The Games We Play - Chapter 37: Chapter 37

My bedroom looked like a tornado had ripped through Sephora and dumped half the inventory onto my vanity.
Makeup brushes, palettes, and compacts were scattered across every surface, and somehow, a hot pink feather boa had made its way onto my bedpost—courtesy of Jude, naturally.
"I'm just saying," Jude said, dabbing something suspiciously glittery onto my cheekbone, "if this isn't the night you send him into cardiac arrest with that iron-grip pussy, then I've failed as a friend."
"Why would you have failed?" I ask with a frown.
Jude doesn't answer and instead comes at me with the mascara wand.
"Blink and you die." Jude tells me as I look up at the ceiling, letting him apply the mascara to my lashes.
Scarlett, lounging on my bed and scrolling through her phone, snorted. "You're terrifying her."
"Good," Jude said, leaning in closer. "The stakes have never been higher. If she doesn't look so good that Wes starts crying at dinner, what are we even doing here?"
"I doubt he's going to cry," I muttered, trying not to move as he dragged the wand across my lashes.
"Well, he should," Jude said, stepping back to admire his work. "And if he doesn't, then I'm calling the cops on his ass."
The second I asked Jude to come over to do my make-up, he was already half-way through inviting everyone else over too.
On the other side of the room, Kiki and Yasmine were stretched out together in the armchair by the window, Yasmine's legs draped over Kiki's lap.
They were both watching me with matching grins, like they were witnessing a masterpiece being unveiled.
"Cam, you look amazing," Yasmine said, her voice soft but full of admiration.
"It's actually fucking unfair how gorgeous you are and straight." Kiki added, brushing a hand through her burgundy hair as she sat up a little straighter. "The amount of lesbian friends we could introduce you to and they'd worship you at your feet."
Jude shakes his head, "Not the lesbians."
"She's not wrong, though," Tasha chimed in from the edge of my bed, her curls bouncing as she leaned forward to get a better look. "You're glowing."
"For sure," Liam added from the floor, where he was cross-legged on and grins up at his girlfriend, "Jude's doing my make up date for our next date."
Tasha smiles down at him, "Oh really?"
"Only the best for you, baby." Liam leans his head on her lap.
I laughed, my cheeks heating as I smoothed my hands over my dress. "Okay, can we all calm down? You're making me nervous."
"You should be nervous," Scarlett said from her perch on the bed, finally looking up from her phone. "For Wes though—the mans is going to cum in his pants."
Everyone starts laughing as Jude end up high-fiving Scarlett for her hilarious little comment.
"Oh my god, Scar." I say, going to cover my face but Jude freaks out.
"Hands off the art!" Jude snaps at me as I slowly lower my hands.
I shook my head, laughing as the compliments kept coming. But as the words sank in—their genuine excitement and love—I still felt that weight pressing down on my chest that I don't deserve it.
Damn—you can take the girl out the trauma but you can't take the trauma out of the girl.
And then I heard it. A knock at the front door.
All the air is sucked out of the room as we all stare at my bedroom door half opened.
"He's here" Jude announced, dropping the brush in his hand and books it out the room.
"Do not answer that door!" I snapped, turning toward her. "I swear to God—"
But it was too late. Scarlett was already on her feet, and Kiki, Yasmine, Tasha, and Liam all scrambled after Jude like a stampede.
And then I'm left alone in my bedroom.
I hear them open the door and greet Wes all together—and probably scare the shit out of him.
Turning back to the mirror, I took a slow, deep breath, letting my gaze sweep over my reflection. I can't even count how many outfits we had blown through—Tasha, Kiki, and Jude acting like damn judges, like we were in Dress to Impress.
But eventually, we all managed to settle on one of the first outside I had fucking put on—which is usually how the woeful tale of getting dressed goes.
We had danced the fine line between dressy and casual—considering Wes had been tight lipped on where exactly he was taking me just to piss me off. Scarlett had given me one of her tops—a deep burgundy halter neck. It was backless and the front was loose-draping fabric that dipped all the way to my navel.
