Chapter 2
JOELLE
The night blurs at the edges. We talk, laugh, drink like none of us have flights in the morning.
The grumpy man loosens up after a couple of drinks, but he isn’t loud or overbearing.
When he does speak, it's to say something practical or dry. He’s funny in a dry, awkward way that’s unexpectedly cute.
And I like the fact that he stays with me all night.
Not crowding or pressuring me but making it known that he’s interested.
I’m terrible at flirting, so I could be totally off base.
There is the odd touch here and there, but nothing overtly obvious.
Every time he shifts, I'm aware of it. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his forearms flex when he picks up his drink. The deep rumble of his voice when he speaks. When Hazel suggests dancing, I decline. It’s not for me and I am not drunk enough for it to become me.
When Polly disappears to the bathroom, Tate gets pulled into a conversation with one of the men from the other booth.
I end up standing with the giant at the edge of the VIP area, looking out over the dance floor.
"I'm Jo," I say finally.
He looks at me for a beat too long. "Emmett."
Nothing else. No surname. No job. No context. Does it really matter? No.
The music pulses, bodies move, the club sweats around us. But in the small pocket of space between our shoulders, it's quiet. And then he shifts closer, his arm brushing mine, bare skin against bare skin. The contact sends a jolt through me.
"Do you want to leave?" he asks. Voice low.
My mouth goes dry. “Oh, are you sick of my company?”
Those stormy green eyes widen as a smile falls across his perfect lips. “On the contrary, I was kind of hoping you’d like to come back to my hotel room and get to know each other better.”
Oh. I get it now.
This is the point where a sensible person says no. Where a sensible person goes back to her friends. Goes home. Sleeps. Catches her flight in the morning on time. But this stupid white dress has some kind of superpower, and I’m not feeling very sensible tonight.
"Yes," I say.
We stand there for a second, staring at each other, both of us not quite believing what’s just transcribed. His eyes darken. They’re stormy and intense. Neither of us moves as the air between us crackles. Then he nods. “Better tell your friends you’re leaving.”
I quickly rush over and tell Hazel that I’m leaving with the grumpy man.
She gives me a high five and tells me to send her a pin so she can make sure he doesn’t kidnap me or something.
I don't say goodbye to Polly, she’s disappeared with some guy.
I'll text her from the taxi. She'll understand.
She'd be happy for me. I do as Hazel suggests and drop a pin in our group chat, then close my phone.
The ride to his hotel is quiet, not awkward.
My knee bounces with nerves, and I force it still.
My pulse roars in my ears. He doesn't try to fill the silence.
Doesn't touch me either. Just sits beside me in the back of the cab, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
I sneak a glance. His jaw is tight, hands resting on his thick thighs.
Those hands are big and I also notice scars across the knuckles.
Is he a fighter? His hands look like those of someone who does physical work. Who uses his body for a living.
When we pull up to the hotel, some sleek place in Mayfair, he pays for the taxi and opens my door.
What a gentleman. He then escorts me through the lobby and toward the elevator, where we stand side by side in silence.
I’m close enough that I can smell him. He smells fresh, clean, and masculine.
Not drowning in cologne like some guys. Just soap and something woodsy.
Very outdoorsy. He stares at the numbers above the door as they change.
I stare at his hands again, watching his fingers flex once. Like he's holding himself back. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on.
The doors open, and we silently walk out and down the corridor toward his room. He unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in first.
Inside, the air is cool, a relief after the nightclub.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, but I barely register the view.
He turns to face me as the door clicks shut behind us.
His eyes track my face. Dark and hungry.
I should say something. But I don’t because I am captivated by the man as he slowly steps toward me.
I tilt my chin up, he's so much taller than me.
I'm five-six in heels, and he towers over me.
His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle. Controlled.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice rough with need.
I haven’t come all this way for nothing. "No."
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. "No, you won't tell me to stop?"
I nod. "No, I won't."
