The Games We Play - Chapter 35: Chapter 35

If someone had told me a few months ago that I'd be here—actually happy, in a relationship, and somehow not self-sabotaging—I would've laughed right in their faces and asked if they could share a line of the cocaine they were sniffing.
But here I am. Wes loves me. I haven't run away. And the world hasn't ended. In fact, it's... kind of nice.
Really fucking nice.
Since the fair, things have been steady, which is saying something for me.
Wes isn't just good at showing up; he's somehow turned being thoughtful into a sport.
Coffee? Delivered. Stress meltdown? Talked down. And the man knows how to cook, which is both unfair and a little dangerous because I no longer feel the need to survive on frozen dumplings or starve while I wait for Mommy Scarlett to feed me like a lil baby chick.
And the sex—fuck, the sex.
It seems we're having even more of it than when we were friends with benefits. Not to mention, it's so much fucking better on all levels. I just can't seem to keep my hands and mouth off him.
Sometimes, we can't even wait to get home. We'll find a small private study room somewhere on campus, I'll bend over the table, and Wes will pound into me from behind. Or Wes will lie down on top of the table, and I'll ride him until we're both fucking spent.
Wes doesn't mind at all. He'll see that look in my eye, create a distraction, or whisk me away, and his cock is buried inside me within minutes.
But of course, not everything is sunshine, sprinkles, and intense orgasms.
My portfolio is due in three weeks, and my stress levels are approaching Britney-inspired breakdowns. December 22nd. The day that will either cement my interior design career or make me throw myself off the Whitmore Tower.
Literally no in-between.
So naturally, I find myself in the presence of the one person whose approval could make or break me: Lea Beauchamp, interior design legend, personal idol, and, in my mind, the embodiment of grace, power, and really expensive taste.
Her office is as perfect as she is—streamlined and elegant, with just enough bold choices to remind you she doesn't miss.
The silence is suffocating, but I sit there, pretending my heart isn't pounding and that I'm not actively preparing for death.
I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, adjusting my posture, debating whether or not I should casually fake my own demise. Maybe if I throw myself dramatically out of this chair, I can feign a sudden medical emergency and postpone this feedback session indefinitely.
She is scrolling through my portfolio on her sleek monitor, her expression impossible to read. She hasn't said anything yet—not even her usual hum of approval or her softly delivered critique that always seems to hit harder than if she were just straight-up mean.
God, I should've done more. Should've changed everything. Should've scrapped the whole project and fled to Mexico the second I realized the deadline was creeping up on me.
I chew the inside of my cheek, my nails digging into the hem of my sweater.
Is that a pause? Did she pause for too long on that page? Is she trying to find the kindest way to tell me I have wasted four years and should pursue a lucrative career in crying and eating cheese straight from the bag instead?
Lea flips another page.
I brace myself for impact.
She exhales softly through her nose and finally—finally—looks up.
I tighten every muscle in my body, preparing for the worst. Hit me with it, Beauchamp.
Her sharp brown eyes settle on me. And then she smiles.
...The fuck?
No. Wait. Hold on. That's not right. My brain needs a moment to recalibrate because I was fully expecting to be obliterated.
"You did it, mon chéri," she says, her voice warm but still perfectly composed, like she knew all along that I was capable of this and is now simply pleased I finally figured it out.
I blink. Several times.
Did she—ha—wha—I—huh?
Lea closes the portfolio gently, like she's handling something valuable. "Cameron... this portfolio—it's incredible."
I shake myself out of my stupor. "Uh... sorry—could you say that again?"
"You've outdone yourself," she smiles softly, waiting for me to catch up. "You didn't just complete the project. You poured yourself into it. I can feel it on every page. Every texture choice, every composition, every conceptual detail—it's uniquely you. And it's brilliant."
Oh. Oh, shit.
I might be malfunctioning.
Because she likes it?
Like, actually fucking likes it?
Not in a this is passable way, not in a you tried way—but in a this is real talent way?
My hands are clammy. My tongue feels thick. I don't know how to process external validation.
"You—um—" I clear my throat. "You're not just saying that because you pity me, right? Like, you're not just thinking, Wow, this girl is one catastrophic panic attack away from a full psychotic break, let me throw her a bone?"
Lea actually laughs.
And that's when I know I must've done something really right. 'Bout damn fucking time.
"Cameron, my dear, stop doubting yourself," she says, shaking her head. "You see spaces differently than others. You understand how to make people feel something in a room, not just exist in it. That's not something that can be taught."
I sit there, stunned into silence.
