Chapter 5
EMMY
The estate looks different in the fading light—romantic, almost Gothic. Adrian carries both our bags from the car, though I could easily handle my own. I don't argue. There's something nice about being taken care of, even in small ways.
The realization of how alone we are here hits as the front door closes behind us. No staff, no visitors. Just us in this sprawling mansion filled with dappled light, dust motes, books, and memories.
"Hungry?" I ask, already heading toward the kitchen.
"Starving."
Violet's kitchen is huge, with its professional range and center island. I pull ingredients from the bag—we stopped for groceries on the way—and set them on the counter.
"Let's make pasta from scratch," I tell him.
Adrian raises an eyebrow. "From scratch?"
"Don't tell me the great Adrian Hale is intimidated by a little flour and eggs."
He rolls up his sleeves in response, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of his forearms. When did forearms become sexy?
We work side by side, making pasta dough, rolling it out, and cutting it into fettuccine. Flour dusts the countertop, my hands, even my face, apparently, because Adrian reaches over, and his thumb gently wipes flour from my nose.
"Missed a spot," he reaches out, his touch lingers on my cheek.
I lean into his touch for a moment before turning back to the pasta, my heart racing.
Later, wine glasses in hand, we sit at the kitchen island, pasta devoured, conversation flowing easily.
I've never seen Adrian this relaxed, this unguarded.
He laughs at my story about Marcus getting us caught sneaking out as teenagers.
The Adrian from a few weeks ago wouldn't have laughed if I fell flat on my face. On second thought, maybe he would have.
"How's your manuscript coming?" he surprises me, refilling my wine.
"Good. The protagonists just realized their fake relationship might be more real than they thought."
His eyes meet mine over his glass. "Art imitating life?"
"Or life imitating art."
His fingers trace patterns on my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. The tension between us builds with each touch, each glance.
"Want to see the collection properly? In the evening light?" I ask, needing to move, to break this moment before I do something reckless.
"Lead the way."
We both know this is a pretense.
The library is bathed in the last rays of sunset filtering through stained glass, painting everything in jewel tones. Books glow in the colored light—emeralds, rubies, sapphires bound in leather and cloth.
I climb the rolling ladder, reaching for a high shelf.
"This first edition of 'Wuthering Heights' is special." I reach out, and my fingers close around the leather binding. "Violet found it at an estate sale in Yorkshire."
When I look down, Adrian stands at the base of the ladder, watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. I descend slowly, the book clutched to my chest like a shield.
He doesn't step back when I reach the bottom. Instead, he moves closer, one hand on the ladder beside my head, caging me. We're both breathing harder, though neither of us has exerted ourselves.
"Emmy."
I kiss him, decisive and demanding. His response is immediate, a groan against my mouth. His arms wrap around me, lifting me against him as we stumble toward the leather couch near the fireplace.
We fall onto it in a tangle of limbs, hands everywhere. I pull his shirt over his head, buttons be damned. He tugs my dress up and off, tossing it aside. His mouth traces down my throat, along my collarbone, lower. I drag my nails down his back, loving how he gasps against my skin.
Adrian lays me back on the leather. His mouth finds my breast, and I arch into him, gasping as his tongue circles my nipple. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet. Wetter than wet.
"You're so wet. Is this all for me?" he asks, voice rough with desire.
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
"Never. I could touch you forever."
Everything becomes sensation—his touch, his mouth, the colored light washing over us. I've never felt this way before, like I'm coming apart and being remade with each stroke of his fingers, each press of his mouth.
He slides down my body, settling between my thighs, and I stop thinking altogether.
His tongue finds my pussy, and I cry out as he drags it along the slit, not caring about the echoes in the library.
My hands tangle in his hair, guiding him as he alternates between sucking my clit and sliding his tongue in and out of me. Tasting my very essence.
Pleasure builds, overwhelming, until I'm chanting his name like a prayer—"Adrian, Adrian, Adrian"—coming against his mouth, shaking with the force of it.
He flicks his tongue over my clit, sucks on it, then nibbles gently.
He slides a thumb into me while continuing his berserk tongue work on my clit.
He swaps his thumb for a curled finger, presses it against the inside of my vagina, that sweet spot, and almost lifts me.
I exhale, and my mouth forms an 'O'. I pull on his shoulders.
He kisses his way back up my body, positioning himself between my thighs. Our eyes lock, his questioning.
"Please. I need you," I whisper.
He unbuckles his pants, his gaze never leaves mine. He wraps a hand around his thick, girthy cock, and pushes inside, slow and deep, and we both gasp at the sensation. Perfect fit, again. I cannot believe how perfect this seems. He starts moving, measured at first.
But I want more. Want, no, not want, need to see him lose control completely. More berserker mode, please.
I push against his chest, flipping us until I'm on top, straddling him.
Surprise flashes across his face, quickly replaced by pleasure as I begin to move.
His hands grip my hips, guiding me. I cannot believe my thighs can handle this, but they do.
He shifts his hands under my ass to support me.
I rise and fall on his cock. Move my hips forward and back again then twist, totally in control of my own sensations, my own timing, my rhythm.
"God, Emmy. You're so beautiful like this," he moves his arms and folds them behind his head. He watches me move above him, "what a view," his lips blow an air kiss up at me.
"Touch me. Please."
His hand slips between us, circling my clit as I ride him, and he leans forward to take my nipple between his lips.
"Come for me again. Want to feel it, Emmy."
"So close. Don't stop."
The second orgasm crashes over me, more intense than the first. I clench around him, head thrown back, his name torn from my throat.
He follows immediately, hands tightening on my hips as he pulses inside me.
I can feel his come spilling. Oozing out onto his body.
His ropes continue until I collapse against his chest, both of us trembling and overwhelmed.
His arms wrap around me, holding me close as our breathing slowly returns to normal.
Colored, stained-glass-filtered light plays across our skin as dusk deepens into night. I trace patterns on his chest, feeling the slight ridge of an old scar. His fingers trail up and down my spine, touch feather-light but grounding.
The rightness of this terrifies me. This isn't fake anymore. Maybe it never was.
"We're in big trouble," Adrian says.
I prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. "So sue me, counselor."
He smiles, fingers tangling in my hair. "I'm serious, Emmy."
"So am I." I take a deep breath, gathering courage. "This stopped being fake a while ago."
"For me too."
A long pause stretches between us as we process this admission.
I sit up. "You know what, we should probably not have existential relationship talks while naked in my grandmother's library."
Adrian laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside out.
"Probably not."
But neither of us moves to leave.
Eventually, we gather our clothes and make our way upstairs. We fall into the guest room bed, not for sex, just to be close. Adrian pulls me against his chest, and I fit perfectly there, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
I fall asleep listening to Adrian's heartbeat, his fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder blade. Tomorrow we'll face reality. Tomorrow we'll figure out what this means.
But tonight, in this house full of memories and first editions and colored light, I let myself believe in the fantasy we've been selling everyone else.
That this—us—could actually work.
Those sixty days don't have to be the end.
That maybe, just maybe, we're writing our own love story instead of just pretending to live one.
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