We'd paired it with a pair of deep wash denim jeans and dark brown strappy heels. I'd layered on some fine gold jewellery; rings, bracelets, and hoops. Jude forbade me from wearing any necklace, professing my tits were the real pièce de résistance.
My makeup, though, that's fucking flawless.
Jude had outdone himself with the soft, glowing look that made my cheekbones pop and my lips look full and kissable. My hair framed my face in perfect loose waves, one side tucked behind my ear to show off the contour, the blush and the highlighter.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back, trying to shake the nerves threatening to creep in.
I look good.
Like, damn good.
The kind of good that should leave absolutely no room for doubt. No space for old insecurities, for the whispers of the past to creep in.
But still, they inger.
Are you sure?
Are you really?
I press my lips together, glancing over myself one last time, forcing those voices out.
Because they're wrong.
I know they're wrong.
The deep burgundy top clings and drapes in all the right ways, my tits looking amazing in the open gap. My jeans fit like a damn glove, hugging my ass just right, and the strappy heels add just enough height to make me feel powerful.
My skin was shiny and bronzed and I was glowing.
It didn't make any sense why I was so damn nervous. Wes had seen me in everything from ratty sweatshirts to my naked tits and ass. And yet, standing here, dressed up for an actual date, I felt exposed in a completely different way.
From the other side of the apartment, I heard Jude voice, loud and teasing as he kept Wes company in the entrance.
I don't know why I'm so fucking scared.
He's obsessed with me. Just as I'm obsessed with him.
And I wanted nothing more than to just see him.
I grab my red baguette bag off the vanity, slinging it over my shoulder before reaching for my black leather bomber draped over the chair.
A final glance in the mirror.
One more breath.
Then, without another thought, I turn on my heel and walk out of my bedroom.
The voices from the living room grew louder as I stepped down the hall, smoothing my hands down my jeans one last time. My heels dug into the carpet floors, making it a little bit wobbly to walk but I manage.
Wes stood just in front of the door, completely surrounded by all my friends. He was smiling at them—his friendly smile, his smile for the pictures, for everyone else. It's handsome and bright but it's not him.
I come to a slow stop just a few feet away.
"Hi," I said softly, my voice cutting through the noise.
All at once, everyone turned to look at me, but I only had eyes for Wes.
The second our gazes met, the forced smile he'd been wearing for my friends melted away, replaced by something softer, real.
There is he. My golden boy.
The sight of him punches the breath from my lungs, because of course he looks good. Devastatingly, stupidly good.
The soft brown leather jacket sits just right on his broad shoulders, the rich color complementing the black t-shirt underneath, the fabric clinging to him, stretching over muscle and heat and strength. The dark wash jeans he's wearing hang perfectly on his lean frame, cuffed just at the ankle over polished black boots that somehow manage to be both rugged and elegant, held at his hips with a black leather belt.
And it's not fair.
It's not fair that a man this absurdly beautiful, this physically perfect, is mine.
And it's really not fair that he's looking at me like that.
Like I've just knocked the earth off its axis.
Like I'm the only thing in the world that makes sense.
His gaze moves slowly, dragging over me, lingering at the deep neckline of my top, the slope of my shoulders, the curve of my waist, the way my jeans hug my hips and thighs like a damn second skin. My skin burns under the weight of his stare, and something hot, something dangerous, flickers in those blue, blue eyes.
He stares at me like he's committing me to memory, like I'm something sacred. Something he'd fight for, bleed for, die for.
A flick of his tongue over his bottom lip, a breath through his nose, a flex of his fingers at his sides like he's holding himself back from grabbing me, from pressing me into the nearest wall and ruining me before we even make it out the door.
And then he lifts his hand.
And fuck me sideways.
White magnolias.
My favorite.
A bouquet of them, fresh and full, wrapped up in deep green leaves that make the petals look even brighter, even softer.
My heart squeezes so tight it's almost painful.
Because it's not just the flowers.
It's everything.
It's the way he holds them, the way his hands flex around the stems like he's nervous, like this moment is as big for him as it is for me.
It's the way he's looking at me. Like I'm it. Like I'm his.
And God help me, because I think I always have been.
"Hey, baby."
Wes's voice is low, warm, wrapping around me like the best kind of distraction, and I swear to God, my knees almost buckle right then and there.
