Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
AVA
Erase all others. That’s what Emerson Tides had vowed to do, and he had done it. He had wiped every other man from memory and replaced them with him. Sex with Emerson was more than sex and, given his knitted brows and serious expression, I suspected it was more than that for him as well.
A blissful calm sat in my body and mind, a sense that this was what I’d blindly searched for in every man I’d ever hooked up with.
But that admission came with complications, which likely explained the pained look that now tainted his mood.
He tried to move from me, but I tightened my legs around him.
A small groan led to a look of annoyance, but I took his face in my hands and picked my head up so that my mouth met his.
Kissing Emerson was like finding my center.
He relaxed, the tension fading from his jaw.
His arm reached under me and pulled me against his body.
Emotions crossed paths in that kiss, but they were too new, too dangerous, to be voiced or even contemplated.
Our mouths separated, and he untangled himself from my limbs, rolling over and removing the condom with a quick flick of it to the floor.
I was content to lie there and leave the distance between us, one I thought we both might need, but his arm came under my neck, and he pulled me into his chest. I wanted to fight it, but being in his arms felt too good.
I lazily traced the pattern of his Omens tattoo, the skull and dagger my uncle had shown me, a sign of Emerson’s power.
“Would now be a bad time to tell you I’m not a natural blonde?” I asked, peeking up at him.
Blue eyes of a sunny day looked down at me. His frown lifted, the smile lighting his features and emphasizing his strong jawline. “Are you shitting me?”
I shook my head. “I bleached it a few years ago and liked it. The pink’s not natural either,” I said, giving him a wink.
“Damn, I shoulda guessed that, given how I just memorized every detail between your legs.”
I smacked his chest, but he grabbed my hand. “You didn’t like that?” he asked.
Shit, had I ever. This man knew how to use his tongue and all the right spots to hit to make me scream. “I didn’t say that.”
I followed the skull’s outline with my index finger. “Why don’t you frighten me?” I asked him, meeting his dusty irises. I pushed myself up, placing my hand on his chest.
“I should,” he said, his fingers twirling one of my curls. “You should have run from me that first day. Fuck, you should have run when I gave you the chance, but you sat in front of the door. Why didn’t you run, Ava?”
Emotion specked his blue orbs with hints of navy.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought about it but then…” I dropped my head, but he tipped my chin up, forcing my sight to meet his.
“Then what?”
The inhale dragged through my throat, burning as it scraped its way to my lungs. “I didn’t think I could sleep alone that night.” My words came out so softly that I hoped he didn’t hear them.
“Just that night?”
Avoiding the question, I brought myself up, straddling him and leaning on the solid wall of muscle.
“I didn’t run for the same reason you came to my room when you knew my meds would keep my dreams away.
The same reason you don’t scare me. The same reason you spent the day playing in the sand with me. ”
His hand skimmed down my chest, lingering on the curve of my breast. His lips pursed, darkness eclipsing his eyes. “But you ran tonight.”
“And you said you were going to kill me. Stupid miscommunication. Damn, I hate that trope.”
His eyes creased before a smile formed. “Another book reference?”
“Maybe,” I answered, noting the flush of my cheeks.
His fingers weaved into my hair, and he brought my face closer to his. “Does this mean you won’t run?”
“If it means you won’t kill me.”
“I could never hurt you, Ava. I had every intention that first night, but you opened your mouth and damn if I couldn’t stop myself from hearing more.”
“And now?” I held my breath, knowing the future was a convoluted mess of cobwebs I didn’t think either of us could find our way through. I had a life outside of his world, a reality that didn’t mesh with his, distance separating those lives.
“Now…” Torn like a ragged edge of paper, his expression dug into me with claws I couldn’t remove, gutting me.
This wasn’t the ruthless bastard who terrorized the other families.
This was Emerson. My Emerson—sweet, thoughtful, protective, amazing in bed, and the rock I never knew I needed.
