Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emma
When I wake, Owen’s between my legs.
“Owen,” I hiss, my cheeks flaming hot.
Oh my god.
My hips rise before I’m even fully conscious.
His mouth is everywhere, and his tongue is relentless.
My knees are over his shoulders, his beard rough against the inside of my thighs.
My pussy is spread wide for him—his tongue fucking me slow, then fast, then slow again until I’m clawing at the sheets, grasping for something to hold on to.
“You taste like mine,” he growls into my skin. His voice is muffled, low and deadly.
“You can’t…” I gasp. “Oh god. What are you— I can’t—Jesus—”
“Oh, I do believe I can…”
Two fingers slide inside me, curling… just right.
He sucks my clit hard, and I explode.
I scream.
My body convulses. I’m boneless and wrecked, and still—he doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking.
Keeps devouring.
Keeps breaking me apart until I’m limp and ruined beneath him. Then he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Good morning, lass,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Now you’re ready to write. Unblocked, as it were?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper, dazed. “I think so.”
“You better be,” he warns, his voice playful but edged with something serious. “Are you hungry?”
I blink up at him, still trembling.
“That,” he says, his Irish brogue thick as honey, “was the breakfast appetizer.”
He disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with an actual tray, filled with eggs, toast, and fruit. There’s a frosted Christmas cookie and a steaming mug of tea with cinnamon sticks. It’s festive and sweet.
“You made me breakfast?” I ask, stunned. Someone was up early.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You need to fuel up. Time to write. You’re on a deadline, remember?”
I pout. “Are you really gonna be that strict? It’s Christmas.” And I’m here with you.
He cocks his head. “Would you rather I not hold you accountable?”
I hesitate.
His voice drops low—dangerous.
“Did you forget what I told you would happen if you missed your word count?”
Heat flashes through me, and the image hits hard: Me, bent over the couch, panties at my ankles, his hand across my ass, marking me.
When we were younger, I used to imagine what it’d be like to get in trouble with him.
But never like this. I didn’t let my mind go that far.
I was too ashamed of how excited I got when he was all stern and bossy. It felt strange, and I didn’t understand why.
But now? “Yeah, so…” I want this, but I’m afraid of what this means about me. Finally, in a rush of words, I admit, “That might work.”
“It better,” he murmurs. “Because I’m tracking every word. And I’m ready to make good on my promise.” He winks. I bet he is.
I sit up in bed—still naked, still flushed—fueled by breakfast and a toe-curling orgasm. He hands me my laptop.
And I write.
For hours.
And oh my god—it feels good.
Sex does make me write better.
I just don’t always know how to reach that space, not when I’m distracted and hurt and confused. But now?
The words come fast.
My body is loose, and my mind is awake in a way it hasn’t been in months.
I glance at the word count. He said 3,000.
I’m at 2,998.
Heh.
I double-check, then grin—shutting the laptop with a snap.
I lie in bed, my heart pounding in my chest like it wants out. For some reason, I drag myself right back to that memory—being a teenager again. That one weekend when our parents went away. Just Owen and me, alone in the house. The night I got in trouble with him.
Six years ago…
My mother had given me one of her signature withering looks right before she left, the kind that burned into your memory. “Behave yourself,” she’d snarled at me, half a threat, half a warning. “If you try anything—so help me—”
“Oh my god, Mom, stop.” I groaned, already humiliated before the door even closed behind her.
It wasn’t like I was a problem child. I never got into trouble. Never snuck out, never did anything wrong. What did she think I was gonna do? Jump Owen the second she pulled out of the driveway? God. He barely even noticed I existed. He didn’t look at me like that.
It was ridiculous and humiliating.
“Go. Have fun, I’m fine,” I said to her, avoiding her eyes.
But she wouldn’t let it go. “I’m telling you right now, Emma—”
“And I’m telling you,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to be, “it’ll be fine. Just leave already. God.”
I was kind of a little shit when I was a teen.
I slammed the door in her face—not my proudest moment.
“Is that how you talk to your mother?” I swiveled my head around to see Owen standing in the hallway. He’d heard every word.
I swallowed and didn’t reply. I couldn’t.
He only shook his head at me. “You’d better think twice about behaving like that when I’m in charge. You’re goddamn lucky you’re not mine.”