I barely have time to process how obscenely good he sounds before Kiki lets out a dramatic groan, flopping onto the couch like she's been personally victimized by the sheer weight of our sexual tension.
"Oh my God," she exclaims, waving a hand in front of her face. "Can we open a window in here? All this damn sexual tension is suffocating.
I shoot her a look, already feeling the heat creeping up my neck. "Ki."
She just grins, unbothered as always, batting her lashes at me.
Jude flops down beside her with a sigh, waving a dismissive hand in Wes's direction. "Take her and go, cowboy. Before one of you bursts into flames."
Wes's lips quirk, amused, but his eyes don't leave mine. "You ready, baby?"
I swallow, nodding as I finally step forward. "Yeah."
As I move, my friends part like the Red Sea, exaggerated and theatrical, all of them watching like we're the final act of a rom-com and not just two people going on a damn date.
Wes moves to the door, pulling it open for me, and I step into the hallway, throwing one last look over my shoulder at the group of absolute bitches I call my best friends.
"I'll see y'all later!" I call, giving them a small wave.
"Good luck!" Tasha blows an air kiss as I turn, watching Wes step out into the hall as Scarlett holds the door open.
Wes comes to a stop at my side, his hand on my lower back as we both grin back into the apartment.
"Make good choices!" Liam adds, grinning. "Or bad choices!"
Kiki cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, "Whatever lets me live out my Lesbian Aunty Dreams quicker!"
Yasmine smacks her arm, but it's useless. They're all laughing, sending exaggerated kisses my way, Jude leading the charge by blowing a dramatic, two-handed air kiss.
"Do absolutely everything I would do, my sweet, sweet sex bunnies," he singsongs.
I roll my eyes as Wes laughs, shaking his head, before a quieter voice cuts through the chaos.
"Enjoy yourselves."
Scarlett.
Her voice is softer, sincere, and when I meet her gaze, her usual sharpness is tempered with warmth. She turns her attention to Wes, giving him a look that carries more weight than any joke, any teasing.
"Treat our girl right, Reed." she tells him, steady, firm.
Wes just nods, "Always, Raleigh."
And then the door swings shut behind us, sealing off the noise, the chaos, leaving nothing but me, him, and the quiet hum of the hallway.
I let out a slow breath with a small chuckle, begging to walk down the open breezeway hall, my lips parting as I start to apologize for my friends. "Oh. My. God. I hope they—
But I don't get the chance to finish.
"C'mere, baby."
Wes moves fast—so fast—his hand hooking around my waist, fingers pressing into the dip of my lower back as he spins me and pulls me in, flush against him. A quiet gasp slips from my lips, my balance tilting as my hands instinctively fly up, grabbing onto the soft, worn leather of his jacket.
His other hand is still at his side, fingers curled around the stems of my favorite flowers, but his hold on me is possessive, sure, like he couldn't wait even a second longer.
Then—his lips crash into mine.
A cool night breeze sweeps through the open hallway, slipping between the breezeways and ghosting over my bare back. A shiver runs down my spine, but it's nothing compared to the heat burning between us.
Wes' lips move against mine like he's making up for lost time—like being apart all day had been unbearable, like every second without me had been one second too long. His kiss is hot, deep, consuming, his mouth parting over mine as his tongue sweeps inside, slow and sure, like he's claiming me, tasting me, drowning in me all at once.
I sink into him, melting against the hard planes of his body, my fingers tightening in the collar of his jacket. The leather is warm from his skin, from the sheer heat radiating off of him.
I swear I can feel the restraint in his body, in the way his muscles flex beneath my hands, like he's holding himself back from pressing me against the nearest wall and taking everything he wants.
I want that too.
I kiss him harder, pressing up onto my toes to close the distance, my tongue sliding against his, chasing the heat of him, the taste of him. Wes groans into my mouth—low, rough, needy—his arm cinching tighter around my waist, pulling me even closer until there's not an inch of space left between us. I can feel him—everywhere.
The breeze picks up again, cool air curling around my overheated skin, but all I can feel is Wes, Wes, Wes. The way his fingers splay wide over my bare back, like he needs to touch all of me at once. The desperate way he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, breathing me in like he's starving.
