framed photo of us at fourteen, gap-toothed and sunburned, sat next to his high school soccer trophies. The same blue comforter from his dorm was neatly spread over the four-poster bed. The sight of it made my stomach clench.
I shut the door, leaning against it for a moment, breathing in the silence. Then I reached back, fumbling for the hidden zipper of my dress. It gave way with a hushed sigh. I shimmied the fabric down to my waist, the cool air a relief on my heated skin. The offending bra was a lacy, engineered torture device. I hooked my fingers under the wire, trying to wrench it away from my flesh.
“Need a hand?”
I yelped, spinning around, clutching the dress to my chest.
Matt stood in the doorway to his adjoining bathroom, holding a small, black jewelry box. He looked as stunned as I felt. “Sorry. I just… I forgot my grandmother’s cufflinks. For the toast.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “You scared me.”
“I see that.” His gaze dropped from my face, down to my shoulders, to where my hands desperately clutched the deep green velvet of my dress. It was held up, but only just. The tops of my breasts were exposed, the lace of the bra stark against my skin. His eyes darkened.
The air in the room thickened, growing heavy and warm. The distant murmur of the party faded into a dull hum.
“The wire,” I managed to say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “It’s digging in.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he set the jewelry box on his dresser. The click of the wood was unnaturally loud. He crossed the room until he was standing right in front of me, so close I could smell the clean, crisp scent of his cologne mixed with the faint, familiar smell of just him.
“Let me,” he said, his voice low.
His fingers were surprisingly steady as they brushed against my spine, seeking the clasp. I flinched at the contact, a spark jumping from his skin to mine. He found the hooks. With a deft, quiet click, the tension released. The bra loosened.
I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
He didn’t step back. His hands came to rest on my bare shoulders, his thumbs making slow, absent circles on my skin. His gaze was locked on the hollow of my throat, then lower, to the swell of my breasts above the crumpled lace and velvet.
“Cam,” he whispered, a raw, hungry sound.
He bent his head. I stopped breathing. His lips were impossibly soft, a ghost of a touch on the sensitive skin just above my heart. Then his tongue, warm and wet, traced a slow, deliberate path along the same line.
A sharp, electric current shot through me, pooling low in my belly. My head fell back against the door with a soft thud. My fingers unclenched from the dress, letting it slip down another inch, a silent, desperate invitation.
He took it. His mouth found the curve of my breast, his tongue laving the skin where the wire had chafed it red. It wasn’t like before. This wasn't the frantic, discovering passion of the dorm room. This was slower. More deliberate. A claiming.
His hands slid from my shoulders, down my arms, his touch setting every nerve ending on fire. He was mapping a new territory, one of whispered secrets and performed affection, and he was making it real all over again.
Downstairs, a wave of laughter erupted, followed by the sharp, clear ring of a spoon against a crystal glass. Someone was calling for a toast.
We both froze.
His lips stilled against my skin. I could feel the frantic beat of his heart, or maybe it was mine, a wild, synchronized drum against the polite chiming from below.
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine. They were blown black with desire, but swimming in a deep, terrified uncertainty. The performance was over. This was the messy, dangerous truth, and we were both caught in the spotlight.
The moment stretched, thin and fragile as glass.
Then he swallowed hard. “They’re… they’re calling for us.”
The sound of his name, called in a chorus from downstairs, seemed to physically pull at him. He started to straighten up, his hands leaving my skin, the loss of contact feeling like a sudden chill.
“Wait,” I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended.
My mind raced, scrambling for any reason, any excuse to keep him in this room, to erase the terrified uncertainty in his eyes and replace it with the hunger I’d felt just seconds ago. My gaze landed on the black jewelry box he’d set down.
“You still need your cufflinks,” I pointed out, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And your belt is still loose from earlier. You can’t go down there like that.”
He stared at me, conflict warring on his face. The party, his family, the entire world was waiting. But here, in this room, was the only thing that felt real.
I didn’t wait for his answer. I stepped around him, my dress held precariously to my chest, and turned the old brass lock on the bedroom door. The click was final, a definitive sound that separated us from everything else.
When I turned back, he was watching me, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. “You’re right,” he breathed, his voice rough. “I need help.”
A new, daring confidence surged through me. This was my territory now. I closed the distance between us, my bare feet silent on the wood floor. With a deliberate, slow movement, I hooked my foot behind his ankle and pushed, just enough to make him stumble back a single step onto the rug.
He let out a grunt of surprise, his eyes widening.
Then I sank to my knees in front of him.
The perspective shifted dramatically. The worn pattern of the Persian rug, the dark weave of his trousers, the subtle scent of his skin from this new, intimate angle. I looked up at him through my lashes, watching the shock in his eyes melt into something hotter, more profound.
