Chapter 4 #2
The rest of dinner passes in strained politeness. Under the table, Emmy's hand stays firmly in mine. She doesn't let go, not once, through all three courses.
I meant every word I said. This wasn't strategy. This wasn't maintaining our cover.
This was real.
After dinner, Emmy excuses herself to the balcony. I wait sixty seconds—appearing casual—then follow. I find her gripping the railing, staring out at the skyline. Her shoulders are tight, her breathing carefully controlled.
"Did I overstep?" I ask quietly.
She turns, and I see tears tracking down her cheeks.
"No." She shakes her head emphatically. "You were perfect. Too perfect." She wipes at her cheeks quickly. "No one's ever defended me like that."
I step closer. "It wasn't entirely strategic."
"What do you mean?"
"Victoria's criticism made me genuinely angry. You don't deserve that treatment."
Emmy stares at me. We're standing close now, the cool evening air contrasts with the warmth radiating between us.
"Thank you," she whispers.
Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.
This kiss is different from our practice—softer, filled with gratitude and something else, something deeper.
My hands move to her waist automatically, pulling her closer.
Her lips are warm, tender against mine. Not heated like before, but somehow more intimate.
Her hands rest on my chest, and I know she can feel my racing pulse beneath her palms.
A throat clears from the balcony door. We break apart, but I keep one arm around Emmy's waist, unwilling to let her go completely.
Marcus stands there, grinning. "Just wanted to say I like this one, Em." He shoots a finger at me.
He gives me an approving nod before disappearing back inside, leaving us alone again.
Emmy steps back, creating distance between us. "We just kissed. No audience."
"No reason except..."
My mind races for an explanation that doesn't involve admitting I wanted to kiss her.
"Method acting... You know, staying in character... No?"
"Right, of course," Emmy agrees too quickly. "Method acting."
Neither of us believes it. Both pretend we do.
We return to the dinner party, but nothing is the same anymore. Emmy's hand finds mine as we say our goodbyes, and I thread our fingers together without thinking.
The car ride to her apartment is silent, charged. Every traffic light feels like a countdown.
I should drop her off, go home, re-establish boundaries. That's the logical course of action. But when I park outside her building, and she turns to me, eyes dark and wanting, logic dissolves.
"Come up," she says.
I should say no. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember this is temporary, sixty days with a clean ending. Instead, I turn off the engine.
"Yes."
We make it to her apartment door. She fumbles with keys, hands shake. I steady her hand with mine—the contact electric. The door opens. We step inside.
She drops her clutch onto the coffee table.
I step forward behind her, then stop as she turns to me.
Our eyes meet. My hands rise as if holding her waist. She takes one step forward between my waiting hands.
My mouth opens to speak, but she raises one finger, placing it directly over my lips. "Shhh!"
And the last of our control snaps.
No pretense, no excuses. She removes her finger, and my mouth is on hers—hungry, desperate. Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, my chest. Mine are everywhere—her hair, her waist, the curve of her spine.
All logical thought is gone. There's only want, need, her. I can't think, can only feel. If this is a miscalculation, I don't care.
My suit jacket hits the floor. Emmy's hands yank my shirt from my waistband. Buttons scatter as she pulls, fabric tears. I don't care. My hands find her zipper, drag it down the length of her back. The dress pools at her feet like liquid, leaving her in black lace against pale skin, breathing hard.
I stop, look at her. The sight steals what little breath I have left.
"God, Emmy. You're so beautiful."
My voice sounds rougher than I've ever heard it. Where did that come from? I don't care.
My hands slide over her skin—waist, ribs, higher. She arches into my touch, making sounds that drive me crazy. My mouth follows my hands—throat, collarbone, lower.
"You're perfect. So perfect," I murmur against her skin.
She pulls at my belt, breathless, urgent. When she gets it open, her hand wraps around my cock, and my vision whites out briefly.
She pumps, but her grip is tight, too tight, and I gasp. She looks up with sorry eyes. She mouths 'sorry' then immediately kneels. She licks and circles the tip, spreading my precum. Swirling. Without warning, she slides her mouth fully over my shaft and bobs her head, sucking strongly.
My hands cup her head, fingers pointing down across her ears.
I'm riding the rhythm of her head motion.
She pauses, lifts her head, and pumps with her palm, then goes back to working her mouth and tongue.
Faster. She licks the length from the base to the tip, again and again.
Then continues to suck harder and faster. She looks up at me. Smiles.
This is bliss, and I'm nearing my point of no return.
I tilt her head back away from my cock. Her eyes meet mine. The need between us is clear and shared. She stands. But keeps a loose grip on my shaft. We kiss deeply. Sloppily.
I groan against her shoulder. "Emmy. God. Yes."
