Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily
My body comes alive as he beckons me inside.
The door closes behind me with a whispered click, sealing us in a cocoon of palpable tension. The air feels thick, each breath heavy with unspoken words and mounting desire. Hunter's eyes, stormy and dark, hold mine as I step further into the room. The scent of him — earthy, raw, and undeniably male — intensifies with every step I take.
The crimson-streaked bandage on his chest that peeks out from beneath a partially undone flannel shirt, the stark white of the bandage now marred by blood, draws my eyes.
"You're hurt," I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He shrugs, but I see the flicker of pain in his eyes.
"It's nothing," he mutters.
I won't have it.
"Let me help," I say, guiding him towards the couch. He obeys without protest, sinking down into the cushions. “Lie back.”
He does, resting his head against the armrest, his wide eyes on me as I take my place on the couch.
With trembling hands, I reach for his shirt. The fabric is soft beneath my fingers as I lift it over his head, revealing the sculpted muscles of his torso. My breath catches at the sight — corrugated muscles glistening with sweat, accented with tattoos that are almost artful, the colors of his tattoos and the powerful strength a vivid contrast to the angry wound that mars his abdomen.
I peel the bandage back and trace a tentative finger around the edge of the cut, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. He winces.
“What happened?” I say. From the shape and cleanness of the wound, it’s clear it was a blade of some sort; I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some medical training at college as part of my degree, along with a few electives and some intensive first aid training.
"It’s just a scratch," he murmurs, but I can see the wince he tries to hide. My resolve hardens; I need to help him.
“This isn’t just a scratch. You need stitches.”
“Darn it,” he mutters, his eyes on Charlie. “Just let me rest. I’ll be fine.”
I place a hand on his chest, above his heart. Beneath my hand, I feel every beat of his life — with each second I touch him, his pulse races faster. “I’m helping you. This isn’t a discussion. Do you have a medical kit?”
He doesn’t hesitate. I get the sense that, touching him like this, being close to him like this, he couldn’t fight me if he wanted to.
“In my duffel. The brown one. It’s near the bottom of the bag.”
I find the duffel bag and rummage through it, fingers brushing against rough fabric and hard objects until I locate the medical kit. My pulse surges, matching the urgency I try to suppress. When I turn back to him, his eyes are dark, filled with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.
I kneel beside him, my breath catching as I open the kit and lay out the supplies. With each item I place beside me — antiseptic, needle, thread — the gravity of the situation deepens. But so does the pull between us.
My hands tremble slightly as I clean the wound. His muscles tense under my touch, but he remains silent, watching me with those stormy eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul and read every thought going through my mind. A momentary smile crosses his lips, and a rumble shakes his chest. The heat of his skin flares beneath my fingertips; it’s intoxicating.
I thread the needle with slow precision, every movement deliberate. When I lean in to stitch, our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and ragged.
“This might hurt,” I whisper.
His lips curl into a half-smile. My heart flutters. “I can take it.”
The first stitch draws a sharp intake of breath from him, and my breath hitches in response. Each time the needle pierces his skin, it's as if we’re breathing together, growing closer; each movement of the needle — in and out, in and out — stitches us together, too.
The needle slides through his skin, and I feel every ripple of muscle beneath my fingers. His breath hitches again, a sharp intake that I echo involuntarily. Each stitch pulls us tighter into this moment, our faces mere inches apart, each of his ragged breaths mingling with mine.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
His eyes never leave me, dark and stormy, full of a desire that matches the longing in my heart. The air between us crackles with tension; it feels as if the very room is holding its breath alongside us.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
I can almost taste him — the scent of his sweat, the earthy musk that envelops him, fills my senses. I yearn for more than just this closeness; I want to feel his lips on mine, to lose myself in the heat of his kiss.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
Each time our faces draw closer, each precise stitch brings us nearer still. The warmth of his breath against my skin is intoxicating. His lips are so close now, hovering near mine, a whisper away from contact. The world narrows to just the two of us: Hunter and me in this fragile bubble of heated desire.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out…
My heart pounds a wild rhythm in my chest. I can’t think of anything but how much I want his lips on mine, how desperately I need him to bridge that last inch separating us. I want him to kiss me, to take me, to spin me on this couch and silence every silly objection I’d even try to voice — my paper, that it’s improper for him to fuck his babysitter, that he’s more than a few years older than me, that his life is dangerous, that I have work in the morning — with kisses that take my breath away.