The placebo for my medication, the calm to the trauma I couldn’t escape.
Whatever he wanted to say, he couldn’t, just like I couldn’t.
We were something that couldn’t be, something irrational, something we couldn’t define.
His fingers dug further into my hair, and he dragged my mouth to his, ravaging it with a force that sent my breath fleeing and my heart thundering against its confines.
Touches followed that left my mind blank and the conversation like sand swept away with the tide.
Raw, desperate, insatiable. He took me again, coaxing climaxes from my exhausted body until it was numb with pleasure.
And once more, as if separating our bodies would cause physical harm.
The commands and the dominating aggression returned, melting me completely and making me putty in his hands.
If anyone else had called me a good girl, I would have punched them, but from Emerson, it left me craving more.
Worn and exhausted, I listened to his pounding heart and the steady rhythm of his breaths until I closed my eyes and dreamed of him.
My eyes were heavy, my body like a limp noodle, and I groaned as I rolled onto my back.
Blinking against the morning light, I looked over to find the other side of the bed empty.
As much as I would have loved Emerson to have woken me with his mouth or his body, I was so worn out I didn’t think I’d make a very active partner.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I rubbed my sore thighs, enjoying the soreness like I would have a good workout.
It was proof that last night had been real and amazing.
Good God, had it been amazing. That man was made to please women, and the thought stirred the green coils of jealousy.
I rubbed the sleepers from my eyes and made my way to the bathroom, chastising myself for being jealous when I was just as bad.
After assuring Emerson had indeed left me, I tiptoed down the stairs, pulling my shirt down further to cover the lace undies I’d retrieved from where he’d thrown them.
A glance toward the garage had me flinching.
The same guard who had creeped me out was standing there, his hands folded in front of him, his brown eyes so dark I mistook them for black.
I had no clue what it was about him, but my instincts told me to be far away from him.
Which seemed strange since I was in a house owned by a notorious mob boss and surrounded by his men, who were just as brutal and quick to kill.
No one else gave me the creeps like this guy did.
I backed away and turned around, making sure my steps were quick.
No one was in the main room as I passed through, and I didn’t see Emerson on the deck.
The door to his office was wide open, the office empty, so I hurried to my room to shower and change.
Wherever he was, I was sure he was off doing whatever illegal things he did.
“How does that not freak you out?” I asked myself as I pulled my hair up in the clips Jill had gotten me—cute little butterflies with colorful rhinestones decorating the silver.
After hopping in the shower, I checked out the bruises on my hips and thighs, not ugly or hurtful but a sign that he’d brought the aggression I loved and left his mark on me.
My stomach flipped at the sight, and I rolled my eyes at it.
In revolt, it growled, so I gave it a scalding look before I left the room, my bare feet chilly on the tile floor.
I spent the morning watching television and munching on the sweet potato chips I found in the kitchen.
For someone with so much money, Emerson’s pantry was sorely lacking good snack options.
Never once in the hours I wandered the house and the deck, watched movies and raided his kitchen, did it ever cross my mind to run again.
I was content to forget there was an expiration date to this arrangement.
That in days, my uncle and his boss would be here to trade for me or kill for me.
It was almost like I didn’t want to face the reality, to comprehend the fact that this wasn’t the plot of some romance book where I knew the ending would be happy.
Because the truth was too difficult to admit—there was no happy ending in this.
I was falling for Greyson Tides’ enemy, a man who had kidnapped me with the intention of kidnapping Greyson’s wife.
It didn’t matter that he had taken me in her place. Her husband would want retribution.
I flopped my head back on the couch and stared at the vaulted ceiling, thinking it was such a waste of space and how a nice loft would make better use of the upper windows.
A small studio where I could paint with the view as my backdrop.
My fingers twitched in the movement of my paintbrush, missing it.
Knowing how competitive the art space was, I had opted to focus my master’s on museum work, still a competitive space, but it had seemed the more realistic option. Now I rarely had time to draw or paint.