Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
A Quiet Kind of Heat
Easton
The phone rang just as I was elbow-deep in my fridge, desperately trying to determine if I had the ingredients to keep my promise. Emma’s name lit up the screen like a beacon.
“Emma.”
I straightened so fast I smacked my head against the top shelf. “Ow—dammit.”
Then I answered as if I hadn’t just concussed myself. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Her voice wavered, breathless, catching me off guard as if she’d dialed without thinking it through. “I, um… got your message.”
My heart stumbled, losing its rhythm at the thought of my jumbled invitation to share my legendary grilled cheese. What had felt charming when I typed it now turned painfully awkward.
“Yeah?” I leaned against the counter, trying to keep my voice steady. “So what’s the verdict? You ready to have your life changed by a grilled cheese?”
She laughed softly, a sound that unraveled something tense inside me. I’d been chasing that sound since our wild motorcycle ride.
A tiny pause lingered between us. “I might be.”
My heart dropped right into a sprint. “Good,” I said, willing my voice to remain level. “Then come on over.”
We hung up, and for one blissful second, I stood there grinning like a fool. Then reality hit hard.
My kitchen looked like a tornado wearing work boots had blown through it. Tools cluttered the counter, mail was stacked everywhere, and a cereal bowl was fossilizing in the sink. Not to mention the bathroom…
Nope. Couldn’t let a woman like Emma see that bathroom.
Panic mode: activated.
I moved fast, shoving mail into a drawer, wiping down every surface, scrubbing the stove as if prepping for a food-safety inspection.
I even lit a candle, questioning every life choice that had led me to light candles before a woman came over.
The bathroom made me break a sweat. I cleaned it so thoroughly that it looked like an Airbnb listing.
By the time I finished, everything sparkled—shockingly good. A touch suspicious, even. Then I opened the fridge again—one withered tomato stared back at me.
Expired cheese.
Shit.
Right then, her text buzzed in.
EMMA: On my way.
I winced and typed back.
ME: We might need a grocery stop.
Her reply came instantly.
EMMA: Of course we do. It’s you.
I stared at the screen for a beat, my heart doing something I wasn’t prepared to name.
Soon, headlights swept across my window, and Emma appeared in my doorway, jeans hugging her curves and a cotton blouse fluttering softly in the evening breeze.
Her hair whipped around her face, catching the candlelight before her eyes found mine.
That smirk told me she saw right through my emergency scrub job.
“You cleaned,” she said, a teasing spark in her voice.
“I tidied,” I corrected, my pulse racing.
“You scrubbed.”
“Semantics.”
She laughed, and the sound made me feel ten times lighter. Then she caught sight of my empty fridge—her hands landed on her hips, and I braced for her next question. “So,” she said, “do you actually know how to make grilled cheese?”
“Absolutely,” I said confidently. “When I have the ingredients.”
“That means we’re going to Frontier Market?” she teased, already picking up her purse.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The market was quiet, aisles glowing under soft lights as we walked side by side, me pushing the cart, grabbing bread, butter, and then cheese.
“Oh—get sharp cheddar,” she said. “And maybe a little Gouda if you want it fancy.”
“Gouda is fancy?”
“It’s your date—grilled cheese date,” she corrected herself quickly, a blush creeping into her cheeks.
I didn’t comment, but my pulse sure did.
She grabbed pureed tomatoes and paste and tossed the cans into the cart, then sighed with nostalgia. “My mom used to make tomato soup from scratch for rainy-day lunches. It tasted like comfort.”
At the mention of her mom, something tightened in my chest, a fleeting moment of understanding. “I think I remember the recipe,” I said softly.
“Okay then, that’s what we’ll make.”
Our hands brushed against the cart handle, and I didn’t move mine.
She didn’t either, the simple touch sparking electricity between us.
We drifted toward the produce section, where she picked up an onion, weighing it thoughtfully in her palm.
Her fingers traced the papery skin with unexpected tenderness.
