Chapter 5 Emma
EMMA
He’s so tall that I have to go up on my toes even with him bending down, our lips pressing together so hard it almost hurts. I kiss him like I’m furious and like I’m starving, because I am a little of both, and he’s kissing me back the same way.
The towel slips, so does the robe, and suddenly his hands are on my waist, then my ass, then he’s hoisting me up by the back of my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me out of the bathroom and toward the bed.
The ceiling mirror reflects our bodies back at us—me naked and wet from the shower, him still fully clothed but soaked through from the storm. His shirt clings to his chest, water dripping from his hair onto my face as he lowers me to the mattress.
“Swan,” he murmurs against my lips, and I pull back just enough to breathe.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.” His forehead rests against mine.
“And this doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know that too.”
“But I also—” I stop, trying to find the words. “I can’t pretend I don’t want this. Want you. Even when I’m furious with you.”
“Emma—”
“I need to say this.” I look up at him, and at this distance I can see every detail of his face.
The scar from a burn on his cheek. The slight crook in his nose from a break that didn’t set right.
The way he’s looking at me like I’m the fire in the center of his heart.
“I don’t know what this is. Trauma. History.
Something real. Something stupid. I can’t tell the difference right now—and I don’t even want to try. ”
“Then what do you want?”
“You.” The word comes out small, a whisper. “I want you.”
“Swan.” His mouth crashes into mine, urgent and demanding. His hands are everywhere, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp into his mouth. He’s still fully dressed and I’m completely naked, the imbalance making me feel both vulnerable and powerful.
“You’re soaked,” I murmur against his lips, tugging at his wet shirt.
“So are you,” he says, his hand sliding down between my legs to prove his point.
I gasp as his fingers find me, my hips bucking up against his touch. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” His smile is pure sin. “But I like my version better.”
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Off. All of it. Now.”
He gets up just long enough to strip, peeling off his wet clothes with an efficiency that makes my mouth go dry. His body is a work of art—broad shoulders, muscular chest covered in ink, the cut of his hips leading down to where he’s already hard for me.
He climbs back onto the bed, covering my body with his, and the weight of him makes my breath catch. Solid. Real. Dangerous.
Maybe we should slow down and think about what this means, what happens after. But then he’s kissing me again and I can’t think at all, can only feel—his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the hard press of him against my thigh.
“I need you,” I whisper, and I hate how true it is. Hate that I sound desperate. Hate that I am.
“Yeah.” His voice is rough, possessive. “You do.”
Not I need you too. Just confirmation. Like he’s been waiting for me to admit it. And I hate that too. But somehow it makes me wetter.
He reaches between us, positioning himself, and when he pushes inside me I cry out—not from pain but from the overwhelming rightness of it. Like my body’s been waiting for this, for him, even while my brain was building escape routes.
“Fuck,” he groans against my neck. “Emma.”
He goes slow at first, torturously slow, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. I can see us in the ceiling mirror—my hair spread dark against the white pillow, his back muscles flexing with each controlled thrust, my legs wrapped around his waist like I’m trying to pull him deeper.
We look like we belong together.
The thought terrifies me.
“Faster,” I demand, digging my nails into his shoulders. “Stop holding back.”
“Swan.” His eyes are dark, dangerous. “You know I’ll hurt you.”
My breath catches. “You know I’ll take it.”
His laugh is low and wicked. Then his control snaps.
He drives into me harder, faster, one hand fisted painfully in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. The headboard slams against the wall with each bone-jolting thrust and I don’t care, can only meet him stroke for stroke as the pleasure and ache build.
“Look up,” he commands, his voice rough. “Watch.”
I do, catching our reflection in the mirror. The sight is obscene—my thighs spread wide, his hips pistoning fiercely between them, my breasts bouncing with the force of each impact. I’m transfixed.
“See that?” His breath is hot against my ear. “See how perfectly you take me? How your body opens up for mine?”
I can’t answer, can only moan as he shifts the angle slightly and pounds that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“That’s because you’re mine, Emma.” His teeth graze my neck, not quite biting but close. “You can run to New York. You can pretend this doesn’t exist. But your body knows the truth.”
