He stepped back, placed his hands in his pockets. His eyes filled with hunger and yearning that he kept leashed. He stood there, waiting for me to respond. Dark anticipation flooded my senses. An invisible wall stood between us, making me stop in my tracks. It felt like a challenge. A promise. A secret. That maybe if I stay still enough as he'd asked, he'd open his palm and show me what was hidden. Something that I wanted and wouldn't find anywhere else but here. With him. He was giving me a choice. Take it or leave it. I'll take it. My thoughts must have reflected on my face because he smiled. A slow and knowing smile. My breath came out shaky as his wide palm wrapped behind my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. Slowly, torturously, he tipped his head down so that his nose stroked the side of my cheek. He breathed in the scent of my skin deeply and I heard him groan. And still he didn't let our bodies touch. "Did you miss me, Kara?" I closed my eyes, breath shuddering out. "Yes," I answered. "Very much." I pulled back and looked at him. In the dim, cloudy light, I saw a flash of his vulnerability. And I realized...I had hurt him. In those days when I closed myself to the world, I had hurt him. "Cameron..." He pulled away. "I need a shower." Frustration, impatience and longing for him mixed in my mouth as I watched him take off his muddy boots before disappearing in the mudroom. Was he giving me the same silent treatment as I'd given him all week? I knew I deserved it, but still. I heard the whisper of clothes as he peeled them off his body, then the beep and whirl of the washing machine a few seconds before he came out. I sucked in a breath. Cameron was only wearing his boxers—they were plain, unadulterated black. His body was pure and powerfully male. The planes and swells and shapes of his muscles were starkly visible and beautiful. He looked as big and wide as the ocean, hard and uncompromising as a boulder. "There's food in the fridge if you're hungry," he said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I'll be right back." Back. Yes, back. His was a work of art. My eyes hungrily gazed at his retreating form. At his thick, muscular legs. Hey, perv. Yep, that's me. I let out a loud sigh, took off my coat and boots, dumped them in his coat closet, and marched to the kitchen, trying not to think of him in the shower. Of course, it was clean, I thought as I entered his kitchen. Not a single dirty dish or crumb on the floor or counters. He probably washed the dishes as soon as he was done with them. It looked like he didn't even use it, but when I opened the fridge, it was stacked. Vegetables, fruits, a shit ton of meat, bread—was that tofu hotdogs? Dammit. Dammit. I melted. I think he bought that for me. He hated tofu. How do I get back in his good graces? Did he want me to grovel? Beg for his forgiveness on my knees? Buy him flowers and chocolates? Get naked? How about start with making him something to eat? Sure. Didn't they always say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? I had a bigger chance of sprouting wings out of my ass if that was the only way. I sucked at cooking, but I could make a mean sandwich. After all I'd made countless of them for my men at home and the shop. I gathered all the stuff I needed, rolled my sleeves, washed my hands, and got ready to work. I could die of frustration if he kept up this no-kiss, no-touch thing, I thought darkly, slapping mayo and mustard and spreading it evenly on the bread. It would taste better with honey, but he didn't have it. I added lettuce, tomato, winced when I touched the cold sliced turkey and generously piled it on, cheese, cucumber and onions. Would I die a frustrated virgin? Possible. Shit. He loved it when I touched him, so it was safe to assume he didn't have any issues in that department. So why the hell? Fine, he was definitely filthy tonight, and that I could grudgingly accept. But what about that morning last week when I picked him up and he refused to kiss me? Was it some kind of control fetish? I was working myself up. You're the one who screwed up this time. Don't forget you're supposed to be sorry and make it up to him. I let out another long sigh, sprinkled salt and pepper and topped it with another slice of bread. Finito. Did he miss me? The look he'd given me earlier was filled with longing and hurt. I am sorry. Cameron had been very understanding and caring of me. And my family. I knew he was a bit anti-social, and he wouldn't seek the company of others given a choice, and still... he helped my dad. You know he did it for you. I was grabbing a beer for him in the fridge when I heard footsteps. Cameron was always quiet. There were times I jumped out of my skin because he'd be behind me without a warning, as though he'd teleported there. Did he purposefully made a sound now to let me know he was coming so I wouldn't jump? I stayed where I was, waited before I closed the fridge. Then I turned around. He was leaning against the wall to the kitchen entrance, blue gaze on me. "I-I made you a sandwich," I said. I could feel the pulse in my throat pounding. "Thanks." But he stayed where he was. With wooden legs, I walked to the opposite side of the counter from him, placed the bottle of beer there. Memories from the last time we were here in his kitchen flooded my brain. On the kitchen counter specifically. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering. "Aren't you hungry?" I asked. My words sounded thick and slow. "What do you think?" He finally pushed from the wall and crossed to the counter, my eyes following his every movement. He pulled out a barstool and sat on it. "Beer?"