That's all the permission he needs before his mouth crashes into mine. And oh God. This kiss is different from any I’ve had in a long while.
This is claiming as his hand fists in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it.
His other hand grips my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
He tastes like whiskey and want, and I can't get enough.
I press closer, needing to feel him. My hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, and I can feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He's solid. Built. The kind of body that comes from years of physical discipline.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed, but he doesn't push me down, yet.
Instead, his mouth leaves mine and trails along my jaw to my neck.
He finds the spot just below my ear that makes me gasp and exploits it. Sucking. Biting. Marking me.
"Fuck," I breathe, head falling back to give him better access.
His hands slide down my sides, over the curve of my hips, gripping my ass through the thin fabric of my dress, and he pulls me flush against him.
I can feel how hard he is. Thick and ready, pressing against my stomach. My thighs clench involuntarily.
"I've been hard since you walked out of that club with me," he mutters against my neck. "Sitting in that cab. Trying not to touch you. Trying to be civilized."
"I don't want civilized," I tell him.
He pulls back. Eyes dark and assessing. "No?"
"No."
His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress and drag it down slowly.
Deliberately. Watching my face the entire time.
The dress pools at my feet. I'm left in a white bra and nothing else.
I couldn't wear underwear with that dress, which I’ve never done before.
And from the way his eyes darken as they rake over me, he's just realized.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You've been walking around all night with no panties?"
"The dress was too tight."
"Fuck." His hands are on me again, sliding up my thighs, over my hips. Thumbs brushing dangerously close to where I'm already wet for him. "You have any idea what I would've done if I'd known?" He moans.
"What would you have done?"
His thumb slides between my legs, I jolt at the contact.
"This," he says, circling my clit once. "Right there in that fucking VIP booth where anyone could see."
The image sends heat flooding through me. I shouldn't want that. But I do. He works me slowly, thumb circling, applying just enough pressure to make me squirm but not enough to give me what I need.
"Emmett." I gasp.
"Tell me what you want." He growls.
"More."
He slides one thick finger inside me.
I moan, and he answers with a groan of his own. "Fuck, you're so wet. Is this all for me?"
"Yes."
He adds a second finger, pumping slowly while his thumb continues its torture on my clit, making my knees nearly buckle. He wraps his free arm around my waist, holding me up.
"That's it," he encourages, voice rough. "Ride my hand."
I do, grinding against him, chasing the pleasure building low in my belly. It's been so long since anyone touched me like this. Since I let anyone touch me like this. Just when I'm about to come, he pulls his hand away. I make a sound of protest. He smirks. Actually smirks. Asshole.
"Not yet," he says. "Get on the bed."
I should be annoyed at the command but instead it sends another wave of heat through me.
I do what he says, climbing onto the bed, lying back against the pillows.
He stands at the foot of the bed, eyes raking over me, like a predator.
He reaches for his shirt and slowly unbuttons it with efficient movements.
"Touch yourself," he orders.
My hand slides between my legs automatically, finding my clit, circling it the way he was.
"That's it," he says, shrugging off his shirt. "Show me how you like it."
I watch as more of him is revealed. He's all muscle and broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist with defined abs.
A V-cut disappears into his waistband, dark hair across his chest, and old bruises scatter across his ribs.
He's beautiful, masculine. Built like an athlete.
Is he an athlete? Maybe an American one judging by his accent, probably a footballer.
One I'm not familiar with. His hands go to his belt, and I watch as he unbuckles it, then unzips his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers.
My hand stills.
His cock springs free.
And it's ... impressive. Thick and long. Already leaking at the tip. The kind of size that's going to stretch me, fill me completely and I lick my lips.
"Don't stop," he says, nodding at my hand between my legs. "I want to watch you."
I resume touching myself, circling my clit while he wraps his hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly.
"You like watching me?" I ask.
"I like seeing you spread out on my bed. Touching that pretty pussy while you stare at my cock."