His brows knit together as he walked past me, his scent—some kind of snow-capped mountain aftershave—made my legs wobble. Oh god. What was that supposed to mean? And why did it make me want to be his?
But I knew exactly why Mom was warning me.
She’d seen it. She’d seen the book. My notebook. My stupid, private thoughts.
She knew I had a crush on Owen.
What did she think we were going to do though?
That first night, we made pizza together.
Just the two of us. It was easy, fun… the kind of night that makes you forget how complicated everything else is.
He added oregano and some weird blend of spices, and I watched him, completely captivated.
He rolled his eyes at me and showed me how to sprinkle the cheese the “right” way.
We layered sauce, pepperoni, and shredded cheese onto flatbreads.
I remember feeling so weirdly content and so stupidly nervous.
“Do you wanna watch a movie?” I asked, trying to play it cool but feeling awkward as hell. I felt like I was begging for his attention without actually saying it.
“Nah, can’t,” he said casually. “I gotta go out. Sorry, kid.”
Kid.
God, that word grated. Was that really how he saw me? Just a kid?
“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Got a date.”
My cheeks went up in flames. I looked away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. I didn’t want to imagine him out with someone else, kissing someone else. And I especially didn’t want to imagine him doing it while I sat here crushing on him.
“Okay,” I mumbled. “Have fun.”
But something cracked open inside me after that. Like… if he was out there, doing whatever he wanted, then why was I always the good one? Why was I the one who had to behave?
Maybe tonight, I wanted to be reckless. A little rash. A little unhinged.
So I waited. I waited until he left in that stupid shiny sports car he loved so much. My mom had taken her husband’s car, so her sleek little sedan sat unused in the driveway.
I didn’t even have my license yet. Barely knew how to drive. I’d taken a few lessons, enough to feel dangerous. Enough to convince myself I could handle it.
Two hours later, the bumper was dinged, the wheels and hubcaps splattered with thick, ugly mud, and I stood in the driveway shaking—completely numb and completely panicked. It wasn’t supposed to rain like that, and how did people ever drive in it?
What the hell was I supposed to do now? I could try cleaning it up. Hide the damage. Maybe no one would notice…
And then the garage door opened.
Owen stood there, framed in the dim light, and my heart thundered so loud I could barely think. I felt dizzy. Caught. Exposed.
“What the bloody hell, Emma?” he said.
He was still dressed for his date—button-up shirt, the kind with those tiny buttons that pulled slightly across his chest. He knew women liked muscles. He told me once it helped him get laid.
Well, good for him.
I wasn’t exactly a fan of that little revelation. But he worked out constantly. Played football. He was popular, attractive. Girls wanted him for the accent. I wanted him for everything else.
And me? I just stood there. Mud on my shoes. Shame in my throat.
And a crush that wouldn't die.
My mind raced through every story I’d ever heard whispered in school hallways. All the reckless, forbidden things girls had done. All the dumb choices that got you grounded, suspended, or worse. But even those stories felt tame compared to the way he was looking at me now.
I started toward the house.
“Wait just one feckin’ minute,” Owen snarled.
My mouth went dry. I turned slowly, lifted my chin, crossed my arms over my chest—and that’s when his eyes dropped. His gaze flicked to where my arms pressed against my body.
No bra.
And now, with Owen glaring at me like I’d set the world on fire… my cheeks burned hotter than hell.
I’d just gone for a little joyride—he thought that too, probably.
But for me, it wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t exhilarating.
It was mortifying. I needed to get away from him because I didn’t know what he was going to say or how he was going to react.
The heat of embarrassment had already curled through my chest like smoke, wrapping itself around my ribs.
What if he was ashamed of me?
I fumbled for the kitchen door, my hand gripping the knob, my pulse wild. Just get inside. Get away. Breathe.
Then his voice stopped me cold.
“Turn around and look at me.”
Sharp. Authoritative. Commanding.
My blood didn’t just hum—it roared… liquid fire through my veins.
“What?” I threw it back like a challenge, the quintessential teenage deflection. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” he repeated, stepping closer. His eyes darkened. “My problem is that you’re under my care, and you took your mother’s fucking car out. Didn’t you?”
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.
“I’m not supposed to listen to you,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “We’re both just here, together. Remember? You’re not my—”
“That’s not what your mother said.”
His eyes narrowed, his whole expression shifting. That look. The one that made my stomach twist like I was on a roller coaster with no brakes.