I can't help it—I glance down at the portfolio like it might suddenly transform into a golden ticket to not being a failure.
Because I worked my ass off on this.
I changed everything.
And, okay, yeah, I had some help from a certain six-foot-four, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Southern menace who forced me to eat and breathe and sleep when I needed to.
But I did this.
Me.
And Lea sees it.
She gestures to the open pages. "Tell me about this."
I snap out of my haze and look down at the design she's pointing to—a boutique hotel concept inspired by transformation. The idea that a space should feel fluid, organic, like it grows and shifts with the person inside it.
The main lobby is warm and modern but with old-world textures—deep oak paneling, raw stone finishes, soft curved furniture to contrast against the sharp architectural lines.
There's a glass-ceiling atrium, filtering sunlight through a woven wooden framework, mimicking the pattern of tree branches. The light is meant to shift throughout the day, casting ever-changing shadows, like the space itself is alive, breathing.
The rooms follow suit—each one designed with personalization in mind. Adjustable lighting, modular furniture, built-in art displays where guests can add their own pieces, creating something that's never quite the same between stays.
A space that evolves with the person inside it.
I take a breath and start explaining.
"Hotels aren't just transitional spaces," I say, my voice steady despite the way my pulse is thrumming in my throat. "They're not just a place to sleep between point A and point B."
I glance at the screen, at the open book below her, gesturing gently with my hands.
"People come to hotels to get away from their lives," I continue, lifting my gaze back to Lea. "For a night, for a week. They come to step out of themselves, to exist in a space where they can be someone else—or maybe even find themselves again. And the place they stay in? It should reflect that. It should help that."
Lea watches me carefully, expression unreadable.
I gesture to the lobby design, fingers splayed over the intricate renderings. "The first step is always atmosphere. Before a guest ever touches the sheets, before they even check in, they should feel something the second they walk inside. So, instead of sterile modernism or opulent tradition, I designed a space that feels... fluid. That changes with the person inside it. That doesn't dictate their experience but enhances it."
I flip to the next page, revealing the sweeping glass atrium with its woven wooden framework, where natural light filters through in ever-changing shadows.
"The architecture mimics nature—tree branches, the shifting of light, organic movement—because nature is the ultimate designer. It's constantly evolving, never static."
I tap the page. "Throughout the day, this entire space changes. Morning light filters through, casting softer shadows, making it feel gentle, welcoming, full of possibility. By afternoon, the angles sharpen, the colors deepen, the mood shifts. And by night, with soft uplighting, it's completely transformed into something warmer, moodier, more intimate. The space isn't just existing—it's breathing."
Lea exhales softly, and when I finally lift my gaze, she's watching me like she sees something she didn't expect.
Like she sees me.
I realize I've been talking too fast, but I can't stop. Because this isn't just a project anymore.
This is me. This is my work, my vision, my heart laid bare.
"I wanted it to feel like a story," I say, my voice quieter now but no less steady. "Like something that changes with every person who walks through the door. Because that's what a hotel really is, right? It's a collection of strangers, all at different points in their lives, living inside the same space but experiencing it in completely different ways. A breakup, a honeymoon, a solo adventure, a work trip—it's never the same story twice. So why should the space be?"
Silence.
Heavy, considering silence.
And then—Lea exhales.
I don't breathe.
I don't move.
"Do you want to know why you're my favorite student?" she asks suddenly, her tone light but serious.
"Because I turn my work in on time?" I offer weakly.
She laughs, a rich, warm sound that makes me relax a little. "Your work isn't just good, Cameron—it's personal. It has a voice, your voice. When I look at your designs, I don't just see rooms or furniture—I see stories. Emotions. There's a depth to what you create that most students can't even begin to tap into."
I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand, cutting me off.
"I've been teaching long enough to know when someone's work is driven by more than just a love of aesthetics," she continues. "And with you, it's obvious. You gravitate toward beauty and order, but not just because it's fun or creative. It's a way for you to take control. To shape your environment. To create something stable. Something safe."
Her words hit me like a freight train.
"I don't know what you've been through," Lea says carefully, "and I won't pretend to. But it's clear that design is more than just a career for you. It's an outlet. A way to process, to heal, to reclaim your power. You're not just designing rooms, Cameron—you're creating spaces that give people what I suspect you've always wanted: warmth, safety, and belonging."
I swallow before smiling at her. "Damn—all that and you picked interior design over therapy?"
"I was the same as you—craving control." Lea shrugs. "Plus, when I told my father I wanted to study therapy, he started crying."
Well, shit.