The dirty talk should embarrass me, instead, it makes me wetter. He climbs onto the bed and settles between my legs, his hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider.
"I'm going to need to taste you first," he says.
Not asking. Telling. Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out. He doesn't tease. Doesn't build slowly.
He devours me like he's starving. His tongue flicks over my clit, then flattens, licking a long stripe from my entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves.
He does it again. And again. My hands fly to his hair, gripping tight.
My hips buck against his face, he encourages it with a groan that vibrates through me.
He slides two fingers back inside me while his mouth works my clit, the combination is overwhelming.
I'm already close from touching myself. From watching him.
It doesn't take long before I'm tipping over the edge.
"Emmett, I'm ... fuck ... I'm going to come."
"Do it," he orders against me. "Come on my tongue."
I shatter. My body bows off the bed, thighs shaking, his name falling from my lips in a broken moan. He works me through it, not letting up until I'm oversensitive and trying to squirm away. He pulls back, mouth glistening, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You taste fucking incredible," he says.
Before I can respond, he's reaching for his wallet on the nightstand. Pulling out a condom, he rolls it on with practiced efficiency. Then he's back, hovering over me, his cock nudging at my entrance. I'm still sensitive from my orgasm, but I want him. Need him.
"Are you sure?" he asks, eyes locked on mine.
"Yes. Please," I beg.
He slides in slowly. We both groan. He's big. Even wet and ready, the stretch is intense. He pauses when he's halfway in, giving me time to adjust.
"Breathe," he tells me.
I do. When I relax, he pushes in the rest of the way.
"Fuck," he hisses. "You feel so good. So tight.
" He starts to move. Slow and controlled, each thrust hits deep, dragging against that spot inside me that makes my toes curl.
I wrap my legs around his hips, urging him deeper.
Harder. He gets the message, his pace picks up, hips pressing into mine.
The headboard hits the wall with each thrust. His mouth finds mine, kissing me hard while he fucks me harder.
"Touch yourself again," he orders against my lips. My hand slides between us, finding my clit, and the added stimulation makes me clench around him. He groans. "That's it. Fuck, you keep doing that and I'm not going to last."
"Then don't," I tell him. "I want to feel you come."
His control snaps and he pulls out suddenly.
Flipping me over onto my stomach, his hands grip my hips, pulling them up so I'm on my knees, my face pressed into the pillow.
Then he's sliding back in from behind. And this angle is even deeper. Fuck he’s going to split me into two.
He sets a brutal pace. One hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
The other slides up my spine to fist in my hair.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, voice rough. "To be fucked hard by a stranger?"
"Yes," I moan into the pillow.
"Say my name."
"Emmett."
"Louder," he commands.
"Emmett," I cry out as another orgasm builds impossibly fast. His hand releases my hair, slides around to my front, and finds my clit as he circles it in time with his thrusts. I can't hold back. I come again, even harder this time, clenching around him so tight he curses.
"Fuck, Jo, I'm …." He follows me over, hips stuttering, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he empties into the condom.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing hard, his body draped over my back. Then he pulls out gently, disposes of the condom, and collapses beside me.
"Stay," he says as he pulls me back against him, curling his large body around mine. "I'm not done with you yet," he whispers into my ear.
"Okay." I grin as I bury my face into his hard chest. It's been a long time since I've cuddled anyone in bed. Moments later, I feel his body relax, his breath even out. He's fallen asleep.
Shit.
Panic takes over. I roll over and stare at the ceiling in the dark. What the hell am I doing? I lay there for what feels like hours, but I think it is only one. At some point, his hand shifts, settling heavily over my waist, almost possessive.
I have to get out of here. Slowly and carefully, I extract myself from his hold and try to find my scattered things and dress quietly.
My body aches in all the best ways, evidence of what we did marked on my hips.
My thighs. Between my legs. He doesn't wake.
I leave without a note. Without a number.
It is what it is. This was never going to be anything more than what it was, a beautiful night together.
A night I will never forget.