My chest heaves as I gasp against his lips, stealing air, stealing every ounce of warmth he's pressing into me.
His fingers flex against my back. His nose nudges mine.
And then—slowly, too slowly—Wes pulls back.
Just enough to break the kiss. Just enough to make me chase him.
My lips are still parted, my breath uneven, my fingers still curled into his jacket. His forehead presses lightly against mine, his breath fanning over my kiss-swollen lips, his eyes so dark, so deep, so full of something that makes my heart stutter.
I feel wrecked. Ruined. Loved.
And so goddamn his.
I breathe out, "Hi."
"You already said that." Wes grins as he stretches out a hand to me.
I glance down at his outstretched hand before slipping mine into it, his palm warm and solid, his grip sure and steady.
"Those for me?"
Wes lifts them slightly, a smirk playing at his lips. "No, I thought I'd bring 'em for Jude."
I snort, reaching out to take them, but he doesn't let go immediately. Instead, he watches me, his eyes drinking me in like he's savoring this moment, stretching it out. Finally, he releases them, and I bring them to my nose, inhaling softly.
White magnolias. My favorite.
Something warm spreads through my chest, blooming right alongside the flowers in my hands.
"You remembered," I murmur, lifting my gaze back to his.
Wes tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, his head tilting slightly as he reaches for the black leather bomber draped over my arm. "'Course I did, baby."
Without another word, he unfolds the jacket and steps closer, draping it over my shoulders with a gentleness that shouldn't make my knees weak—but fuck, it does. His hands smooth over my arms before he tugs the lapels together, making sure I'm warm.
I shake my head, amusement curling my lips. "Scar said you were gonna cum in your pants."
Wes chuckles, deep and low, the sound sinking straight into my bones as his hands slide down to my waist. His grip tightens, pulling me in. "Well, she ain't far off."
Wes' hands stay firm on my waist, his thumbs stroking small, slow circles against my hips, like he's trying to soothe himself. Like he's trying to keep from losing control.
"Cos now all I'm thinkin' 'bout," he drawls, voice thick with heat, "is skippin' straight to dessert."
I swallow hard, my pulse skittering as he dips his head, lips grazing just below my ear. His breath is warm, teasing, and entirely unfair.
"Thinkin' 'bout spreading this little top open," he murmurs, voice a delicious rasp, "Suckin' those pretty little nipples 'til you're drippin' down your thighs for me. 'Til you're beggin' me to put my tongue—"
My thighs press together, breath hitching. "Wes."
His lips curve against my skin. "Yeah, baby?"
I suck in a sharp breath, gathering the scraps of my self-control and tipping my chin up. "We actually have to go on this date first like a normal couple."
He groans, fingers flexing against my waist. "Normal couples don't have to sit through dinner while I'm hard as a fuckin' rock under the table, Cam."
I grin, my nails dragging lightly down his chest. Good.
"Well, you should've thought about that before you planned this date," I hum. "Actions have consequences, babygirl."
Wes exhales a slow, shaky breath, tipping his head back like he's actually in pain. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, woman."
I giggle, stepping back and untangling myself from his grip, though I don't let go of his hand.
"Oh my god—okay, let's go before we fuck in the hall," I laugh, tugging him behind me by our intertwined fingers.
"And that's a bad thing?" Wes asks with a small frown, and I slice him an annoyed but entirely amused glare over my shoulder. He puts up a hand, grinning, "Yes ma'am."
☆☆☆☆
This place is insane.
Like, insane-insane.
Élan is one of those restaurants that exists solely to make peasants like me question our entire existence. It's all sleek black marble, warm candlelight, and waiters who somehow float instead of walk. Quiet but not stuffy, elegant but not pretentious.
Every table has a crisp white tablecloth, sparkling crystal glasses, and a tiny little candle that flickers like it knows it costs more than my entire electricity bill.
It was about a twenty minute drive into Charlotte, in a red brick building that looked out over a bustling street.
I glance down at the menu, trying to casually pretend like I'm not spiraling at the prices.
Thirty-two dollars for soup? Sixty for pasta?