I can't form complete thoughts. Only sensations.
My hand slides between her thighs. She's already wet, ready. I part her lips and press one finger along her slit. "So ready for me," my voice rough with want. "You feel incredible."
The words surprise me. These aren't phrases I've ever used. They're just coming, like she's pulling them from me. I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist, her back presses against the wall. Our eyes lock again—another critical moment of connection. "Now?"
"Yes," she breathes. "Please."
I push inside slowly. Tight, hot, perfect.
Made for me. We both gasp, and I have to pause to catch my breath.
I don't want to embarrass myself by coming way too soon.
Nothing has ever felt like this. "You feel amazing," I tell her, lips against her neck.
"So good. Perfect." I start moving, slow at first. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt.
"Harder," she gasps. "Fuck me... harder."
I comply, losing myself in her. Slow turns into hard, but not merciless. Not yet, anyway. Each thrust deep, then deeper, steady. My hands under her thighs, support her weight. This angle is perfect, each thrust hits deep. I feel my orgasm approaching. Fuck no. Not yet.
Emmy's breaths and moans grow louder.
"That's it," I tell her. "God, Emmy. You're so beautiful like this. I want to watch you come."
Where are these words coming from? I don't know, don't care. She responds to them, clenching around me when I talk. My right hand moves between us, finds where we're joined. I circle her clit, apply pressure, and match it to the rhythm of my thrusts.
She gasps my name. "Adrian. Oh God. Yeah. Right th..."
I'm close, so close, but I want her to come first. Need to feel her come around me. I focus on her pleasure. I think about contract law to distract myself. It works. I pause my thrusts but remain sheathed deep inside her.
I carry her to her bed. A pile of books topples out of our way. And lay her down. We stay fully connected. I continue to pump her firmly while we kiss passionately. I suck on her nipples, then withdraw.
Sliding down her body, I run my tongue over her belly and lower.
My tongue presses along her slit and darts in and out of her slick, open honeypot.
Sucking and slurping as I go. She moans and writhes her hips, bucks.
One hand reaches down and presses her clit.
The other hand settles onto the back of my head driving my face firmly down onto her pussy, holding me there.
She guides my head with micro precision while I tongue-fuck her.
My face is now a slippery liquid slather of my saliva and her juices.
"Let's flip, if it's OK with you."
"Mmm..."
She rolls over and up onto her knees. Her perfectly round ass high in the air. I slap one hand onto her ass cheek, and she pushes back. Looks back at me over her shoulder.
"Again, Adrian, again." I oblige, a little harder this time.
"Mmm, again." I switch to the other cheek.
I slap and hold my palm in place. I step closer, squat lower, and insert my tip inside her.
Just inside. She moans and lifts her head.
I reach forward to grip her hair in one hand while building the tempo of my thrusts.
Faster, stop, start, slower. stop, start, stop. Teasing.
"Oh my God, Adrian."
"That's it, Emmy. Let go. I want to feel you. Come for me. You're so close. I can feel it. Perfect. You're perfect."
She tenses, her back arches, as she comes. The sensation of her clenching around me rhythmically is beautiful, overwhelming. Three more thrusts and I follow. I collapse onto her back and bury my face in her neck, groaning her name as I come harder than ever.
Slowly, carefully, I run my fingertips and nails lightly over her bare back. She reaches for me as I withdraw, and I catch her hand, steadying her. We stay still, our breathing still ragged, books and bedclothes scattered around us.
We stay like that, both breathing hard. She falls face down onto her bed. We don't speak for a while. I lie beside her. We just hold each other in this moment. I kiss her neck and cheek. Tenderly. Time frozen.
I have no words. Nothing in my experience compares. The analytical part of my brain is offline, reduced to basic function: breathe, feel, exist.
Everything has changed. I know it in my core.
I've built my entire life on control, on logic, on careful planning and risk assessment. I've calculated every variable. Prepared for every contingency. Every eventuality.
But I didn't prepare for Emmy Blake.
Didn't prepare for how she'd look at me after I defended her to her mother.
Didn't prepare for how she'd feel in my arms. Didn't prepare for the words that spilled from me while I was inside her—praise I didn't know I was capable of giving.
And I definitely didn't prepare for this: the certainty that a couple of days more with her won't be enough.
The terrifying possibility that nothing will be enough.
Even if we're staying at the estate overnight tomorrow.
It won't ever be enough. I'm falling for her.
Actually falling, not pretending, not faking for Violet's clause or Judith's concerns or anyone else.
Falling for the woman I'm supposed to walk away from, without complications.
I've made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Because I thought I could control this. Thought I could keep it professional, maintain boundaries, stick to the plan. But tonight proved what I've been trying not to admit to myself for weeks.
When it comes to Emmy, I have no control at all.
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