"I believe in you, Cam. Your work isn't just beautiful; it's empathetic. Thoughtful. It's why you'll go far in this field—not just because you're talented, but because you care. That's what makes you exceptional." Lea smiles at me softly, like a mother would her child, and warmth sets up shop in my chest.
I nod to her. "Thank you, Lea."
"Don't thank me just yet. Thank me when they choose you for that internship." Lea grins at me as she straightens out her keyboard. "And I take thanks in the form of champagne, mon chéri."
I gasp. "We're literally the same person."
"I know!" she exclaims as we giggle together.
Lea shakes her head, still smiling as she leans back in her chair. "But before you start celebrating and buying me very expensive champagne, there are a couple of small things we should refine."
I nod quickly, already prepared to scribble down mental notes. "Okay. Yeah. Hit me."
She flips to one of my floor plans, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the page. "Your layouts are stunning—fluid, intentional, completely you—but I want you to tighten up your annotations. You don't need to explain every little thing, but a well-placed note here and there can guide whoever's reviewing this. Let them see your thinking without having to dig for it."
"Aye aye, captain."
"Also, the scale in your nighttime renders is the slightest tad oversized. Just make sure everything aligns with your dimensions." She holds up a pinch with her fingers, and I nod, taking in everything with big, wide eyes. "But all in all, mon chéri? This is impressive. It's thoughtful, sophisticated, lived-in. It feels real. And when you present this for your final submission, that's what's going to make them remember you."
I blink. Wait. That's it?
No catastrophic failures? No this is a mess, start over, pack your bags, you're not cut out for this level of critique?
She smiles knowingly, like she can hear the panic in my head. "I know you were expecting worse."
I scoff, shoving my hair out of my face. "Obviously. I'm actually scheduled to jump off the Whitmore right after this meeting."
Lea throws her head back, laughing. "Well, I'm glad we avoided that. I'd hate to have to break the news to Wesley."
At the sound of his name, my entire face betrays me. The flush, the instant reaction, the way my lips twitch before I can stop it.
Lea catches it immediately, smirking.
"Oh, don't you dare—" I start.
But it's too late. She's grinning.
"You know, I was wondering why you suddenly stopped looking like a walking corpse a few weeks ago," she teases, flipping my portfolio closed with a smug little flick of her wrist. "Guess I have my answer now."
Jesus Christ.
I groan, dropping my face into my hands. "Oh my God, I hate you."
"No, you don't." She grins, completely unbothered. "You adore me. And when you graduate with three hundred jobs lined up, you're taking me for a drink."
I exhale, shaking my head as I stand, tucking my portfolio under my arm. "Fine. But I'm picking the place."
Lea smirks. "As long as it's expensive."
☆☆☆☆
When I finally walk out the revolving glass doors of the School of Architecture, I feel like I'm buzzing at a speed that could literally make me invisible. I'm grinning hard—full teeth bared, got people questioning if I've just taken a hit of meth.
But the only thing I'm high on is Lea's validation, and I swear it might just be the thing that has me solving world peace.
She loved my portfolio. Loved it.
I feel like I could actually skip across campus, but I'm a woman of poise and elegance and—fuck it, we ball.
I take a little skip, my hands clenching into excited fists, and I'm too damn happy to hear the footsteps behind me until someone shouts my name.
"Cam!"
I jump, my heart lurching into my throat as I spin around. "Sweet Jesus!"
Hudson stands there, bundled up in a gray sweater, black puffer vest, and red scarf. He shoves his hands into his pockets, grinning sheepishly at me behind fogged-up glasses.
I place a hand on my chest and swallow. "Way to give a girl a heart attack."
"Shit—sorry." He laughs at my reaction. "Didn't mean to scare you, Cam."
I giggle gently, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "It's fine—just remind me to put a bell on you."
"Will do," he laughs, his breath coming out in little puffs of white in the cold air. "But for real, what's got you grinning like that? You look like you just won the lottery."
I beam even harder—which should be impossible, but here we are. "I just had a meeting about my portfolio, and it went really, really well."
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Damn right it did, Cam. Congrats."
I nudge his arm lightly. "Thanks, Hud."
Hudson ducks his head, like he's embarrassed but trying to play it cool. "Yeah, well, I knew you'd kill it. You work your ass off."
I smile, because that's really nice. And because he means it.
Hudson shifts his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. "And actually, I'm glad I ran into you. I was meaning to talk to you about something."
I blink, adjusting my tote on my shoulder. "Oh?"
He hesitates, just for a second, before offering a small smile. "I, uh... I heard from Jude that you're officially off the market."
Ah.
Shit.