A steak that I'll probably have to give up my first born for.
Lord. I think I just blacked out.
Wes, of course, is completely unbothered.
Wes sits across from me, the soft golden glow of the candlelight making him look obnoxiously good and I'm beginning to regret not just skipping to dessert as well.
He's shed his leather jacket—it's tucked away in the coat check, along with mine, because of course this place has a coat check—and now he's just sitting there in a fitted black T-shirt that's doing sinful, disrespectful things to my mental stability.
It stretches over his chest, his shoulders, the ridges of his arms in a way that should honestly be illegal. The veins. I can see the lines of his muscles shift every time he moves, the fabric clinging like it was made just for him.
And the thing is—he knows it.
Knows exactly what he's doing to me.
Because he's sitting there, legs spread wide, arm resting on the table, thumb brushing along the stem of his water glass as he watches me. Just watches me.
Heat pricks at my skin, crawling up my throat, down my spine.
"Wesley."
His lips twitch. "Yeah, baby?"
"I'm ninety-nine percent sure I can't even afford the water here. Like I can't girl-math my way out of this one."
Wes tips his head back and laughs, full-bodied and rich, and I swear half the restaurant turns to look at us.
"I'm serious." I gesture around the restaurant. "I don't belong here. Everything is quiet and elegant, and I have the vocabulary of a sailor with a drinking problem."
He smirks. "And a mouth that makes me wanna—"
I kick him under the table before he can finish that sentence.
Wes winces but grins, rubbing his shin as he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. His eyes glint with something warm, something teasing. "You're fine, baby. You look like you do belong here."
I scoff, glancing down at my outfit. "Oh yeah, totally. Me and my sideboob are really blending in."
His gaze drops, shameless, to my cleavage. "Ain't no one here that's going to complain about that."
I kick him again.
Wes barks out a laugh, catching my ankle between his calves to trap it, keeping me from escaping.
I glare. "Let me go."
"Nope."
"Wesley."
"Cameron."
We stare at each other, locked in some dumb standoff in the middle of a very expensive restaurant, and I realize something.
I'm happy.
Not just because he's gorgeous and funny and ridiculously obsessed with me. Not just because I could get lost in those damn blue eyes or that stupid, knowing smirk. But because this is easy.
I don't have to think about what I say or how I act with him. I don't have to play a part or perform or wonder if I'm being too much. I'm just me, and he's just him, and it's so fucking good.
The realization makes my chest ache in a way I don't quite know what to do with.
His gaze searches mine for a second longer before he nods, seemingly satisfied.
The waiter shows up to pour us more wine, which means I'm free to yank my foot back and avoid the terrifying prospect of emotions.
Priorities.
"Thank you." I mumble to the waiter with a small smile, his cheeks blooming a shade close to my top before he's putting the bottle back into the ice bucket and leaves us. The muscle in Wes' jaw ticks as his eyes follow the waiter while mine drop to the menu in front of me.
And I immediately feel my soul leave my body.
"Wes." I hiss, eyes wide. "A steak costs more than my rent."
He doesn't even look at the menu, just shrugs. "If you want steak, you can order steak."
I lean forward, "How much do you think a strand of pasta would cost?"
"Baby," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, resting his forearms on the table."I didn't bring you here to stress about the menu. I brought you here to spoil you."
His voice is low, warm, and it sinks into my bones.
I blink, caught off guard, and when I don't immediately have a comeback, Wes smirks. "What? That hard to believe?"
"Well, yeah," I say slowly. "I mean, the last time a man tried to spoil me, he 'accidentally' left his wallet at home and made me Venmo him for gas money afterward."
Wes exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That's 'cause you've been dealin' with boys, baby. I'm a man. And my girl deserves every damn nice thing in the world."
My heart stutters.
His girl.
I glance down at the menu for something to focus on, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.
Wes watches me, his blue eyes impossibly soft.
"And this ain't just about dinner," he continues, voice quieter now. "It's me sayin' thank you."
My brows furrow slightly. "For what?"
"Well, for one putting up with my ass and tutoring me," His lips twitch like he's holding back a grin, but his eyes stay serious. "But also for trustin' me. For givin' me all of you, even when I know it scares you."
