Chapter 32
Sebastian
I do my best to get myself under control and ignore the elephant in the room—the enormous four-poster bed.
All night, I couldn’t stop staring at Emma in that little red dress hugging her slight curves and showing off her luminous skin. At the table, I couldn’t resist running my fingers over her back showcased in the deep V that plunged low. She startled and gasped at my touch but didn’t move away.
And then there was the moment I couldn’t hold back any longer.
I told myself that one small kiss would be okay.
I reasoned that it was just for show. But her eager lips, the little gasp of sound she made when our tongues touched, the way her hand came to grasp my shoulder and pull me closer—all that made everything else disappear.
There was nothing fake about the kiss. Or the way I feel about this woman before me.
I look down at her ring finger to see the diamond flash.
Arranging for a special viewing of the best, rarest, and most valuable gems on such quick notice wasn’t something Matt could manage.
It took every contact I had, every bit of cachet and power at my disposal, to gather that collection at the small, boutique jewelry shop, with favors called in, promises made.
Several armed guards were set up around the store, though thankfully, Emma didn’t notice.
I’m no good at taking things slow. Emma’s the cautious one. But over the years, she’s shown me the wisdom of looking before leaping when the stakes are high. And for this, the stakes are the highest of my life.
So I remind myself to chill the fuck out and not mess this up by rushing her.
Em’s gaze shifts back to the bed and then returns to me.
She clears her throat. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she says softly.
She walks over to the antique dresser and pulls a neat pile of folded items out of a drawer, because of course she unpacked.
Avoiding my gaze as if feeling shy, she walks to the bathroom.
A short while later, I hear the shower start and then stop. When the door to the marble bathroom opens, she steps out, the back light framing her curves.
I lie stretched out on the bed. I drop the script I’ve been distracting myself with and gulp. Her expression is somehow both shy and defiant. I’d had a variety of sleepwear sent over earlier today. Matching sets of tailored pajamas. And little wisps of lace and satin.
Instead, she’s wearing one of the concert T-shirts I packed for her. It’s black, with the band name emblazoned across her chest. It falls to mid-thigh and looks soft, as if it’s been washed a dozen times. There are a few holes in the neckline.
Her face is bare, with no trace of makeup, and her hair is down, falling silkily over her shoulders. Her toes are painted the color of midnight.
“You’re perfect.” The words pop out of my mouth of their own volition.
More than at any other time I’ve seen her. More than the overachieving professional I’ve worked with daily. Even more than that hot-as-hell badass in red with her hair down and flowing over her back from earlier tonight. She’s never looked more herself than now.
And I fucking can’t get enough of this stripped-down version. It’s almost as if I can see behind the mask.
I’ll forever think of her just like this. In this room. In this light.
She laughs. “Hardly. This is my favorite sleep shirt,” she admits on a breath.
“It’s falling apart, but it’s so soft. I’m surprised you packed it.
” I’m not sure I understand why, but there’s vulnerability in her gaze, as if admitting that she loves the threadbare cotton is shameful, some dirty little secret.
“It was at the top of the drawer,” I say lamely, my mouth dry. I very much want to drag her to the bed. To show her just how much I like her shirt. And the bare skin beneath.
Slow down, I remind myself for the billionth time. I need to find out if she still wants or needs her boundaries. She says I’ve spent the last seven years crashing through them all. And more than anything, I want to be a better version of myself. For her.
She stands there, looking uncertain, watching me with a question in her gaze. She clears her throat and looks around the room. “There don’t seem to be any extra pillows.”
At first, I don’t understand her words, and then it hits me. The first time we slept together, she used pillows to create a barrier between us. But there are no extra pillows now.
We have one bed and no separation.
Fuck. Yes.
Don’t rush it. Don’t be an asshat. “I can find somewhere else to sleep,” I offer. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I can crash in the bathroom. Or make an excuse for why I need to leave tonight and come back in the morning.”
We’ve slept the past few nights together, but it feels different now. Then, she was just out of the hospital and recovering. I knew nothing was going to happen.
But tonight… Her face is alive. Her crystalline eyes shining. A vision flashes through my imagination. Her wearing the sapphire necklace and nothing else.
“No, it’s okay. We’ve shared a bed before. We’re two adults,” she says huskily. “You’re—you’re not my boss anymore.”
That should hurt, as if I’ve lost something at her words. Instead, there’s a dizzying flash of lightness. A dozen chains that have been holding me down suddenly released.
She crawls into bed and shivers.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admits, sounding shy. “It’s surprisingly chilly. And this blanket, while beautiful, isn’t very warm.”
“I’m always hot. You can use me.”
She giggles. It’s uncharacteristically girlish.
I tuck it into my memory. I’m not sure when the habit started but lately—longer—I’ve been collecting her laughs like I’d collect lucky pebbles.
Each is similar, but different. Mundane miracles to be turned over, analyzed; a fragment of memory to be marveled at, to be tucked away in some corner of my brain to savor for later.
I’m well aware that it’s not what employers do. That’s not what friends do. Not even friends with benefits. But once I started down this path, I haven’t been able to stop.
I turn that thought around and around in my brain, just like the pebble.
The powerful need to keep Emma in my employ dissipated that first night in the hospital, like the air in a balloon being let out.
Needing her as my assistant became secondary to making sure she’s okay.
To showing up as someone she can rely on. Nothing else mattered.
When she first quit, I thought that what we both needed aligned. I assumed she was burned out, and all I had to do was lessen her load and adjust the job to suit her better. I never questioned that there’d be a time when her being in my life as my assistant wasn’t what was best for her.
I never even questioned why I needed her to stay with me on some vaguely defined timeline that resembled forever. I never wondered about the caveman-like, visceral feeling of it.
It just was. Sebastian and Emma. Always.
But tonight, I overheard her talking about her new business to Caitlin. Her eyes lit up, and her voice and body got animated when she discussed Dream Space in a way she never had as my assistant. She radiated energy and enthusiasm.
It showed me everything I didn’t want to see for so long. I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what’s best for her is not me. Or, at least, not me as her boss.
And I wonder if she could want me in a different role.
If I could ever earn that. If I could ever earn her.
I pull her forward, needing to be close in a way that’s beyond logical thought. I ignore any warning bells I might hear about the stupidity of my actions. I can’t help myself.
I’ll just hold her. That’s it.
For a second, she’s stiff in my arms, but then she softens.
I’ve changed into boxers and a T-shirt, my attempt to make her feel comfortable, even though I normally sleep naked.
The basics are covered, but we’re skin to skin everywhere else, limbs entwined, arms bare, her cheek resting against the cotton of my white T-shirt.
Her hair tickles my chin, and the slight weight of her body feels like the most precious cargo, pulling me into depths I’ve never been to, depths I’ve always feared.
I kiss her head, the silk of her hair cool against my lips. “Sleep, Em,” I say roughly, desperately clawing at every bit of restraint I can muster. “I’ve got you.”
But instead of falling asleep like she has the past few nights, she sits up and pierces me with eyes that are wide and intense.
“I can’t,” she says. “I’m not sick any longer.”
The devil and my conscience both whimper.
“Thank fucking God, baby,” I grit out. “Because I sure as hell can’t either.”
Restraint never stood a chance.