2. Emery #2
He eased forward a fraction. “A warrior. A fighter. A fiery temptation sitting on that couch, though it appears to me someone attempted to put that flame out.”
His voice scraped across my flesh. A rough caress I was foolish enough to want to feel over every inch.
His tongue stroked out across his plush lips before he continued, “You look like the perfect kind of fantasy that I have no right dreaming.”
My stomach pulled tight. A foreign sensation that should be impossible to feel.
But it was there, flickering beneath my skin.
A slow burn that I’d never experienced before.
He kept inching forward, the wheels of the chair bringing him closer as he angled my direction.
My breaths turned jagged and shallow.
Less than a foot away, he reached out and brushed the pad of his thumb along my cheek, so soft I thought I might crumble beneath the tender touch. “But most of all…right now…you look fuckin’ sad.”
My spirit flailed. A silent cry that erupted from somewhere deep inside me. Lurching toward this stranger who saw me. One who’d noticed and recognized.
This stranger—this stranger I should be terrified of—but one who instead elicited a buzz that burned through my body. “You want to tell me what put that expression on your gorgeous face?” He kept running his thumb over the apple of my cheek.
My throat thickened. “It’s just been a really rough couple of months. ”
I almost laughed at myself. It’d been more than rough. I’d lost the person closest to me. But I couldn’t bring her up. Not right then.
Sympathy flickered through his eyes, like whatever emotion he’d just experienced was a match to my own.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Somehow, I knew he meant it. It wasn’t some platitude.
He angled back, letting his hand drop to the arm of the chair, though he remained right there.
His presence hovering around me.
I blinked, trying to process through what this man made me feel. Why I felt like I knew him. “Why do I get the sense you’ve had a couple of those bad months yourself?”
I guessed I was pushing. More comfortable with this man than I should be. But he made me feel…different.
A grin hooked at the edge of his mouth that I was having a hard time not staring at, though there was a distinct grief woven in it. “We all have, haven’t we?”
“But do we really notice it?”
We all knew pain, and we were all likely grieving in some way, yet we moved through our days without really noticing or acknowledging it.
But I could feel his.
His hand came back to my face, and this time, he rested his entire palm on my cheek. His face dipped in so close I was breathing in his aura.
“Like the way I see yours?”
My nod was shaky. “I think I feel yours, too.”
“And why do you think that is?” His voice dragged lower, sending a rash of tingles lifting across my flesh.
“I…I don’t know. I don’t know why you feel different. Familiar, maybe. Safe.” It all rushed out of me without permission.
But it was true.
I felt safe.
Truly safe for the first time since I was seventeen.
So, when he went to draw his hand away, I hurried to grab it and pressed his heated palm back to my cheek. Desperate to feel something other than the torment that slayed and ruined.
Desperate to fill the cavern that throbbed inside me, even if it was only for one minute. The piece that had been cleaved away without the chance of it ever being restored.
This man who for the first time in years didn’t make me want to run.
I knew this had to be a grief reaction. A survival instinct. Because it shouldn’t be possible, and certainly not with a man who looked like him.
What I really needed to do was drag myself back to the hotel and curl up in bed next to her and wait for the morning to come. But it was morning that I dreaded. Morning that was likely going to rip out the last piece of me that I was clinging to.
And for a little bit, I wanted to feel this . The sear of his palm as it rested on my cheek. The heat of his eyes that flamed as he stared across at me. The pound of my heart and the greed that blistered through his body.
“What are you doing?” His voice had gone gruff.
“I just want to feel.”
His thumb stroked the curve of my cheek, and his breath curled over me as he leaned in even closer.
Cedar and clove.
Hazard and the starkest sort of sincerity.
“And what is it you want to feel?” he grated.
“You. This.” I pressed his hand closer, wondering if it was possible he felt it, too.
The energy that crashed and compelled. A gravity that tugged at every cell in my body.
My body that never reacted, but somehow, right then, it was alive.
Tingling with a need that sped through my veins and lifted chills across the surface of my skin.
The grunt he released sounded like a warning. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Because you don’t want me?” It was out before I could stop it .
Right then, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about shields or reservations or the insanity of what I was doing.
A dark chuckle rolled out of him, and he reached out and framed my face in both of his big, powerful hands.
“Don’t want you? I’ve imagined peeling you out of those clothes no less than a hundred times since I saw you alone across the bar, but I’m not sure you’re up for what you’re asking.
I’m no gentleman, Emery. Not even close to being a good man.
I’m not the dragon slayer you think I am. I’m the dragon.”
Maybe part of me knew that. Could feel what underscored his being. The danger and threat that loomed.
Yet he was the one holding back. The one who made me feel like this .
I didn’t care about anything else right then.
“Please.” My eyes squeezed closed as I begged it, then I gasped and my eyes flew open when I was suddenly swept off the couch and planted on the desk in front of him.
He hadn’t even stood.
He wound my purse off my shoulder before his big hands were gripping me by the outside of my hips, up high under the skirt of my dress, and he angled in so close that I thought he was going to kiss me.
Only he raked out an inch from my lips, “You want me to touch you, Little Warrior?”
And maybe I had fully lost it.
Had gone mad with grief.
But I didn’t care.
My fingers sank into his hair, and I murmured, “Yes.”