Emma
Iwalked the length of my living room, wearing tracks on the sage carpet with my bare feet.
Back and forth.
Sigh.
Back and forth.
Repeat.
I’d been pacing for the better part of an hour, thinking about everything. The small room and every interaction I’d had with Miller before and after played like a time loop. I assessed the situation with clinical precision, refusing to let my emotions cloud the facts.
Pathetic.
That was what I was.
Pathetic for running away instead of confronting my feelings.
Pathetic for thinking he was anything but my perfect match.
Pathetic for being scared.
I turned around, trekking the same path once again and berating myself for not turning back as soon as I made it out of the ballroom. Cowardly thoughts plagued my mind, making my hands tremble as I paced. I prided myself on my ability to apply reason and logic to every situation, but with matters pertaining to him, I was shockingly short-sighted.
I turned in a circle and groaned, pulling another bobby pin out of my hair and tossing it onto the coffee table.
Minerva weaved between my legs, but when I didn’t reach down to scratch her head, she pranced to the corner and climbed to the top of her cat tree, flicking her tail in annoyance. But I still didn’t cease my pacing, my mood shifting from anger to sadness at that brown-eyed bastard the longer my feet continued the path. After all we shared, he better not think I’d just drop him like a bad outfit.
Miller had put so much effort into showing me how he felt, I owed him the same consideration.
Oh, my God.
Could he think that I didn’t return his feelings?
What reason have you given him to think otherwise?
Was I that detached?
Probably.
Were our signals crossed so terribly that we both felt the same things, but, like idiots, we got in our own way?
Definitely.
Could we have been together all this time?
Absolutely.
My feet were aching, and a dull throb had begun in my right temple. It was time to give up this maddening trek around the room. Things would be clearer in the morning, right?
Nope.Forget that.
I didn’t need time, and I didn’t need to think.
His sweet words—before the biting ones—melted over me like warm chocolate, eliciting a small smile. I’d dreamed about this for so long—that there was a man out there—determined and strong. Caring and confident with eyes only for me. I’d dreamed that man was meant for me, and from the intensity of Miller’s eyes as he held me in that dusty space—I knew that man was him.
It had always been him. I’d just been too caught up in my head to see what had been with me all along.
I loved him.I loved him with a fierceness that defied reason and logic. I loved him from the bottom of my soul until the light radiated from my fingertips and released itself into the universe. What had I done?A life without this man felt like a gaping wound in my chest, festering until I succumbed to the injury.
It wasn’t just the sex—that was beyond compare—I enjoyed his company. We could have a real conversation where I could be myself, and he understood before running with whatever I’d said in his own direction, adding his thoughts. He matched and challenged me. We’d talk and debate. It was entertaining and exciting. Sex after an intense discussion was something I could hardly put into words.
Something about that damnable moment sitting in his lap, resting my head on the spot his shoulder met his neck, knowing that regardless of our harsh words, he came to the event—left me speechless.
So speechless that I ran from the party, barefoot, like a lunatic with nothing to show for my anguish except gravel between my toes and tear tracks down my cheeks. It could not end like this. We could not end like this. All my life, I’d imagined some big love story. Being swept off my feet and whisked away.
The problem with that scenario was the waiting. I was in the throes of my life with a man who went out of his way to show me how he felt on the daily. Sure, there were no declarations of unending love and rides into the sunset—but was that even realistic?
A nagging suspicion filled my lungs, creeping into my subconscious.
I left.
I left him.
My cheeks flamed, and my heart stuttered, beating erratically until I pressed my hand to my chest and bent forward. Colors swirled across my vision, and I dug one knuckle in my eye, not caring about any lingering traces of makeup.
This moment. This big, beautiful, horrible moment made one thing crystal clear—I wanted Miller more than I’d wanted anything ever before. He was exactly what I needed—always—and it was time to show him I could be exactly what he needed.
I grabbed my keys and shoved my feet into a pair of slippers before rushing out the door in a huff. The answer slapped me in the face harder than the harsh summer heat, and I let a small smile grace my face, hoping I could pull this off.