“For the soup base,” she explained, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
A teenage clerk stacking apples nearby gave us a knowing look.
I wondered what he saw—two people fumbling toward something, pretending a grocery run wasn’t one of the most intimate things they’d done together.
Emma caught my eye and smiled, a private moment meant just for me, and suddenly I didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Back in my kitchen—which now looked like a place where adults lived—we unloaded groceries. She tied her hair up, rolling her sleeves like she owned the room. Something warm unspooled between us as I stared at the loaf of fresh bread on the counter. “I usually just use Wonder Bread, so…”
“Okay,” she said with a mock-serious expression. “You slice the bread thick, but not… caveman thick.”
“Noted.”
I butchered the first piece, and she laughed, moving behind me to guide my hand with hers. The heat of her chest brushed my back, frying every brain cell I had. When I looked over my shoulder, her eyes were warm and questioning, and I cleared my throat. “Think I’ve got it now.”
“Good,” she said, her voice softening.
While she started the soup, I focused on the sandwiches. The kitchen filled with the delicious smells of butter, toasted bread, and warm tomato—so familiar, so inviting.
Domestic.
She handed me a spoon to taste, bumping her hip against mine.
“Hey,” I said, half-teasing.
“What?”
“That was on purpose.”
“Maybe,” she teased back.
We fell into an easy rhythm—her stirring, me flipping sandwiches—when she casually mentioned, “I saw Bruce and Camden earlier. They were measuring something outside the firehouse. Do you know what that’s about?”
I froze with the spatula in my hand. I should’ve known she’d notice.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It’s a baby drop-off box. They want to install one.”
Her expression shifted—surprise first, then something heavier. “A… baby box? Like for mothers who…”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning a hip against the counter. “They’re planning a safe-haven box. The city’s broke, and Camden’s trying to make it happen anyway.”
She looked up sharply, the weight of the subject settling between us.
I shrugged, trying for casual even though it felt anything but. “I texted Camden earlier. Told him I’d have a check ready when they need it. No more debating by the city council. Just… getting it done.”
She blinked, startled—not angry but stunned, perhaps unsure how to process it. Before she could form words, she pivoted. “How’s your chrome shopping?”
I let the baby-box discussion go; she needed the subject change. So did I.
We sat at the counter with our bowls and sandwiches, our knees brushing. Every time she shifted, her leg grazed mine, and it felt deliberate even though I knew it probably wasn’t.
Then she bit into the grilled cheese.
And moaned.
Not cute. Not innocent. A low, throaty sound that shot straight through me, heat igniting my gut like someone had lit a match.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Okay… you definitely undersold it.”
I swallowed hard, heart racing. “Told you.”
She dipped the sandwich into the soup, slowly, letting the steam curl around her wrists before bringing it to her lips again, closing her eyes as she savored it.
I watched her like a starving man, dinner blurring into warm quiet and little glances. When we rinsed the dishes, she leaned close to reach for a plate, her fingers sliding over mine—soft, tentative, testing. She didn’t pull back.
“Easton?” she whispered, her voice low and soft.
“Yeah?”
Her gaze turned serious as she brushed droplets of water off her wrist. “Can I… can I have more of… whatever happened between us at Ropers?”
The world stilled. Then sharpened. The air heated like someone had flipped a breaker in my bloodstream.
I set the towel down slowly, stepped into her space, and brushed my thumb along her jaw. She trembled—not dramatically—just a soft shiver that told me she was feeling this as much as I was.
“You can have anything you want,” I murmured.
Her lips parted, breath fanning across my mouth. “Maybe we—” she whispered, breath uneven, “start with a movie?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded, threaded my fingers through hers, and led her to the couch.
She curled beside me, thigh pressed to mine, warm and supple. The second I lifted my arm, she leaned into me, her head resting against my shoulder as if she’d been waiting for this moment. Then the movie started.
We made it maybe eight minutes.
I turned, and her eyes were already glued to my mouth, lips glistening with anticipation—dark with something new and hungry.