“Let’s see,” I murmured, my fingers making a slow journey to his belt buckle. The cold metal was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. I took my time, teasing the leather through the clasp with a soft, sliding sound.
His breath hitched.
I undid the button of his trousers, then the zipper, the rasp loud in the quiet room. I could feel the hard line of him straining against the fabric beneath my knuckles. “This,” I said, looking directly into his eyes, “is your real present.”
I didn’t break eye contact as I freed him. He was thick and heavy in my hand, the skin silken and hot. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat when I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.
His hands came down, not pushing or guiding, but gripping my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning world. I worked him slowly, learning the rhythm that made his legs tremble, using my tongue in a way that had him cursing under his breath, a string of ragged, pleading words.
“Cam… god… I can’t…”
His hips gave a shallow, involuntary thrust. I pulled back, breathing heavily. “Sit on the bed,” I instructed, my voice husky.
He practically fell onto the edge of the blue comforter, his eyes glazed, completely at my mercy. I moved with him, staying on my knees between his legs, and took him back into my mouth with renewed purpose. This time, there was no hesitation, no slow exploration, only a driving, shared need.
His moans were unfiltered, raw sounds that were nothing like his polite party laugh. One of his hands tangled in my hair, not pulling, just holding on. The other fisted in the comforter. “I’m gonna…” he choked out, a frantic warning.
I didn’t pull away. I pressed closer, taking him deeper, and felt the sharp, sudden pulse of his release. A hot, salty warmth flooded my mouth as he cried out, his whole body shuddering, then going limp against the bed.
For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing, mingling with the distant, muffled chatter of the party still happening a world away.
He slumped back, his chest heaving, one arm thrown over his eyes. The scent of him, sweat and clean skin and something uniquely Matt, filled the air between us. I stayed where I was, my knees aching against the hardwood, the taste of him still on my tongue, a secret I’d swallowed.
“Holy shit, Cam,” he finally breathed, the words muffled by his arm.
A slow, powerful warmth spread through my chest. I had done that. I had unraveled him.
From downstairs, his father’s voice boomed, “Matthew! Stop hiding your lovely girlfriend and get down here for this toast!” The sound was a bucket of ice water.
Matt flinched, dropping his arm. His eyes, wide and suddenly panicked, found mine. The reality of where we were, what we had just done, crashed back into the room. The performance was waiting.
“We have to—” he started, pushing himself up on his elbows.
I didn’t let him finish. I rose on my shaky legs, the green velvet of my dress still pooled at my waist. I felt powerful and exposed all at once. “I know.”
He looked at me, really looked, his gaze tracing the line of my bare shoulders, the disheveled fall of my hair. His expression was a wreck of awe and terror. “Your dress,” he said, his voice rough.
“I know.”
I turned, presenting my back to him, the loose bra and unzipped dress a silent request. His fingers, now trembling slightly, brushed against my skin as he fumbled with the zipper. He pulled it up, the sound definitive, like sealing a tomb. He then reached around me, his hands surprisingly gentle as he guided the straps of my bra back onto my shoulders. His knuckles grazed my skin, and we both froze for a second at the contact.
He fastened the clasp. The wire immediately dug back into my ribcage, a familiar prison.
“There,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
I turned to face him. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his trousers open, looking utterly devastated and beautiful. We were a mess. I reached down and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. He leaned into my touch, closing his eyes for a brief second.
“Your turn,” I said softly.
He nodded, standing up to fasten his own clothes. The intimacy of the moment before was gone, replaced by a frantic, silent efficiency. He snatched the cufflinks from the dresser, his hands fumbling with the studs. I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, trying to compose himself.
“Can you…?” he asked, holding out a cufflink, his voice strained.
I took it, my fingers steady as I fixed it to his sleeve. My mind was replaying the feel of him in my mouth, the sounds he made. I finished with the second one and smoothed down his collar. “Okay,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“Okay,” he echoed. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to restore order. It was no use. He looked thoroughly, wonderfully ruined.
We stood there, two conspirators in the quiet. The party clamored below, a persistent reminder. He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. It was a gesture so tender it hurt.
“Later,” he promised, his voice low and intense. “We’re not done.”
The word was a vow. It sent a shiver down my spine.
He pulled his hand away, and the loss of contact was physical. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and the noise of the party swelled, eager to consume us again. He glanced back at me, his eyes holding mine for one last, searing second.
Then he was gone.
I stood alone in the center of his room, the ghost of his touch on my skin, the taste of him still a secret on my lips. I looked at the rumpled bed, the indentation where he’d sat. The performance was waiting, but the line between what was real and what was for show had been obliterated. I took a deep, shaky breath, the wire digging in, a painful reminder of the girl I was supposed to be.
I followed him out, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses pulling me back into the current.