The drive to his house was a blur, and within a moment, I was banging on his door and taking deep gulps of air to steady the thumping of my heart. My fingers were turning white from holding the plastic grocery bags, but I couldn’t be bothered with something as trivial as circulation.
Miller’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened when the door opened. I pushed my way inside, not bothering with a greeting, just holding up my hand so he wouldn’t get a chance to open his mouth in protest. Articles of clothing were scattered around his living room. One shoe by the front door and another by the couch. His bowtie and cufflinks were on the coffee table, and his socks were by the kitchen.
It looked as if he was in the same predicament as me—pacing the length of the room and removing things as an afterthought while he walked. A petty part of me reveled in his discomfort, but I shook my head, schooling my features. He ran a hand through his hair, causing the ends to stick up.
I liked it better this way—not the gelled-up, perfect nonsense from earlier. He was one of those guys who perfected the messy look without actually styling his hair. Most guys would spend countless time trying to get the style Miller wore without effort. My fingers longed to run through the short strands, messing it further, but I held back. Now was not the time for touching—that would come later. Hopefully.
Now was the time for truth and action. Throughout my silent reflection of him standing in the middle of his living room, having no right to look as good as he did after spending hours with me locked in a closet, he didn’t speak. He stared.
Stared as I assessed him. Stared as my eyes raked over his body, and I chewed on my bottom lip until my lipstick was gone and it burned. Stared as I thought about everything I wanted to say and all the things he left unsaid.
He opened his mouth, eyebrows pinched, making the small laugh lines around his eyes stand out harshly against his features. I knew he was going to talk—to try to make light of what happened or do something stupid and ask me what was in the grocery bags. I shook my head; the motion made a rogue bobby pin fly out and clatter against the coffee table.
He froze and pursed his lips, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a step farther away from me. Like he’d given up—resigned himself to whatever fate I saw fit.
Miller Hansen had another thing coming if he thought I’d just let him go. He was mine, and unless the last few hours were nothing more than a fever dream hallucination, I was his.
“Don’t,” I said, rougher than I meant to. His eyes got wider, and he took another step back. He was partway in the hallway now. Whether to make a quick escape to his bedroom or to protect himself in case I wanted to hurl my slipper in his direction, I wasn’t sure.
“I’m here to cook dinner. I realized when you came tonight, meeting me like that meant you probably hadn’t eaten. I also know you get cranky when you don’t eat. I do, too, remember? You know how bad my headaches are when I skip a meal.”
“Emma. What are you talking about? What do you mean, cook dinner?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and moved closer, but I pushed him aside, stomping into the kitchen and setting the bags on the counter. I shook my hand out, clenching and releasing my fist to get the blood moving before squaring my shoulders and turning slightly to glance at him. He’d followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as I removed the meat and pasta from the bag.
“I thought it would be harder to find pork chops this late, but voila, there they were, tucked beside the filet.”
“Emma.”
“No. No. It’s fine,” I said, taking out the linguini next. “I wasn’t able to find the infused olive oil you like, so we’ll have to make do with extra virgin, but the other ingredients weren’t a problem. Luckily, capers and lemons are plentiful, along with twenty-four-hour supermarkets. I should be thankful your tastes aren’t too exotic, right?” I chuckled, pressing my hands to my overheated cheeks.
I grabbed a pan from above the stovetop to sauté the chops, but as I reached for the cutting board, his nimble fingers wrapped around my wrist, and he squeezed.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, tugging me closer. I shook him off and reached for the stove, needing to keep my hands busy. He didn’t need to know they were trembling.
“You’re always hungry.”
“You don’t have to cook.”
“I want to cook.”
“Stop arguing with me, Em.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
He sputtered, and I shifted from foot to foot, setting the pan down and turning toward the cabinet. Not to be deterred, he grabbed my waist this time, towering over me and pushing me against the kitchen table. My back hit the edge, and he spread his legs, caging me within his body. Warm coffee and spice comforted me, and I had the laughable notion of licking his neck, wondering if it would give me the same boost of energy as caffeine.
“You brought this upon yourself when you insisted on making me dinner when all I want to do is figure out what’s going on. Don’t keep yourself quiet now, okay?”
I opened and closed my mouth, the words I was so sure of earlier refusing to form because he foiled my plans to let me cook and gather my thoughts.
