28. Henley
Henley
Enveloped by his warmth, I burrow in a little further. All I want to do is surrender myself completely.
So much has happened today, and the tension between us is enough to burn this cabin to ash.
Though my heart—and my lady bits— are begging me to just give in, I need to give myself a little breath.
I have a feeling I’ll know exactly when that moment hits.
For now, I’m just going to relish in finally being in Emerson Lane’s orbit.
My stomach grumbles loudly between us, and I’m thankful for the distraction. His chest bounces with mirth against my head. “Let’s make some dinner, Trouble.”
Peeling myself away from his glorious Adonis abs, I start to put on the apron I brought along with me, then pause. That damn chest of his is going to be a distraction the entire night if I don’t do something. A devious smirk grows on my lips. Em’s brow curls up, studying me suspiciously.
“In my kitchen, everyone must be fully clothed, and in proper attire.” I tsk, tossing him my floral apron.
“Yes, chef.” He hums a little too seductively for my fragile state and catches the apron midair, throwing the open loop over his head. Then he slowly turns around and peers over his shoulder. “Could you tie it for me?”
Well, that immediately backfired.
There’s a slight tremble to my fingers as the soft fabric slides between them. His back arches slightly when my knuckles graze over his skin. Knowing that my touch has such an effect on him awakens the butterflies deep within my stomach.
“All done,” I say breathlessly, patting him quickly on the back. I turn to grab cutting boards and knives to hide my blush.
Since he’d mentioned grilled cheese earlier, I thought it’d be nice to make that and some homemade tomato bisque to go along with it. I place the tomatoes and herbs in front of me, the onions and carrots in front of him. “Those need to be chopped, and these two can just be finely diced.”
Emerson picks up the knife warily, his lips pressed firmly together as he cuts through the middle of the onion.
As I quarter the tomatoes and place them on the pan for roasting, I steal little peeks at Em’s progress.
He manages to chop the carrots just fine, but my heart pinches as I observe him in deep concentration while he tries to dice the onions into even pieces.
There are even little beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.
I place my hand gently over the hand that’s holding the knife as he pauses mid-chop. “Here, let me help.”
Sliding behind him, I squeeze my other arm between his opposite side. Obviously I didn’t quite think this through, because Em’s body is huge. As I strain my neck to peer around him and begin guiding his hands through the cuts, a little giggle slips free.
“What’s so funny, Trouble?”
The heat of his gaze warms the top of my head. As I peer upward, I find his lips pressed together tightly, trying to contain his own laughter. Shaking my head, I continue to guide his cuts as I answer. “It’s just, this usually goes the other way around in all my romance books,” I laugh.
Laughter rumbles through Emerson’s chest and I feel it vibrate from my chest all the way to my core.
Once I see he’s getting the hang of the chopping action, I give myself some much-needed space before I get carried away and break my promise to myself to give this thing between us a little time before I jump his bones.
While we work, I turn on some music, and we fall into an unexpected rhythm. The kitchen is such a small space, so we’re constantly brushing against each other. Each one builds the tension between us to the point where I feel like I can almost feel the zaps of electricity in the air.
Emerson must have been feeling the same way because he begins doing things purposely to make contact. Reaching across me to grab things instead of going around me. Or standing so close to me that our shoulders brush against each other while we work.
When it’s time to stir the bisque, I’m thankful to get some reprieve. Em grates the Gruyère and preps the bread with generous amounts of butter behind me. Allowing me a chance to breathe and hide the flush I could feel burning my skin.
Swirling Autumn’s ladle through the soup, I roll my neck, trying to release the pressure that’s built there from today’s painting. There’s also an ache in between my shoulder blades, and I would do anything for a massage. Or the jets of a spa.
Nope. Bad idea, Hen.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to jump back into the spa since that night. Even looking at it makes my cheeks heat. Kind of like they are right now.
Calloused hands dig directly into the aching spot on my neck, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s such a delicious sensation that makes my lashes flutter closed for a moment. A low whimper tears through me as his adept fingers massage every sore muscle.
I melt like butter into his hold. Not even noticing that I’ve stopped stirring entirely.
“Oh my god,” I groan, as his thumbs dig against the knots. “You are really skilled with those hands.”
His movement stills.
My entire body cringes inwardly with embarrassment.
Already regretting the stupid words that just fled my lips, I try to slip out of his hold, but his hands press firmly into my skin, pulling me flush against his chest.
Stunned, I watch as his fingers trail across the crook of my neck and lightly trail down my arm. The other hand wraps possessively around my stomach, holding me still. When his breath tickles the shell of my ear, I feel like my heart might beat straight out of my body.
“You have no idea what these hands are capable of,” he whispers, his husky voice strained as his hand finds mine.
“When you’re ready . . .” he purrs, guiding my hand slowly up the inside of my thigh, stopping just above where I need it most. Interlacing our fingers, he uses our hands to cup my core with so much pressure that my brain goes hazy.
His arousal presses against my lower back, letting me know it’s affecting him just as much. The sharp bite of my teeth nicks my bottom lip, muffling the moan his touch tears out of me. “I’ll show you exactly how skilled they can be.”
His lips skim the shell of my ear with a ghost of a kiss. Then he pulls away to continue prepping the grilled cheese. I’m left hot and bothered, just like the soup that’s now boiling in front of me.
