Argh! I let out a small cry of frustration. This was exactly why I was afraid to come back here—why I tried to bail on the party tonight. It’s not that I don’t know what my body wants, it’s that I sure as hell can’t ever allow myself to have it.
Like, ever.
Because I know how that ends: with me alone, and heartbroken, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him in the first place.
Emerson returns from the kitchen with a damp cloth and the old tin first-aid kit. He kneels down at my feet beside the couch, and takes my injured leg in his hands.
I flinch away from his touch.
“Hold still,” he grounds out. One look from him, and I obey—his whole face is set and determined, lips pressed in a grim line. Clearly, having to take care of me is the worst thing in the world to him right now.
“Your ankle should be fine,” Emerson says, carefully rotating my bare foot in his hands. “It’s not broken or sprained. I’ll get this knee cleaned up.”
“I can do it myself,” I snap, watching him dab the wet towel to clean up the gravel and blood.
“Like you could cycle home? Or take care of yourself in the bar?” Emerson shoots back. “I’m surprised you’re not dead in a gutter if this is how you’ve been carrying on the last four years.”
Before I can reply, he takes the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then pauses. “This is going to hurt a little.”
A little?
“Motherfucker!” I let out a yell as he pours it over the open wound.
“OK, so I lied.” Emerson grins.
I grit my teeth and wait it out. It stings like hell, but to my surprise, that’s a good thing: the more I can focus on the pain, the less time there is to feel his hand gently gripping my bare leg, or watch how his head is bent over me, focused completely on the task.
On fixing me.
Emerson wipes the alcohol away, and then presses a Band-aid over the wound. There’s a pause, he glances up to catch my eyes. Then, to my shock, he slowly leans down and softly kisses my knee. “All better,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.
My heart stops.
Slowly, Emerson rises from his knees. Holding my gaze in a magnetic stare, he steps his feet on either side of mine, bending over to rest his hands on the couch cushions on either side of my head. His face is just inches away from mine. His body looms over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from every muscle. The look in his eyes is deadly determined.
I close my eyes. It’s all too much.
“Emerson…” I whisper. Even in the dark of my mind, I can see him perfectly. His presence fills every one of my senses, a wave of pure longing. I can hear the ragged sound of his breath, uneven; feel every shift and motion of his body through the thin air between us.
Then he touches me. His finger brushes against my cheek, tracing down my jaw, my throat, along my collarbone. I let out a gasp, my skin burning to his touch.
Every cell in my body crackles with electricity. Everything I have cries out for more.
I bite my lip. My eyes are still pressed shut, and I’m caught up in the darkness, and this wildfire racing through my body. I should stop him, I should push away, but the only thing that matters to me is that slow trail of his fingertip tracing so gently down the centre of my chest.
He reaches the neckline of my flimsy tank, gently teases along the lacey edge.
Oh God.
It takes everything I have not to moan in pleasure. One touch, that’s all this is. One slow fingertip, and my body is screaming for him. I’m aching and wet, more turned on than I’ve been in years.
Since the last time with him.
“Open your eyes.” Emerson’s growl is sharp.
My eyes fly open—staring straight into his. My breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. It’s burning, fierce, like it’s taking everything he has not to tear my clothes off this very second.
“Say ‘no’.” Emerson’s whisper is thick with desire.
I blink, my mind foggy and confused.
“Tell me ‘no’, and I’ll stop.” His lips dip to my neck and press softly, kissing tiny fresh shivers through my body. His finger slides lower beneath the edge of my tank, slipping under the lace of my bra. His breathing quickens, he stifles a groan against my neck, but I don’t stop him. I can’t. My world is nothing but his lips, and tongue, and the glorious path of his hand against my breast. His fingers find my nipple and slowly, lazily circle it as his tongue plays havoc along my neck. I shudder for breath, strung out and gasping, not even knowing the release I crave until he finally closes his thumb and fingertip around the hard nub of my nipple and squeezes in a firm pinch.
This time, I can’t help but moan.
The sound is my undoing.
In a second, Emerson’s lips slam down against mine in a searing kiss. His mouth is hot and hungry, devouring me as his hands grab at my body, pushing my tank up around my chest, his touch burning across my skin.
Holy f**k. It’s like an explosion, the burst of desire that shatters through me, blocking out every last thought with the need for more, closer, now. I arch up against him, mindless from his kisses, tangling my fingers in his hair as I pull him down hard against me.
Emerson slips his hands underneath my butt and lifts, scooping me against the length of his body as he slams me down beneath him on the couch with a groan. I let out an answering moan, wrapping my legs around his waist and thrusting up against him, greedily running my hands down the length of his back, feeling every ridge of muscle flex and rise. I claw his T-shirt up, hungry for the sensation of his skin under my hands. It’s a discovery and a homecoming all in one, our tongues tangling with desire as I nip and lick at his mouth, drowning in the taste of him.
