Chapter 19
E mma
I turn off the water and pull open the shower curtain to find the bathroom floor looking like it’s been snowed on. Some bits of paper are so small they float in the air as I step out, hollering, “Puffs!” at the top of my lungs.
That damn cat. He must’ve sensed that I’m about to leave him and his siblings alone for the second evening in a row, so he shredded the entire roll of toilet paper while I was in the shower.
Swearing, I hop around on one foot, trying to get sticky pieces of damp toilet paper off my other foot with a towel. It takes forever to do that, not to mention clean up the bathroom, and the doorbell rings as I’m frantically applying my mascara.
Crap. I’m still in my underwear.
“One sec!” I yell as I rush across the room to grab my clothes from the closet. Mr. Puffs hisses at me from the top shelf, and Cottonball lets out a plaintive meow, batting my leg with his paw so I’ll cuddle him in front of the TV, as is our custom on Friday nights.
“Sorry, not tonight, buddy. I have a date.” I bend down to scratch his head apologetically when Mr. Puffs jumps down from the top shelf—right onto my shoulders.
“Ahh!” I pitch forward with a startled cry, pushed off balance by fifteen pounds of feline slamming into me from an almost-six-foot height.
Queen Elizabeth jumps off the bed and runs over, meowing in obvious concern as I land on all fours, and at the same time, the doorbell rings again, followed by a deep voice calling my name.
It’s Marcus, and he sounds worried.
Mr. Puffs is still on my shoulders, somehow balancing without sinking his claws into my skin, and I throw him off as I get up, yelling, “Coming!”
Except I trip over Cottonball and go flying with a panicked cry.
I land on my stomach, the impact knocking all breath out of my lungs. Wheezing, I flop over onto my back and hear Marcus’s deep voice shouting, “Emma, are you all right?” right before something slams into my door, causing it to rattle on its hinges.
Holy cow. Did he just try to break it down?
Another hard slam, and the door hinges creak, nearly giving way.
I want to yell that I’m all right, but I can’t gather enough air. All I can manage is a pathetic wheeze that I’m okay, and with all three cats meowing loudly around me, even I can’t hear what I’m saying.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I push up to all fours, so I can crawl over and stop him, when the next kick or body slam or whatever knocks the door completely off its hinges.
It flies in, like during a SWAT raid in an action movie, and behind it stands Marcus, dressed in a suit and another pricy-looking unbuttoned coat.
His blue eyes narrow in on me with unmistakable concern, and he rushes over, crouching next to me as Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball zoom under the bed.
Only Mr. Puffs remains by my side, arching his back and hissing at the intruder before also dashing away to hide under the bed.
“Are you okay? What happened?” Marcus demands, gripping my arms to steady me as I attempt to rise to my feet. With his help, I succeed, though my left knee complains loudly—I must’ve banged it on the floor.
“I’m okay. I’m fine,” I croak as he begins to pat me down, looking for injuries. His big hands are hot on my bare skin, and with a wave of mortification, I realize that I never got a chance to put on clothes.
I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my blue lacy bra and panties—which, granted, is my nicest set, but still.
“What happened?” he demands again as I back away, cheeks flaming as I wrap my arms around my stomach—which is quite a bit softer than I’d like. He’s undoubtedly used to fitness bunnies with rock-hard abs and—
Wait a minute. Why am I thinking about my lack of abs when he broke down my door ?
“I tripped, okay? I tripped.” I still sound winded, but I’m not sure how much of that is from the fall versus the way he’s staring at me—with a worry that’s gradually transforming into something else.
Something hotter and infinitely more dangerous.
“So you’re not hurt?” he clarifies in a huskier tone, and I shake my head, my face burning as the heat in his eyes intensifies. And it’s not just my face—my whole body feels like it’s on fire as he takes a step toward me, his powerful hands flexing at his sides.
It doesn’t seem like my lack of abs is a turn-off for him—at least judging by the dark hunger in that stare.
“The door…” My voice comes out thin and high. “You… um, broke down the door.”
“The door?” He doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about as he takes another step toward me, his gaze falling to my bra—which is pushing up my heaving breasts, as if offering them up like a sacrifice.