The needle goes in; the needle comes out… for the last time.
“All done,” I say.
He’s still there. Right there. So close that I could turn my head just a fraction and press my lips to his. I want to. So desperately want to.
“Thank you, Emily. I want you—”
Then I yawn.
Deeply and unmistakably, so loud and wide that I’m sure he could look in my mouth and probably see the filling I have on my back left molar.
My cheeks go red and I forget all about how badly I want him to kiss me as I exhale hot, wet, boozy breath into his face.
“Sorry.”
“Long day?” He says.
“I visited my friend Harper after work. She’s a bartender. We caught up…” I say. I can’t tell him about why I went there, about the graffiti that was carved into my car by Jay — graffiti that I did a passable job disguising with some touch-up paint. It wasn’t the best job, but it helps that my car is old and crappy; now, the painted-over graffiti just looks like regular scratches among the mess of dents and dings and scrapes.
Hunter sits up and looks me over. There’s still the invitation for more in his burning eyes, but there’s concern, too — does my hard day show in my face that much? Or is it more the fact that I exhaled hot cosmopolitan breath into his face?
My cheeks get redder.
Yes, it’s definitely the cosmo-breath.
“You should get some rest. Thanks for stitching me up,” he says. “I better go check on Charlie.”
I think about protesting, about inviting him to stay, but I yawn again. Deeper and louder this time, somehow. My body moves despite all my brain’s exhortations, and as Hunter stands, I stretch out on the couch, another yawn breaks my lips, my eyes shut, my senses shut down, and sleep takes me.
But not before I swear I feel his lips touch my forehead and a quiet whisper hits my ears.
“Sleep tight, Em.”
* * * * *
Sometime later, I sit up on the couch, wide awake, mouth ajar, ready to scream. It’s still dark out. I can’t have been asleep long — I never sleep well after I’ve had something to drink. For a second, even though I know where I am, all the stress from the day and the fact that I’m waking up in an unfamiliar location that also is a nearly vacant home, fear flashes through me and I stand up. Adrenaline pulses through me and I’m ready to run, or scream, or scratch someone’s eyes out. Memories of a nightmare, powerful enough to terrify me, but ephemeral enough that they’re already fading into nothingness, tingle in my body.
“Be easy, Em.” Hunter’s voice immediately makes my fists unclench and my heart still.
“Where are you?”
The house is totally dark, and I can barely see the couch I’m standing next to. It must be cloudy out. There’s no starlight, no moonlight, and hardly any light from the streetlamps outside.
A small lamp springs to life and I see Hunter sprawled out on the floor, a rolled-up jacket resting behind his head serving as a pillow.
“Right here. You good? You looked like you were having a nightmare.”
Just the word sends memories racing through my mind; I was having a nightmare. Jay had me trapped in a dark alley. It was daytime. There were tons of people walking by just outside the alley, but no matter how loud I screamed, no one even turned to look. The sound of his wicked laughter as he backed me up a brick wall roils my body.
“Maybe.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“It’s nothing. I don’t remember. Just a vague impression that something’s wrong.”
“I know all about those.”
“From the military?” I say. I know it may not be right to ask him about his time in the service, but I just really want to hear his voice right now.
“Something like that.”
His tone is so heavy that in brings down silence between us, and for a while, I just retake my place on the couch and notice the distance between us.
“So you’re really going to just sleep on the floor like that?” I say.
“Planning on it. I’ve slept in worse places, and being here, I’m close to Charlie in case he needs anything,” Hunter says, nodding his head toward the open doorway from the living room, through which I can see Charlie’s crib. “Though to be honest, ever since you came around, he sleeps well. Mostly through the night. Loves to wake up just before dawn though, but I don’t mind the hours. It’s about when I wake up, anyway. Old habits die hard and all that.”
“You don’t have anything better to sleep on, though?”
“There’s just the one bed, and not even that, really, because the bed is actually a couch.”
“You can have it. You’re hurt, and you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.”
Hunter shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "I'm not taking your bed, Emily. You're my guest.”
"But you're injured," I protest, gesturing to his freshly stitched wound.
He chuckles softly. "Trust me, I've had worse. This is nothing."
I bite my lip, torn between insisting he take the couch and not wanting to push too hard. Then an idea strikes me, one that sends a thrill of excitement and nervousness through my body.
"We could... share?" I suggest, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hunter's eyes lock onto mine, and I see a flicker of something — desire, hesitation, conflict — pass through them. For a moment, I think he might agree, and my heart races at the thought of lying next to him, feeling the heat of his body...
