16 #2
He smiled, slow and devastating, tilted her chin up and kissed her like they weren’t in the middle of a pub with half the town watching.
His tongue teased hers, teeth catching her lower lip, the growl in his throat when she grabbed his shoulders and pressed closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between them.
She could feel how much he wanted this too, as he pressed against her hip.
‘We should go,’ he said, his lips against her mouth.
They barely made it to the hallway before he pressed her against the wall.
Her hands were in his hair, his thigh between hers, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.
Stumbling up the stairs, laughing, kissing, hands everywhere.
Emily missed a step halfway up and he caught her, steadied her, kissed her harder.
‘There’s the tequila,’ she giggled against his mouth.
His hands slid under her shirt, fingertips tracing her ribs. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, both of them desperate and clumsy and perfect. He dropped the key twice trying to get the door open while she did her best to distract him, nipping at his neck, pressing against him, feeling him shudder.
Inside, the door clicked shut behind them and they were plunged into darkness. Her back hit the wall immediately, his mouth never leaving hers as she yanked his belt open properly this time, undid the button and zip until…
‘Wait. Let me turn on the light.’
The light clicked on, casting a soft yellow glow across the apartment. Emily could see it properly now, a small kitchenette to the left, the bedroom door ajar at the back, and dominating the living space, an ancient leather couch.
‘Come here,’ he said, his voice rough with want.
She jumped into his arms, legs around his waist, kissing him like the world was ending. They crashed onto the couch together, Emily straddling his lap, grinding down against him. The contact was both perfect and not nearly enough.
He hissed something sharp in that language of his, then managed in English: ‘You are going to kill me.’
‘What a way to go though.’
Emily pulled her shirt off in one motion, tossing it behind them. His gaze dropped to her black lace bra, the one she put on that morning with hope but no real expectation.
He looked at her then, really looked. Raw. Honest. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected to find.
Her cheeks heated, which was ridiculous considering she was straddling him half-naked, but something about the intensity in his gaze made everything else fade away.
They kissed slower, deeper. His hands in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp, hers mapping the muscles of his chest through his shirt. She could feel him beneath her, hard and insistent through their jeans, and she rolled her hips again, chasing that perfect pressure.
‘Bedroom,’ he managed between kisses. ‘We should…’
‘No. Here. Now. I can’t wait anymore.’
Emily wanted to break his control. Wanted to make him as desperate as she was.
She bit his lower lip, rolled her hips in a slow circle that made him groan.
His hands gripped her waist firmly, thumb on her hipbone and fingers sprawling on her lower back, and she loved it, like the heat of it could leave an imprint.
He flipped them, caging her beneath him on the couch.
The leather creaked ominously.
‘I want this,’ she whispered, reaching up to cup his face. ‘I want you.’
‘I want you as well. Since I first saw you at the festival, Emily, you cannot imagine…’
She kissed him quiet, wrapping her legs around him to pull him closer.
They fumbled with the rest of their clothes, shoving rather than removing, desperate and graceless.
His mouth on her breasts, tongue circling one nipple while his thumb teased the other.
Her back arching off the couch, fingers tangled in his hair, both of them making sounds that would have carried through the thin walls.
His fingers found her, sliding through how wet she was, and they both groaned. It wouldn’t take much, the anticipation had been mounting all night.
‘I’m close,’ she panted. ‘I’m so close already…’
And then.
The frame tilted violently and Emily went sliding onto the floor with a graceless thud, jeans around her thighs, dignity somewhere back at the vineyard.
She lay there for a second, blinking at the ceiling, then burst out laughing.
‘Oh my god. I just broke the couch with my vagina.’
Leo was beside her instantly, hands gentle, checking for injuries while she giggled helplessly about property damage and structural integrity.
But even through her laughter, Emily felt it. The air shifting. The temperature dropping degrees in seconds. When she looked up at him, really looked, something cold slithered through her chest.
His face had gone still. Careful. She watched him wrestle with something, desire warring with concern, want tangling with worry. His hands hovered over her, not quite touching, and Emily saw the exact moment responsibility won.
‘I think perhaps we should slow down,’ he said quietly, and his voice carried a weight that made her stomach drop.
The laughter died in her throat. ‘What?’
‘You have been drinking. We both have. And you just fell…’ He ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling. ‘I want this to be right. I want you to remember everything. I want to remember everything.’
‘Because the couch broke! Not because we had too much wine.’
But he was already pulling back, putting distance between them that felt infinite. His eyes stayed on hers though, dark with want and something else, a kind of protective concern that she was too hurt to recognise.
Like she could forget. Like any amount of wine could make her forget the way he looked at her while he played, the way he kissed her, the way he touched her.
Emily scrambled backwards, suddenly hyperaware of her state. Grabbed his shirt from the floor and yanked it over her head, drowning in the smell of him, cologne and wine and everything she couldn’t have.
‘Right. Of course,’ she said.
‘Emily…’
‘Don’t. Okay, just…don’t.’
He disappeared into the bathroom and she stood there like an idiot, his shirt hanging huge on her, trying to understand what had just happened. How they went from desperate passion to this arctic distance in seconds.
The anger came fast and hot. How dare he? How dare he make her feel like she was too drunk, too messy, too much? Emily knew what she wanted. She was clear about it. And he wanted it too, she felt it, saw it, tasted it.
But one clumsy moment and suddenly she wasn’t worth it anymore?
She stormed to the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. She slid down the door, knees to her chest, and cried until her throat was raw.
The maths swam in her head, the bottle at the winery, two bottles at the pub, that tequila shot. Maybe he had a point. Maybe she was drunker than she thought.
But it still hurt like hell.
Because it hadn’t just been about sex. It had been about connection. About someone who saw her, really saw her. Or so she thought.
The worst part was how careful he looked. Not disgusted, not disappointed, just careful. Like she was something fragile he was afraid of breaking.
Emily crawled into bed in his shirt, pulled the covers over her head, and tried to stop the room from spinning. Sleep came eventually, restless and full of dreams where she kept falling, over and over, and no one ever caught her.