Like, ever.
Because I know how that ends: with me alone, and heartbroken, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him in the first place.
Emerson returns from the kitchen with a damp cloth and the old tin first-aid kit. He kneels down at my feet beside the couch, and takes my injured leg in his hands.
I flinch away from his touch.
“Hold still,” he grounds out. One look from him, and I obey—his whole face is set and determined, lips pressed in a grim line. Clearly, having to take care of me is the worst thing in the world to him right now.
“Your ankle should be fine,” Emerson says, carefully rotating my bare foot in his hands. “It’s not broken or sprained. I’ll get this knee cleaned up.”
“I can do it myself,” I snap, watching him dab the wet towel to clean up the gravel and blood.
“Like you could cycle home? Or take care of yourself in the bar?” Emerson shoots back. “I’m surprised you’re not dead in a gutter if this is how you’ve been carrying on the last four years.”
Before I can reply, he takes the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then pauses. “This is going to hurt a little.”
A little?
“Motherfucker!” I let out a yell as he pours it over the open wound.
“OK, so I lied.” Emerson grins.
I grit my teeth and wait it out. It stings like hell, but to my surprise, that’s a good thing: the more I can focus on the pain, the less time there is to feel his hand gently gripping my bare leg, or watch how his head is bent over me, focused completely on the task.
On fixing me.
Emerson wipes the alcohol away, and then presses a Band-aid over the wound. There’s a pause, he glances up to catch my eyes. Then, to my shock, he slowly leans down and softly kisses my knee. “All better,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.
My heart stops.
Slowly, Emerson rises from his knees. Holding my gaze in a magnetic stare, he steps his feet on either side of mine, bending over to rest his hands on the couch cushions on either side of my head. His face is just inches away from mine. His body looms over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from every muscle. The look in his eyes is deadly determined.
I close my eyes. It’s all too much.
“Emerson…” I whisper. Even in the dark of my mind, I can see him perfectly. His presence fills every one of my senses, a wave of pure longing. I can hear the ragged sound of his breath, uneven; feel every shift and motion of his body through the thin air between us.
Then he touches me. His finger brushes against my cheek, tracing down my jaw, my throat, along my collarbone. I let out a gasp, my skin burning to his touch.
Every cell in my body crackles with electricity. Everything I have cries out for more.
I bite my lip. My eyes are still pressed shut, and I’m caught up in the darkness, and this wildfire racing through my body. I should stop him, I should push away, but the only thing that matters to me is that slow trail of his fingertip tracing so gently down the centre of my chest.
He reaches the neckline of my flimsy tank, gently teases along the lacey edge.
Oh God.
It takes everything I have not to moan in pleasure. One touch, that’s all this is. One slow fingertip, and my body is screaming for him. I’m aching and wet, more turned on than I’ve been in years.
Since the last time with him.
“Open your eyes.” Emerson’s growl is sharp.
My eyes fly open—staring straight into his. My breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. It’s burning, fierce, like it’s taking everything he has not to tear my clothes off this very second.
“Say ‘no’.” Emerson’s whisper is thick with desire.
I blink, my mind foggy and confused.
“Tell me ‘no’, and I’ll stop.” His lips dip to my neck and press softly, kissing tiny fresh shivers through my body. His finger slides lower beneath the edge of my tank, slipping under the lace of my bra. His breathing quickens, he stifles a groan against my neck, but I don’t stop him. I can’t. My world is nothing but his lips, and tongue, and the glorious path of his hand against my breast. His fingers find my nipple and slowly, lazily circle it as his tongue plays havoc along my neck. I shudder for breath, strung out and gasping, not even knowing the release I crave until he finally closes his thumb and fingertip around the hard nub of my nipple and squeezes in a firm pinch.
This time, I can’t help but moan.
The sound is my undoing.
In a second, Emerson’s lips slam down against mine in a searing kiss. His mouth is hot and hungry, devouring me as his hands grab at my body, pushing my tank up around my chest, his touch burning across my skin.
Holy f**k. It’s like an explosion, the burst of desire that shatters through me, blocking out every last thought with the need for more, closer, now. I arch up against him, mindless from his kisses, tangling my fingers in his hair as I pull him down hard against me.
Emerson slips his hands underneath my butt and lifts, scooping me against the length of his body as he slams me down beneath him on the couch with a groan. I let out an answering moan, wrapping my legs around his waist and thrusting up against him, greedily running my hands down the length of his back, feeling every ridge of muscle flex and rise. I claw his T-shirt up, hungry for the sensation of his skin under my hands. It’s a discovery and a homecoming all in one, our tongues tangling with desire as I nip and lick at his mouth, drowning in the taste of him.