The air shifts.
I lift my eyes, meeting his, and everything else fades away. The clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversation around us, even the candlelight flickering between us—none of it exists. Just him. Just this.
Wes doesn't move, doesn't rush me, just lets me sit in the weight of his words, in the way he looks at me like I'm the best damn thing he's ever seen.
Without thinking, I reach across the table, sliding my hand over his. His palm is warm, rough, familiar. Wes turns his hand over immediately, interlocking our fingers, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.
I exhale softly. "You didn't have to do all this, you know."
"Yeah, I did." He squeezes my hand gently, gaze locked onto mine, "Now, does my girl want the steak or not?"
Hesitantly, I bring the menu up to hide my growing smile. My eyes flicker to his across the table as I just nod quickly and a huge grin stretches across Wes' face as he chuckles and glances down at the menu.
"Well, shit, alright then."
A server stops by with a basket of fresh bread and a small dish of butter, along with two glasses of sparkling water. I thank them quietly before tearing off a small piece of bread, my fingers absently playing with the crust as I look over the menu, my mouth practically watering at the description of the Rib-Eye.
The steak has been "lovingly aged for 45 days", the Bordelaise sauce is infused with bone marrow, and it comes with a side of pommes purée which is just mashed potatoes. And the haricots verts—which I'm 90% sure are just green beans—have been "lightly kissed by beurre noisette."
No fucking clue what most of it means—it just sounds delicious and I need it in my mouth now.
When I glance up, my gaze clashes with the brightest pair of blue eyes.
My fingers tighten round my glass as I take a sip, trying to ignore the way Wes is watching me. Amused. A little smug. Definitely up to no good.
I glance back at him, narrowing my eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
His lips curl at the corner, his eyes flickering down to my neckline for a half-second before meeting mine again. "Just thinkin'."
"That's dangerous," I deadpan.
Wes ignores me, his thumb brushing back and forth over my knuckles, his voice deceptively casual. "About how I'm sittin' across from the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, watchin' her be all cute and giggly and smart, and all I can think about is how fucking hard I am under this table right now."
I choke on my drink.
Heat floods my entire body as I slap a hand over my mouth, my eyes going wide as I stare at him in absolute mortification. "Wesley."
Wes just grins, shameless, smug, and entirely unrepentant.
"Oh my god," I groan, setting my glass down as I cover my face with one of my hands. "You cannot say shit like that in a place like this."
"Why not?" Wes asks, tilting his head, voice smooth as silk. "It's the truth."
I peek at him between my fingers, and—yep. Still grinning. Still smug. Still the absolute bane of my existence.
And the worst part? I can feel it. Not literally, thank god, but in the way his grip tightens slightly on my hand, the way his jaw ticks, the way his breathing is just a little bit slower, heavier.
This man is actually suffering right now.
And I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel a little powerful.
I lower my hands, leaning in slightly as I flutter my lashes at him, voice sickly sweet. "Poor baby."
Wes exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening just slightly around my hand, like he's trying to keep himself in check.
And I'm feeling a little reckless.
I tuck the toe of my heel under the cuff of his jeans, dragging it slowly up his shin.
Wes stiffens.
His fingers flex against mine, his other hand curling into a loose fist on the table. His jaw ticks, the muscle feathering, and when his eyes lift back to mine, they're dark. Heavy. A warning.
But I just smile, slow and sweet, like I'm not doing anything at all.
His nostrils flare.
"Baby," he mutters, low, thick. A promise. A threat.
The corner of my lips twitches. "What?"
His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, his fingers gripping mine tighter, and he leans in just slightly, voice nothing but gravel. "Keep that up and I'll have you in my lap before the appetizers even get here."
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
And then—
"Are we ready to order our mains?"
I snatch my foot back so fast I nearly lose a shoe. Wes groans quietly, running a hand down his face as the waiter stands there, expectant and completely oblivious to the absolute filth that was just exchanged at this table.
I clear my throat, snatching up my menu. "Uh—yeah. Yep. Totally."
Wes just chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up his own menu, but not before shooting me one last look that says this isn't over.