Chapter 21
E mma
Marcus is looking at me like he’s never seen a woman devour a gyro before—and maybe he hasn’t. I bet all the supermodel types he dates survive on kale juice and broccoli. Then again, he’s been eyeing me like this ever since I paid for my portion, so maybe it has something to do with that.
His driver certainly looked shocked when I gave him the twenty.
Of course, it’s also possible that he’s not used to seeing a woman eating on her bed, surrounded by cats who have no compunction about stealing pieces of meat straight out of her gyro. I try to shove them away from my plate, but it’s useless.
There are three of them, and the gyro has too many points of access.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit here?
” he asks again from his seat at my desk, and I shake my head, my mouth too full to respond verbally.
The desk is where I always eat, and other than the kitchen counter, it’s the only table-like surface in my apartment.
If I sat there, in the only chair I own, he’d have to stand or eat on my bed, and in the latter case, the cats would attack his food—not a good situation.
I already feel bad I’m subjecting him to the cramped mess that is my apartment.
“They’d be all over you,” I explain after I swallow. “They really like gyros.”
“Who wouldn’t? These are great,” he says and takes another big bite of the juicy pita in his hand.
I brighten a little. “Aren’t they?” I was worried he’d feel this kind of food is beneath him—the hole-in-the-wall place we ordered from is just one step above a street cart—but he appears to be genuinely enjoying himself.
In general, he seems much more comfortable in my apartment than I figured a billionaire would be—though his big, broad-shouldered frame looks rather ridiculous stuffed into my tiny IKEA chair.
“Yep, good choice,” he says, chowing down on his gyro, and I give him a big smile.
Maybe this date isn’t a total disaster after all.
He’s done with his food in record time. Getting up, he takes his plate into the kitchen, and then I hear the sink turn on.
Is he actually washing it?
Before I can marvel at the phenomenon—my ex-boyfriend didn’t know such a thing as dish soap existed—there’s another knock by the entrance.
The repair guys have arrived.
There are two of them. One looks like Santa Claus’s younger brother, complete with rosy cheeks and a nearly white beard, while the other is a good-looking Latino guy about my age. He has an infectious grin on his face, and I smile back as I get up and place my half-eaten gyro on the desk.
“Hi there,” I say, walking over to greet them. “I’m Emma. Thanks so much for coming out so quickly.”
I stick my hand out, and the young guy grabs it eagerly, giving it a vigorous shake. “Juan,” he says, his grin widening. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”
“And I’m Rodney,” the Santa Claus sibling says, shaking my hand next. “This the door we need to fix?” He glances at the door on the floor, then studies the frame, where I notice sizable cracks near where the hinges were attached.
God, how strong is Marcus that he was able to do this much damage?
“That’s the one,” I say, trying not to wince as I picture the damage to my bank account from this repair bill. “Do you have any idea how much this will cost?”
“Oh, um…” Juan glances at Rodney in confusion.
“Nothing,” Marcus says, coming out of the kitchen. His voice is hard, utterly uncompromising—as is his expression when he looks at me. “It will cost you absolutely nothing, as I’m the one who broke it.”
“But you did it to save me —because you thought I was in trouble,” I argue, but Marcus is not listening.
“You will send the bill to me,” he orders, giving Rodney a piercing stare, and the man swiftly bobs his head.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Carelli.”
Ugh. I’m tempted to fight further, but I don’t have even a hundred dollars to spare right now, and I suspect their bill will run higher than that.
It would be highly embarrassing if I insisted on taking care of the payment and then had to beg for an extension.
Besides, Marcus does have a point: it was his savior complex that got us into this mess.
Still, my chest feels unpleasantly tight as I go back to my food, leaving him talking to the repairmen. I know letting Marcus pay for the door he broke doesn’t make me like my mother—logically, I know it—but I can’t help feeling like I’m taking advantage of him.
Like I’m using him, the way she’d always used her lovers and anyone else who cared about her.
Shaking off the memories, I sit down at the desk and shoo Mr. Puffs away from what remains of my gyro—which is not much. The cats have stolen most of the meat while I was away. Sighing, I quickly gobble down the rest and carry the dirty plate to the kitchen, where the sink is indeed clean.
Marcus not only washed his plate, he also dried it and put it away.
I do the same with mine and then put on some coffee, in case he wants a cup. I also take out my last remaining pint of salted caramel ice cream and two bowls, figuring I at least owe him dessert.
He enters the kitchen just as the hammering noises by the entrance begin.
“Ice cream?” I offer, scooping a generous portion into a bowl, and he shakes his head.
“None for me, thanks.”
“You don’t like it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t really eat sweets.”
Of course he doesn’t. Ice cream is for ordinary bums like me, not super-achievers like Marcus who count “fitness” among their hobbies. I’m surprised he ate the greasy gyro; he’s probably as disciplined in his diet as he seems to be in everything else.