How could he—
No. Stop.
I took a breath, resting my forehead on his chest. I heard his exhale, then felt his hand caress the front of my neck, squeezing the sides before moving to the nape and tilting it so my gaze met his. Those dark orbs burned my skin, setting contradicting goose bumps along my arms and across my chest. I opened my mouth, letting the clean scent of cotton surround me. I fisted the material, grasping his black vest and holding firm until my knuckles turned white.
“Miller?”
He nodded, one side of his mouth ticking up in the briefest smirk before he caught wind of my frown and quickly schooled his features. He closed his mouth with a deep sigh and nodded for me to continue.
I willed my heartbeat to slow and drew into myself for the courage to do this.
“Do you love me?”
Damn. Not the best opening line.
“Because if you don’t, you need to tell me right now. No more back and forth. No more lingering glances. And no more misunderstandings.” My confidence returned, flooding my body with the endorphins needed to grasp what I wanted with both hands.
“Do you have any idea how terrified I was to show up for you tonight?” he asked, taking two steps back and pointing a finger toward my face.
“Please. Miller,” I said, as he put up his hand apologetically and motioned for me to continue. He looked pained, like the last thing he expected was for me to barge into his home in the middle of the night with pork chops, wearing a formal dress and slippers. It was almost like he thought he deserved my wrath and was waiting for me to rain it down upon him.
Such bullshit. Maybe mild evisceration for insensitive comments, but not full-on wrath. He didn’t deserve that.
I just wanted—needed—him to see. To see me. I could be his everything, and he could be mine, if only he’d let me in.
“I had no intention of letting so much time pass before we spoke about us, Miller.” I took a step closer, and he matched the movement, knocking his knuckles on the table.
“In fact, the date I went on after you kissed me was positively horrible. I was positively horrible, thinking you’d run away because I was too much of a dunderhead to realize how much I liked you. I felt like I should be freaking done with men and just adopt five siblings for Minerva and call it a day.”
“Dunderhead?” He chuckled, arching a brow that had no business looking as cute as it did.
“Shut up. The main character in the fanfiction I’m reading uses that word. Anyway.” I watched as his eyes left me and focused on the kitchen tile. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t want to stop thinking about you. I want you for the foreseeable future. Longer than that, if I’m being honest.”
My palms were sweaty, and I rubbed them on the satin fabric of my dress, suddenly frustrated I didn’t have the foresight to put on a damn pair of yoga pants before coming over.
“I’m sorry, Miller. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t see what was in front of me. I didn’t see you—not the way you saw me. I searched and searched for someone, thinking it was what I needed to complete my life—but it was all a lie. It was you, Miller. All I needed was you. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”
The silence was deafening, with nothing but my shaky breath and roaring pulse. I watched his heartbeat thrum in his neck, unsure if it was because he was searching for a way to let me down easily or drag me closer. The anxiety that had dissipated since the dinner came back tenfold, threatening to pull me under the riptide and suffocate my senses.
“Say something,” I whispered, mimicking his pose and staring at the floor. Maybe I’d read everything wrong, and when suddenly faced with exactly what he wanted, the prospect was terrifying instead of exhilarating.
“You told me not to.”
I rolled my eyes, unable to keep the small upturn of my lips from his words. Perhaps he wanted to torture me for a few more moments before ridding me of this plight. No. He wasn’t unnecessarily cruel like that. His silence came from a place of love—of wanting to give me ample time to speak before he filled the silence.
“You are absolutely an insufferable idiot,” I sighed, propping one hand on my waist and pressing the other against my cheek. “I should never have left you tonight. I should have grabbed you and held you and screamed that I was yours.”
“Oh, Emma. You love me.” He smiled back, taking another two steps until his bare feet brushed against my slippers. He phrased the words like they were a statement, not a question. Minty sweet breath ghosted over my face as he pressed our foreheads together, threading one hand through the hairs at the base of my neck. He pulled gently but with enough force to move my head and make my eyes meet his.
Those dark eyes said everything. They said love and adoration. Hope and forgiveness. More than that, they showed our future. I could see it as clearly as I could see the small cluster of freckles on his left cheek that sort of resembled the constellation Cygnus. There was only one answer to give him. The truth—something I knew beyond reason—something I’d known for a while.