My stomach twists because I knew this was coming. Hudson has always been sweet, always been good, and I'd known—on some level—that he had feelings for me. And I should've shut it down sooner. Should've made it clearer.
I open my mouth, guilt creeping in. "Hudson, I—"
"Oh God, Cam, please don't," he says quickly, shaking his head with a smile. "You don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."
I exhale, relief flooding my chest. "You sure?"
"Really, Cam. I'm happy for you. I mean it." He laughs lightly, shaking his head. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bummed. But Wes... I mean, it's Wesley fucking Reed."
I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Please don't say it like that."
Hudson chuckles. "C'mon, Cam. You've got half the school wanting to be you and the other half wanting to be with you. You know that, right?"
I peek at him through my fingers, fighting a smile. "Oh my God."
He grins, and I drop my hands from my face. "Hey—I'm just saying it as I see it."
Before I can formulate a response to that very rude and probably accurate statement, I feel it—
A familiar, solid presence slides behind me.
Then—warm, strong arms wrap around my waist. A kiss, soft and slow, is pressed to my temple.
"Hey, baby."
My breath catches.
Wes.
Fucking Wes.
I turn my head just slightly, catching sight of broad shoulders, golden hair, and those unfairly blue eyes watching me like I'm the only thing on this damn campus.
"What's so funny?" Wes's deep drawl slides over me as he dips his head to place another soft kiss on my cheek.
Hudson exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Nothing, man. Just catching up with Cam."
Wes hums, his grip on my waist tightening slightly. "That so?"
Hudson, ever oblivious, just smiles. "Yeah. Was just congratulating her on her portfolio. Sounds like she crushed it."
Wes finally looks at him, his blue eyes steady, unreadable. "'Course she did."
Something about the way he says it sends heat curling low in my stomach.
He flashes me a grin, and I can only roll my eyes at him, my own smile tugging at my lips.
"But—uh—how you been, man?" Hudson asks as he shakes a hand through his dark curls.
"Yeah, I've been good," Wes says, the innuendo clear as motherfucking day, and he dips his head again to kiss my temple. "Real good."
Hudson rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. "Yeah? So y'all ready for the Fiesta Bowl? Texas looks strong this year."
Wes hums, his fingers tightening slightly at my waist before smoothing out again. "We'll see."
Hudson chuckles. "That's it? No bulletin board material? No pregame trash talk?"
Wes shrugs, completely unbothered. "Not really my style."
I snort. "Oh, please. You talk so much shit during the game."
Wes grins, finally looking at me. "That's different, baby."
I roll my eyes, fighting my smile.
Hudson shakes his head with a laugh. "Either way, it's gonna be a good game. Y'all have a real shot at the playoffs this year."
Wes finally looks back at him, his blue eyes steady, unreadable. "Yeah, well. Got a lot to play for."
The way he says it—low, firm, final—makes my stomach flip.
Hudson chuckles, shaking his head. "Man, I swear, every time I go to the gym, some guy is talking about how they wanna train like you. Half of them are convinced you were built in a lab."
I snort. "That is so valid."
Hudson grins. "Seriously. Some dude last week was actually analyzing your squat form like he was about to write a dissertation on it."
I burst out laughing, the image alone sending me. "Oh my God—think he can send it to me?"
Wes's grip tightens at my waist. Subtle. Barely there. But I feel it.
I glance up at him, and—yep. That's a look. He's still calm, unreadable, loose in his stance. But there's a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. Something territorial.
Something that has me dripping in my jeans.
I've never had someone be jealous over me... not like this. And seeing it in person, seeing it play out before me—God, it does things to me. Dirty, dirty things.
"Can't blame 'em. You're a freak athlete, man." Hudson just shrugs, still grinning. "But I gotta ask—what's your routine, though? You lifting every day? Strict diet?"
Wes hums, his grip on my waist tightening just slightly. "Nah, man. It's mostly just a lot of core work, stamina training, keepin' my endurance up—"
I nod along absently, because that actually sounds legit.
"—focusin' on full-body workouts," he continues, voice smooth. Too smooth. "Lotta repetitive motion, deep, controlled movements—"
Hold on.
"—buildin' strength, increasin' that flexibility—"
Now wait a damn second.
"—workin' on my hip thrusts—"
Oh, hell no.
I realize exactly where he's going a second too late, my stomach dropping as he smirks down at me.
"—and Cam's been a great partner, y'know, I really love to fuc—"
I whirl in his hold, slap both hands over his mouth, and cut him off before he can finish that godforsaken sentence.
Wes laughs against my palms, eyes alight with pure mischief, his hands gripping my hips tight.