“How about coffee?” I ask, and he agrees to that.
Black, of course—no sugar or milk for him.
I pour each of us a cup, then carry my coffee and ice cream bowl back to the room. The cats are nowhere to be seen at first, but then I notice the tip of a fluffy white tail sticking out from under the bed.
They must be hiding from the noise, which now includes both hammering and drilling.
Setting my coffee on the nightstand, I sit down on the bed to eat my ice cream, and to my surprise, Marcus joins me there with his coffee instead of taking his seat at the desk.
He sits next to me, less than a foot away, and though we’re both fully dressed, I feel the proximity of his big body as keenly as if we were naked.
My mind flashes to the kiss we just shared, and a hot flush covers my skin, my heartbeat jumping as if I’ve launched into a sprint.
Oh God. That kiss.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, so I don’t turn into a blushing, stuttering mess, but I can’t avoid it any longer.
Kissing Marcus had to be the single hottest experience of my life, better than any sex I’ve had—or fantasized about.
Everything about it was so wrong, yet so incredibly right.
The way he held me, like he never wanted to let me go, the way his lips felt and tasted…
He didn’t touch me anywhere but my back and my head, but I was on the verge of combusting, so aroused I can still feel the dampness in my underwear.
It doesn’t help that as we sit on the bed, his weight is depressing my old mattress, creating a dip in the soft surface that makes it hard for me to sit upright instead of leaning toward him.
It’s like the illustrations of gravity, where a big celestial body creates an indentation in spacetime that prevents a smaller body from escaping its orbit.
That’s Marcus for me.
I can’t seem to escape his pull—nor am I sure I want to.
Our eyes meet, and the drilling noise intensifies, making any attempt at conversation impossible.
Still, neither one of us looks away. With the men repairing the door, we have zero privacy, but the work might as well be happening miles away.
All I’m aware of is him, his nearness and the growing heat in his gaze.
My hand is unsteady as I dip my spoon into the bowl and come up with some ice cream.
Bringing it to my mouth, I close my lips around the creamy, salty-sweet coolness and let it slide down my throat as Marcus’s eyes darken, his hard features tightening as he reaches over me and sets his coffee cup down next to mine.
I can feel his desire for me, sense its dangerous, potent draw, and my breathing quickens, my nipples pebbling inside the confines of my bra.
“Emma…” His voice is low and hoarse, somehow audible over the din. “I think… I want the ice cream, after all.”
My throat goes dry. “Do you want me to go get you some?”
Holding my gaze, he slowly shakes his head. “Give me some of yours.”
Oh God. There’s no way he’s just talking about the ice cream—not with that look in his eyes.
Still, I move to hand the bowl to him, but he stops me by laying a big hand on my knee.
“Feed it to me,” he orders huskily.
My whole body now feels like it’s on fire, tingles of electricity racing up my leg from where his palm is resting. The drilling noises stop, replaced by more hammering, but the construction noise is nothing compared to the roar of my pulse in my ears.
Feed it to him.
Right, okay.
My hand trembles as I scoop up a spoonful of ice cream and bring it to his mouth.
His hard, masculine, oh-so-skilled-at-kissing mouth.
His lips close around the spoon, cleaning off all the ice cream, and my breath catches in my throat as his tongue flicks out to lick off the creamy droplet left on the handle—less than half an inch from where my fingers are spasmodically gripping the spoon.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, his gaze burning me alive, and I belatedly remember that I have to breathe.
Audibly sucking in air, I yank the spoon back, nearly tipping over the ice cream bowl.
“Whoa, careful there…” His hand covers mine, steadying the bowl in my grasp, and the glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes tells me he knows exactly how he’s affecting me—and that he’s enjoying every bit of it.
Asshole.
I want to be mad at him, but I can’t work up sufficient outrage.
I’ve never been this turned on. Ever. My underwear is soaking wet, and my sex is literally throbbing at the erotic movie playing in my mind.
I can picture his skilled mouth closing over my nipple, then trailing burning kisses down my stomach before those warm, supple lips close around my clit and—
“Excuse me, Mr. Carelli? We’re done.”
Rodney’s voice is like a bucket of ice water in my face.
I’d completely forgotten the workers are here.
Mortified, I jump to my feet, clutching the bowl in front of me like it can hide the burning flush covering my cheeks. What the hell was I thinking? Another couple of minutes, and Marcus and I would’ve been horizontal, ice cream and our audience forgotten.
Juan’s thoughts must be in line with mine because he’s smirking as he stands next to Rodney.
Marcus doesn’t seem fazed. Walking over to the reattached door, he inspects the work, then nods brusquely. “Good job, thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” I echo, fighting my embarrassment as the men gather their tools and leave with a friendly wave in my direction.
I’m relieved when the door closes behind them—that is, until it dawns on me that Marcus and I are now all alone in my apartment.
An apartment with a door that closes and locks.