But then he shakes his head again, his voice gentle but firm. "That's not a good idea, Em."
I try to hide my disappointment, but I know he sees it flash across my face. He sits up, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his stitches.
"You’re my son’s babysitter. You’re younger than I am, by a fair bit, without getting into numbers. And my life… it’s complicated beyond just being a single dad living in a vacant house and sleeping on the floor with a knife wound in my gut.”
“But…” I want to summon an argument, something that will convince him. For one, he really shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor. For another, I want him beside me.
“But what?”
I swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "But... I don't care about any of that. Age, complications, whatever's going on in your life — none of it matters to me. What matters is how I feel when I'm with you, Hunter."
My heart pounds as I speak, laying my feelings bare. Hunter's eyes darken, and I see the conflict raging within him.
"Emily," he says, his voice rough. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Maybe I don't," I admit. "But I know what I want."
The tension between us crackles, electric and alive. Hunter rises slowly to his feet, never breaking eye contact. He takes a step towards me, then another. I hold my breath as he approaches, my body thrumming with anticipation.
He stops just inches away, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing lightly across my bottom lip. I shiver at his touch.
"This is dangerous," he murmurs, but I hear the waver in his voice, the crack in his resolve. “We both know we shouldn’t.”
"I'm not afraid," I whisper.
His eyes search mine, dark and intense. I feel like I'm drowning in them, lost in the swirling depths of desire and conflict. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he must hear it.
"You should be," Hunter says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine.
But he doesn't move away. His hand is still on my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip. The touch is electric, setting every nerve ending alight. I part my lips slightly, invitation and challenge in one slight gesture.
Hunter's breath catches. I see the moment his control snaps, the instant decision flash in his eyes.
Then his lips crash into mine.
The kiss is fierce, hungry, filled with all the pent-up longing we've both been holding back. His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his body. I melt into him, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.
He tastes of whiskey and danger, intoxicating and addictive. I never want this moment to end.
Hunter's lips move against mine with urgent passion, his tongue teasing and exploring. My body responds instinctively, pressing closer as heat pools low in my belly. His hands roam my back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged. "Last chance to back out," he warns, voice husky.
In response, I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. Hunter's eyes darken as they rake over my newly exposed skin. I've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, yet so powerful at the same time. His gaze makes me feel beautiful, wanted, needed. His hands come up to cup my breasts through my bra, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. I gasp at the sensation.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, before claiming my lips again.
As we kiss, his fingers make quick work of my bra clasp. He slides the straps down my arms, tossing the garment aside. Cool air hits my bare skin, making me shiver. His hands and mouth explore my body with reverent hunger. Every touch ignites sparks under my skin. I fumble with the button of my jeans, desperate to feel more of him. Hunter helps, tugging them down.
I reach for my underwear, but he catches my wrists gently, pinning them to my sides.
"Let me," he murmurs.
I nod, breathless, as he continues his exploration. He takes his time. Every bare inch of me, he kisses, he touches, he teases and explores, until I am writing beneath him, overcome by an anxious lust; I want him to take me; I don’t want this attention to end.
With suddenness, as if his restraint has cracked, he seizes the waistband of my underwear and pulls them away. His mouth soon fills the space where my underwear was and I moan as his tongue and lips touch my pussy.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp.
Hunter's tongue expertly teases and explores, sending waves of pleasure through my body. I arch my back, fingers tangling in his hair, as I moan softly. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he works me closer and closer to the edge.
“You taste so good. So sweet,” he murmurs.
"Hunter," I whimper, teetering on the brink. "Please..."
Hunter's tongue flicks against my most sensitive spot, and I cry out, my body trembling on the edge of release. He increases his pace, his fingers digging into my thighs as he holds me in place. The tension builds and builds until finally, it snaps.
I come undone beneath his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing over me. My back arches off the couch as I ride out my orgasm, Hunter's name a breathless mantra on my lips. He doesn't let up, drawing out every tremor until I'm boneless and panting.
As I catch my breath, Hunter kisses his way back up my body. His lips find mine again, and I taste myself on his tongue. It's intoxicating.
"You're incredible," he murmurs against my lips.
I reach for the waistband of his pants, eager to return the favor, but he catches my wrist gently.
"Not yet," he says, his voice husky with desire. "I want to savor every moment of this."