I swallow as he reaches for me, one big hand curving tenderly around my jaw while the other lands on my naked shoulder, squeezing lightly.
His touch burns through me, spiking my pulse and sending a heated shiver down my spine.
Looming over me, he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze, and it dawns on me that I’ve never felt so small and vulnerable before… or so wanted.
“Emma.” His voice is low and thick as his fingers slide into my hair, sensuously cupping my skull. “Kitten, may I kiss you?” He’s bending his head as he speaks, and the last word is murmured against my lips, his warm, faintly sweet breath mixing with my own shallow exhalations.
I never get a chance to respond because my hands reach up to clasp his broad shoulders, and my eyes close as my lips press against his—seemingly of their own accord.
There’s no logic in my decision, no reason whatsoever.
We’re utterly wrong for each other, and I’m bound to get hurt if we proceed, but for the first time in my life, I don’t care about the risk I’m taking.
There’s no room for fear in the blazing need consuming me.
He deepens the kiss, arching me back over his arm, and my breasts mold against the hard plane of his chest as my head falls back, supported only by the cradle of his palm.
His lips are warm and soft, his tongue exploring my mouth with sensuous skill, and a small moan escapes my throat as his lips leave mine and trail over my jaw to nibble on my earlobe—where the heat of his breath sends goosebumps rippling down my arm.
I can smell the clean, woodsy scent of his skin, like pine mixed with fresh autumn breeze, and my body tightens, tension spiraling through my core.
I’m so turned on I’m on the verge of orgasm, and my hands tug at the lapels of his coat, desperate to get it off so I can—
A hissing meow startles me, jolting me out of my sensual haze. Eyes snapping open, I push at Marcus’s chest, and he lets me go, though his gaze is heavy-lidded and his normally even-toned skin is edged with a flush of arousal.
Panting, we stare at each other as Mr. Puffs winds around my legs, alternately hissing at Marcus and meowing up at me.
“Your cat,” Marcus says hoarsely. “He’s not going to run away?”
I stare at him blankly, then recall the broken door. My cats are not in the habit of trying to run away, but then again, they’ve never had the temptation of a doorless entrance. “He shouldn’t,” I say, but just to be on the safe side, I bend down and pick up Mr. Puffs, cradling him against my chest.
The evil beast starts purring, and I stroke him, grateful for the shield his large, furry body provides. I still don’t have my clothes on, and with the icy November air blowing in through the open doorway, it’s quickly getting cold in the apartment.
Plus, there’s that whole being semi-naked in front of Marcus bit.
“So,” I say awkwardly, inching toward my closet with Mr. Puffs in my arms. “About the door—”
“I’ll get it fixed, don’t worry.” His gaze tracks me with undisguised hunger as I make my way back to the closet, then put Mr. Puffs down so I can dress. “It looked like it was on its last legs, anyway.”
“Can you turn around, please?” I blurt out, holding my jeans in front of me when he shows no sign of looking away. I know it’s silly—he’s already seen most of me—but I don’t want him to watch my butt jiggle as I perform the maneuvers required to pull on my tight jeans.
There’s way too much butt jiggle for my liking.
He opens his mouth to say something, then apparently thinks better of it and turns around. “Go ahead,” he says thickly. “I won’t look.”
I quickly wriggle into the jeans, then throw on my second-nicest blouse—my nicest being the one I wore out yesterday.
I finish off the outfit with my sweater wrap and newish boots, and when I glance at the hallway mirror, I realize that my outfit is identical to yesterday’s, the only difference being the blouse.
Even worse, with all of my recent exertions, my mascara has smeared, leaving a raccoon-like smudge under my left eye, and my hair looks like I’ve been wrestling with a wildcat—which, given Mr. Puffs’s size, is not far from the truth.
So much for impressing a billionaire.
I’m muttering curses under my breath and trying to rub off the mascara smudge when Marcus asks, “Can I turn around now?”
Crap. I smooth my hands over my hair, sneak another look in the mirror, and say glumly, “Go ahead.”
I’d need an hour to fix the mess I see in the mirror, not a few minutes—not that it matters either way. Now that I’m not so frazzled and my brain is not clouded by lust, an obvious fact occurs to me.
With the door broken, I can’t leave my apartment and the cats.
Tonight’s date is not happening.