“Shut up,” I gasp, because he’s right and I hate it. Hate that my body is arching into him, begging for more. Hate that this feels like coming home when it should feel like betrayal.
“Make me.” His grin is feral.
I pull his mouth down to mine, kissing him hard enough to hurt, channeling all my confusion and anger and desperate need into it. He groans into it, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control.
But I don’t want control. Don’t want slow or careful or thinking about consequences.
I bite his bottom lip, hard.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and something shifts in his eyes—something wild and possessive that makes my pulse spike. “You want it even rougher, swan? Is that what you need?”
“Yes.” The word tears out of me. “Stop treating me like I’ll break.”
His hand moves from my hip to my throat, squeezing. The gesture is pure dominance and I clench around him, loving every second of it.
“That’s my girl.” His voice is almost tender despite the filthy things he’s doing to me. “So fucking perfect for me.”
He pistons into me harder, the hand on my throat keeping me pinned, lightheaded, and I’m flying apart. The pleasure builds too fast, too intense, coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel—
“Bones—” His name comes out broken. “I can’t—I’m—”
“Come for me. Let me feel your tight little cunt.”
I shatter, crying out as waves of pleasure crash through me. I’m vaguely aware that I’m sobbing his name, my nails raking down his back so hard I know I draw blood, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses.
He follows a heartbeat later with a guttural groan, his hips jerking against mine as he empties himself inside me. My name on his lips, a prayer and a curse all at once.
For a long moment we just lie there, tangled, breathing hard. His hand is still at my throat—gentler now, just fingers resting against my racing pulse. His weight grounds me, keeps me tethered when I feel like I might float away.
The rain drums against the window. The ceiling mirror shows our bodies still joined, slick with sweat and rain and each other.
I look like I’ve been thoroughly claimed.
I feel thoroughly claimed.
Fuck.
“Emma.” Bones lifts his head, his eyes searching mine. There’s something vulnerable in his expression, something that makes my throat tight.
I turn my head away. Because I can’t look at him right now. Can’t handle what I might see.
He rolls off me but doesn’t go far, one arm still draped possessively across my waist. His thumb traces circles on my hip bone, the gesture absent and intimate all at once.
I stare up at the mirror. Just . . . looking at us. My body feels awake, sated—switched back on after months of feeling muted. In my studio in Brooklyn, grinding through barre work until my feet bleed, I never feel this. I feel controlled. Perfect. Safe.
But not alive.
“You OK?” Bones asks quietly, and I shift my gaze to his.
“I genuinely don’t know,” I say, because I’m too raw right now, too wrung out to lie.
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
The honesty of it loosens something in my chest and hits harder than the sex did. At least we’re both confused. At least I’m not drowning alone.
I turn my head to look at him finally. His hair is still damp, falling across his forehead. There are red marks on his shoulders and back from my nails. His expression is unreadable.
“This is complicated,” I say unnecessarily.
His mouth quirks. “Little bit.”
“I’m still leaving tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“And I’m still pissed about the tracker.”
“I know that too.”
I study his face, looking for—what? Regret? Doubt? Some sign that this was a mistake?
But all I see is certainty. Like he knows exactly what this is and isn’t afraid of it.
“How are you so calm?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Because I know where this ends, swan. I’ve always known.”
“Where’s that?”
His eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “With you coming back to me.”
It’s not an if. It’s a when.
“You can’t know that,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “I can.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him he’s wrong, that I have a life in New York, that this is just trauma and proximity and we’ll both feel differently in the morning. In a week. A month . . .
But the words stick in my throat.
Because what if he’s right?
What if my body already knows something my brain refuses to admit?
The thought is terrifying.
I pull away from his touch, sitting up and drawing my knees to my chest. The sheet pools around my waist and I feel suddenly, acutely exposed—and not because I’m naked.
“We should talk,” I say, even though I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever conversation is coming. “Properly.”
Bones sits up, face guarded. “OK.”
And that’s when I find the courage to ask him the question whispering in the back of my mind.
“What if I don’t want to go back to how things were?”