“Emma,” I murmured.
She closed the last inch of distance and kissed me. Soft at first—testing, tasting, relearning the exact shape of my lips—then deeper, urgent, like she’d been starving for the taste of me. Her tongue traced my top lip, demanding entry. I opened for her, swallowing the gasp she released.
Emma’s hand glided up my chest, fingers curling tightly into my shirt before flattening against me. My heartbeat matched the firm outline straining in my pants. Without pause, she slipped out of her jeans and climbed onto my lap, thighs parting, mounting me like she owned every inch of my body.
I unzipped and gripped her hips, gently guiding her down until the tip of me pressed against her underwear, the heat of my arousal seeping through the fabric, gliding along the curve of her thigh.
She gasped—a soft, breathy sound that echoed in my skull.
She rocked once, a deliberate slide that sent heat pulsing through my spine and pooling between us.
“Easton…” she whispered against my mouth, lips brushing my jaw, fingers sliding to my shoulders, gripping like she needed to be anchored to reality. I kissed her again, slow but deep, letting her feel every ounce of restraint I was holding back.
“You feel incredible,” I murmured against her neck.
Her skin glowed under my lips as I trailed slow, deliberate kisses along the curve of her throat.
She tilted her head back, offering more, small gasps escaping when my hands unbuttoned her blouse to graze the swell of her breasts.
My thumbs found her hardened peaks, rolling them with lazy precision.
She arched into me—tentative first, then bolder, pressing her nipples to my palms.
I groaned, low and raw. “Sweetheart… you keep that up, and this movie’s gonna combust.”
She let out a shaky laugh that melted into want-filled moans when I slid two fingers beneath the waistband of her panties to brush the warm cleft of her sex. She trembled, her hips hitching, her back arching until I could feel the slickness coating my fingertips.
“Easton…” she whispered, voice thick with need, “I want—”
I didn’t let her finish and kicked off my jeans.
I kissed her, slow but firm, guiding her back until her spine hit the cushions and I braced over her.
Her hands slid under my shirt, palms warm against my chest, fingertips tracing across the taut plane of my abs.
Each delicate stroke fanned the blaze building low in my belly.
I pulled back just enough to see her face—flushed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. A bead of sweat traced down her temple, and I flicked it away with my thumb.
“You sure?” I whispered.
She looked at me with unwavering certainty. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Everything in me unraveled—heat, hunger, restraint held by a single thin line. I lowered my forehead to hers, breathing in her scent—sweet, musky, utterly addicting. “Emma…”
Her fingers undid my shirt and tugged me down.
That was it. I kissed her again, deeper, her body arching to meet mine as the room around us blurred and vanished.
Clothes shifted, hands roamed—slow, exploring, reverent.
When my lips brushed the inside of her thigh, she cried out, hips lifting toward me.
Her nails scraped lightly down my back, sending tremors low in my stomach.
And when she whispered my name again—wet, desperate, utterly hers—everything inside me broke open.
I started to move, slow at first, feeling every inch of her, every gasp, every moan.
I picked up the pace, her hips meeting me thrust for thrust, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged gasps.
She was close; I could feel it. I reached between us, my thumb finding her sensitive nub, circling it in time with my thrusts.
She cried out, her body convulsing around me as she came, her orgasm sending me over the edge.
I thrust into her one last time, pulsing as I filled her up, her name on my lips, her body wrapped around mine.
For a moment, we just breathed—her chest against mine, my pulse still pounding, everything felt too good and too dangerous.
Then her expression shifted. Soft… then uncertain.
“Easton,” she whispered. “What happens now?”
The question cracked something in me. I didn’t have an answer—neither did she.
She looked away, voice barely there. “Was this just… tonight?”
Before I could tell her no—before I could tell her anything—footsteps sounded on the sidewalk outside.
A shadow crossed the window. An engine idled, and Emma went still beneath me.
I lifted my head, every sense tightening.
Someone was here.
At my house.