He captures my lips again, the kiss deep and passionate. His hands roam my body, re-igniting the fire in my veins. I arch into his touch.
Moment after blissful moments pass where all of me is absorbed with everything his lips and fingertips offer, where every cell of my body cries out in ecstasy.
Then he breaks our kiss and stands, his hands going to the waist of his jeans. I watch, mouth open, as he strips for me, the rippling form of his muscular body making me moan.
He stands, and his eyes run over me. “Perfect,” he whispers.
My cheeks color, and I lick my lips. I’m ready, but I can’t forget who I am or what I do for a living.
“Before we… Are you…” Even though I know what I want to ask, my tongue can hardly form words.
Hunter chuckles and nods. “Clean. You?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to use a condom?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m on the… the… thing.”
What kind of pharmacist can’t even say the word ‘pill?’
This one, apparently.
To cover my embarrassment at being unable to say the one of the core, basic nouns that forms part of the foundation of my occupation, I reach for his cock and take it into my mouth. He can’t ask me what I meant to say if he’s too busy moaning while I’m swallowing his dick.
It’s a gamble, but it works.
“Oh fuck, Emily,” he moans, the sound coming deep and low in his chest, a guttural noise that makes me even wetter.
Hunter's fingers tangle in my hair as I take him deeper, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. I look up, meeting his eyes, and the raw desire I see there sends a shiver through me. His hips thrust gently, matching the rhythm I've set.
"God, Emily," he groans. "Your mouth feels amazing."
I hum in response; the vibration making him shudder. His grip on my hair tightens, guiding me as I work him with lips and tongue. I can feel him getting close, his breathing ragged, muscles tense.
Suddenly, he pulls away. Before I can protest, he's lifting me up, spinning us so I'm on my back on the couch. He hovers over me, eyes dark with lust.
"I need to be inside you," he growls.
"Yes," I breathe. "Please, fuck me, Hunter."
He enters me slowly, both of us savoring every inch. I gasp at the stretch, the fullness. When he's fully inside, he pauses, giving me time to adjust.
"You OK?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding still.
I nod, wrapping my legs behind his back. I’m grateful for the moment — he’s bigger by far than anyone else I’ve ever been with — but I want all of him.
“Yes," I breathe. "Please, Hunter. I need you."
He moves, slowly at first, building a rhythm that has me gasping with each thrust. His lips find mine again, swallowing my moans as he picks up the pace. The feeling of him inside me, filling me completely, is indescribable.
My hands roam his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin. I arch into him, meeting his thrusts, wanting more, needing more. Hunter's lips trail down my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.
"God damn, Emily," he groans against my throat. "You feel incredible."
I can only whimper in response, lost in the sensations overwhelming me. Hunter shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes me see stars.
"Right there," I gasp. "Oh god, Hunter, right there!"
He increases his pace, driving into me with powerful thrusts that have me clinging to him, nails digging into his shoulders. The tension builds rapidly, a coiling heat in my core that threatens to consume me.
Then it does.
Shaking, moaning, my nails clawing into his back, I break as he fucks me. My senses go haywire, and it’s all I can do to hang on and moan in his ear as he thrusts deep into me.
“Yes, oh fuck, yes, Hunter,” I moan.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. So tight, I’m going to…” He gasps, and I feel him release inside me, filling me with his come.
Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me as Hunter and I climax together. Our bodies shudder and pulse in unison, every nerve ending aflame with ecstasy. I cling to him tightly, my face buried in the crook of his neck as I ride out the intense sensations.
As our breathing slowly returns to normal, Hunter presses tender kisses along my jawline and neck. The gentleness of the gesture contrasts beautifully with the passionate frenzy of moments before. I run my fingers through his hair, savoring the closeness.
"That was..." I trail off, unable to find words adequate to describe what just transpired between us.
"Yeah," Hunter agrees, his voice a low rumble against my skin. "It was."
He shifts slightly, careful not to crush me with his weight, but staying connected. I can feel him still inside me, our bodies joined intimately. Part of me never wants this moment to end.
But reality has a way of intruding. As the haze of passion clears, I notice our surroundings - the couch in the living room, Charlie's crib visible through the doorway. A twinge of something like fear runs through me as I remember everything from earlier, like Jay’s threats and the lies I told to cover them, and Hunter’s hesitation and warning — this is dangerous — that now sounds so much more serious than playful.
A question runs through my mind at the moment before sleep claims me.
What have I gotten myself into?