19. Camille

Brick was uncharacteristically quiet. And somber.

It’d been an hour or two since our marathon sexual encounter had ended, where we had definitely burned ourselves out of all energy, and he hadn’t said a thing during the entire lull.

After finishing, he’d merely looked into my eyes, pulled out of me, and then hitched up one side of his mouth in masculine accomplishment before crawling back onto the bed with me, where he settled down beside me, gathering me into his arms to simply hold me.

Without speaking.

It was nice.

But weird. So, so weird.

I’d never known him to not have something to say before.

I glanced toward my alarm clock to check the time, and yeah, it’d been just under two hours since he’d last spoken. Which made me wonder if he regretted what we’d done.

That would be my luck. All those times he’d flirted and come on to me, telling me how ready he was for sex, and I had to go and mess it up by forcing him to accept a quickie—er, two...three? quickies—after we were nea