I gasp, quickly shutting off the flame and setting the pot aside to cool down. Finally taking a breath, I attempt to do the same.
Somehow, we make it through finishing dinner, and we finally sit down to eat. Emerson dunks the edge of his sandwich in the tomato bisque and takes a ginormous bite. Gooey, melted cheese stretches from his mouth to the bread.
“Oomph, my goph,” he groans in delight, words muffled by the food. His eyes roll backward as he dips the sandwich again, prepping for bite two. A grin tugs at my lips as I watch him smile and bring it up to his mouth. “You weren’t kidding about this being mind-blowing.”
Giggling, I begin to eat my own. He devours the sandwich in what feels like seconds. When I see him eyeing my uneaten half, I snort into my glass of water. Lifting my bowl of soup off the plate, I slide him the rest of my sandwich.
“No, that’s all yours. You need to eat it all,” he says gruffly, sliding it back in front of me.
“It’s really okay. I don’t mind at all,” I say, sliding it back toward him, but he grabs my wrist. He swipes the plate and places it back in front of me.
“Eat, Hen.”
His eyes stare with such intensity, I can tell he’s not going to budge. So I pick up the other half and begin to eat it.
“Good girl.”
His praise causes me to have a coughing spasm so hard that I chug the rest of my water just to make it stop. Emerson’s head falls forward, and I can see his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Jerk,” I grumble, nudging him playfully on the shoulder before stealing his glass of whiskey and taking a sip. Cinnamon whiskey burns a delicious path down my throat, causing a small hum to rumble in my chest.
“When did you start drinking cinnamon whiskey?” I ask, raising the glass between us.
His palm envelops mine, pulling the glass toward his lips. “Since that night. Just one taste of you left me with quite an addiction, Hen.”
My lips part. Bright blue eyes trap mine as he takes a long draw from the glass then releases my trembling hand so I can place it back on the counter. He licks a drop of whiskey from his bottom lip, and I find myself entranced.
Wanting another taste.
The wicked grin that spreads across his lips sends my blood pulsing.
He leans forward, cupping my cheek and tugging me until I meet his lips. His soft bottom lip flutters over mine and tastes like hints of butter and cinnamon. Just as I begin to soften in his hold, he breaks the kiss and stands up.
“Thanks for the amazing dinner.” He smiles while bending down to take my dishes and then gives me a quick peck on the lips. “And dessert.”
He winks before walking away, and my cheeks are aflame.
I take a minute to collect myself before rounding the counter to help him. As I step beside him, my shoulder brushes against his, alerting him to my presence.
Setting down the soapy pot, he shakes his head. “Nope. My kitchen, my dishes, Trouble. I’ve got this, get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do to get this ranch ready for a wedding.”
“I’m not going to leave you with all this mess. Just let me help,” I say, reaching across him to grab one of the pans. He swats my hand away and slides me between him and the sink. Damp hands pinch my chin as the rest of his body keeps me pinned in place.
“No more arguing.” His forceful tone causes my breath to hitch. He leans in closer, his gaze never leaving mine as he does. Releasing his hold, his hand trails down to lightly grip the back of my neck. As his thumb grazes back and forth over the side of my throat, I squeeze my thighs together.
“Let me do this. I know you’re hurting. Get some rest, Trouble.”
I swallow deeply, not knowing how to reply.
When Carson and I were together, I did everything. The cooking, the cleaning, the shopping, everything. My love language has always been doing things for other people. So for a while, it didn’t bother me. But then he started to complain.
Once we got into an argument because I had been exhausted from work and fell asleep on the couch. When he came home, he had brought a co-worker and was appalled that I had left a plate and a cup in the sink.
Another time, he had the audacity to complain that our dinner was too ‘plain.’ He told me that since I was a chef, I should be able to make quality dishes at home, too.
When I threw it back on him and told him he could help me out occasionally, he shamed me.
The memory of his words still makes my stomach churn to this day.
“I work hard to make sure to pay for all these luxuries that we both indulge in. You and I both know your paycheck and contributions cover barely a third of our expenses. So, Henny, I think it’s the least you can do, right?”
My fingers curl around the edge of the sink and Emerson’s eyes go wide.
“Everything okay?” he asks, gently.
I nod. “I’m just not used to all this.”
“Not used to what? People doing things for you or people taking care of you?”
“Both, I guess,” I say softly with a shrug.
Emerson’s head shoots to the ceiling as he grumbles something under his breath. Then, with a heavy sigh, he lowers his face to meet mine. His thumb still brushing tenderly against my neck again as he speaks.
“I’m sorry you’ve been through such horrible relationships. You always do so much for others, and deserve to be taken care of in the same way. That is exactly what I plan to do. Understand?”
His brow raises, and I can feel my eyes beginning to gloss over.
“I understand.”
Em smiles and presses a quick kiss to my forehead before stepping back and giving me space. “Now, go get some sleep, okay?”
“Okay.”
His lips pull into one more smile before he turns the water back on and returns to washing the dishes.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst. The last thing I want to do is leave. But he’s right. We have so much work to get done and not a lot of time left. I’m going to need all the sleep I can get to pull off catering this event.
The crisp night air flows over me as I hold the screen door and glance back one more time. I find his gaze already awaiting mine.
“Goodnight, Hen.”
“Night, Em.”