“Yes, Miller. I do love you.”
“Oh, thank fuck, Emma,” he said, pressing his lips hard to mine. This shaky, harsh breath escaped his lips as he closed his eyes and tightened his hand in my hair like he expected me to run.
“I love you so damn much I can’t breathe, baby. I’m so sorry I walked away and for blaming you for things that were my fault. I couldn’t bear the thought of screwing things up again. I wouldn’t do that, even if it meant stepping aside for some prick who didn’t even have the decency to show up.”
My breath caught in my chest, replacing the uneasiness with joy as his hand tightened.
The nervousness that bubbled in my belly disappeared, steadying myself for what I wanted to say. The only other thing that mattered. The one thing that could solidify what we meant to each other.
“Miller. Kiss me. Please.”
My voice was barely above a whimper, but he didn’t need telling twice. He took the opportunity, crushing his lips against mine with a renewed vigor. I opened for him, tracing my tongue against his bottom lip as he growled—this animalistic noise from deep in his chest. Our tongues met and my hands went to his waist, digging into his sides to pull him closer.
Even though there was nothing separating us but unnecessary layers of clothing, it wasn’t enough; I needed more skin. More teeth. More touch. I needed him. He relaxed in my arms, trailing his hands along my back and breaking away from my lips to kiss down my jawline and to the pulse point in my neck. He bit down—hard—making me moan before he lavished the area with his mouth and tongue.
I knew there would be a bruise tomorrow. I wanted it. Needed the reminder that this was where he had been, and this was where he belonged. The moans and groans he made as he owned my mouth and body were borderline obscene, and did nothing to temper my libido, which was currently somewhere above hyperdrive.
Without warning, he pulled back, keeping his hands against me, but removing that devilish mouth from my collarbone. His eyes were hazy with lust, and the sight had me pressing my legs together to relieve the steadily building ache.
“This is it now, Emma. No more fucking around.” His voice was low and thick with emotion as he met my eyes. I whimpered, unashamed at how much hearing him say that affected me—down to my core. My body broke out in goose bumps even as my skin felt tight and overheated, and he smirked. This maddening, infuriating, desirable man smirked as he watched me.
“I want to call you mine and take you out on a date. Let me love you, Emma.”
I bit my lip, unable to keep the smile from my face. Something possessive rose to the surface, making me want to bottle up his voice and this moment. It was too perfect and too private to share with anyone else. It was mine.
“I want to come home to you every night and wake up with a mouthful of your hair every morning. I want to talk dirty to you until you scream my name, then hold you close as you drift off to sleep.”
My eyes widened, and I wrapped my arms around his waist, before I buried my head in his shoulder. Sweet coffee filled my senses, bringing with it a sense of rightness.
“It kills me to think of you with another man. The more dates you went on, the worse it got, making me realize I’m a possessive asshole. You’re mine. I want you all to myself.”
I should be offended that he spoke about me like I was a possession—but I wasn’t. Some deep part of me took absolute delight in him claiming me on such a carnal level, and I bit my lip harder to keep from dropping to my knees and begging him to help me relieve the tightening in my core.
“Miller. You’re all I want,” I said, my voice gaining some of its strength after his words positively flayed me raw.
“Can you accept me as I am? With all my faults? Knowing I’m not perfect, and there’s a good chance I’m going to fuck this up in the future.” His eyes closed as he spoke that last sentence, and I removed one hand from his waist and trailed it over his cheeks.
My fingers traced his contours—dips and curves I knew so well—until my thumb brushed his lips, and he opened his mouth, biting gently on the pad.
“Miller. I love you, and I don’t want perfect.”
His eyes shot open, and he smiled. The intensity of his emotions filled up every dark place inside of me with warmth and love.
“Perfect is boring. I only want you,” I said, moving my hand to cup his cheek and bringing my willing lips to his.
I shuddered and gave myself to him, opening my mouth and twining our tongues together. The kiss robbed me of my breath and made me forget I needed the oxygen he deprived me of. Although his kiss alone was not enough to survive, it was close.