Jesus Christ.
I peek over my shoulder, mortified, and Hudson is already taking a step back.
"Cam," Hudson blinks at me. "Don't gatekeep."
"Yeah, Cam. Don't gatekeep," Wes says, but it comes out muffled behind my palms.
I press my hands tighter over Wes's mouth, glaring up at him. "You're done."
Wes just laughs against my palms, completely unrepentant. His fingers flex at my hips like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Which he does. The bastard.
Hudson chuckles awkwardly, shifting on his feet. "Damn. Guess that's classified info, huh?"
I force a tight-lipped smile, desperately trying to salvage the situation. "Yeah, uh... special training regimen. Colts players aren't allowed to tell people, and Wes has a habit of running his damn mouth all the time. Sorry, Hud."
Hudson nods, totally buying it. "Makes sense. Can't have the competition catching up, right?"
"For sure, for sure," I hum with an overly enthusiastic nod, because yes, Hudson, please keep believing that and do notthink about the fact that Wes was just about to tell him—and everyone else around us—how much he loves to fuck me.
I drop my hands from Wes's mouth, revealing that shit-eating grin of his as I turn back to Hudson, Wes pulling me even tighter against his body now.
Hudson exhales a short laugh, glancing between us. "Well, hey, if you ever decide to share the secrets, let me know. I'm tryna up my game in the gym."
Wes hums. "I got you."
"Hey, Hud, I should probably get going. I gotta go study for finals." I smile at him softly, trying to get away before Wes decides to release any more information to the wider public.
"O—of course." Hudson nods, completely oblivious. "Nice. Well, good seeing you, Cam. And Wes—good luck for the Fiesta Bowl. I'll be rooting for ya."
"Yeah, thanks, Huddy." Wes's voice reverberates through my back and right down between my legs.
I breathe out, relieved. "Yeah, you too, Hud! Have a good one!"
Hudson gives an adorable little wave, then finally takes off, disappearing across the quad.
Once he's gone, I turn back around to face Wes. "Really?"
Wes just smirks down at me, smug as ever, his hands sliding lower on my waist. "What?"
"You know what," I murmur, tilting my head, smoothing flat palms over his chest. His breath hitches just slightly. I hum, pleased. "You were jealous."
"Damn straight I was." His smirk falters. "If you laughed at another stupid fucking joke of his, I was gonna bend you over that there bench and show him that you ain't interested in anybody else, so he should stop trying so damn hard."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Heat flares through me, my thighs clenching on instinct.
Wes notices. Of course he does. His smirk deepens, his hands sliding even lower, fingers curling under the waist band of my jeans, his fingers playing with the lace of my underwear, tugging, slipping under, pressing into flesh at the top of my ass.
"Shit—you like that, baby?" he murmurs, voice thick, deep, laced with heat. "Like knowin' I'd ruin that pretty pussy in front of the whole damn campus if I could?"
My breath catches.
Because yeah. Yeah, I really do.
I press closer, my hands trailing up his chest, nails dragging lightly.
"Mhmm—I like you jealous," I admit softly, watching the way his jaw flexes. "It's a real turn-on."
Wes inhales sharply. His fingers dig into my hips, his nostrils flaring.
"Yeah?" His voice is thick, strained, raw.
Like he's one second away from snapping.
And god, I want him to snap.
I bite my lip, fighting a smirk.
"Yeah—but alas," I exhale, stepping back just slightly, pretending like I don't feel his entire body vibrating with tension. "I gotta go. I'm meeting Jude and Scar at Stodden—walk me there, baby?"
Wes stares for a beat. His eyes flick down to my lips, my neck, to my tits peeking through the V-neck of my soft knit sweater. And then, wordlessly, he reaches down and laces his fingers through mine, gripping tight as he starts walking.
I grin, satisfied, letting him lead me.
We head across the quad, down the stairs, and then turn down the path—in the complete opposite direction of Stodden. I frown slightly, looking up at the seriously concentrated expression on his face.
"Uh, Wes?" I say, glancing around. "This isn't the way to the library."
He doesn't even look at me. Just keeps walking, grip iron-tight around my hand. "No, baby. It ain't."
I blink. "Then where are we—"
"I'm takin' you to my truck," Wes murmurs, voice low, dark, and dripping with filthy promise.
My stomach flips.
He lets go of my hand, wrapping an arm around my back and waist to bring me in tight to his side, then leans down to press a kiss to my stomach.
His drawl deepens slightly. "And when we get there, you're gonna climb into my lap and ride me 'til you're rainin' your sweet cum all over my stomach."