4. Emi
EMI
By the time the check comes, I’ve laughed more over one breakfast than I have in weeks.
Connor sits across from me in the corner booth, his shoulders taking up an unreasonable amount of space, coffee mug near one hand, empty plates in front of him.
He’s just finished telling me about a corporate client who once insisted on having a full security sweep done for a destination yoga retreat, only to lose her phone in a basket of complimentary towels three minutes after arrival.
“You’re telling me the towels were the real threat,” I say, reaching for the check before he can.
His hand lands over the little black folder at the same time mine does. “Emi.”
“No.” I tug it out from under his palm with a triumphant smile. “You won’t let me pay you for lurking handsomely in my bookstore, so I’m paying for breakfast.”
“Lurking handsomely, huh?”
“Don’t get attached to the adverb. This is still an argument.”
Connor leans back, clearly unhappy with me paying, but there isn’t much he can do when I slide my card into the folder and hand it to the server with my brightest smile. He watches the betrayal happen in silence, then looks back at me.
“I’m paying next time.”
“Next time?” I ask, trying for breezy.
“Yes.”
The single word makes heat shimmer low in my stomach. There’s still a question between us, the one that’s been there since last night in the rain. Will we or won’t we? How long can I pretend this is ordinary when nothing about him feels ordinary to me?
Outside, the morning is bright and cool, the pavement still damp from last night’s weather. Connor holds the door for me, then falls into step at my side. “What’s next?”
“Errands.”
“Want company?”
I glance up at him. “You understand I mean deeply boring errands, right? Dry cleaner. Post office. Hardware store. Possibly a thrilling stop for printer paper.”
“I can handle it.”
“You say that now. Nobody is prepared for how long I take choosing office supplies.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
And that’s how I end up spending my day off with a man who looks wildly out of place everywhere and somehow makes every task feel easier.
At the dry cleaner, he carries my garment bag even after I tell him it weighs less than a sandwich.
At the post office, he stands so close that I can feel the heat of him behind me but never close enough to actually come in contact.
At the hardware store, he studies the lock display with a seriousness that makes the employee straighten up and start recommending deadbolts with fear in his eyes.
By noon, I’ve stopped pretending I don’t enjoy having him there.
It’s domestic in a way that should probably overwhelm me.
Connor putting bags in my trunk. Connor asking whether I need light bulbs.
Connor taking the basket from me at the grocery store without pausing the conversation.
I keep telling myself to keep my head on straight, but there’s something so pleasant about moving through ordinary places with him beside me, as if we’ve done it a hundred times before.
We’re halfway down the condiments aisle when he says, “We should get lunch after this.”
I laugh and reach for a jar of roasted peppers. “Are you always preoccupied with food?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.” I put the jar in the basket and try not to look too pleased by the fact that he wants more time with me. “Do you like baked pasta?”
“I like all pasta.”
“Very refined palate.” I turn us toward the dairy case, feeling reckless and oddly happy. “I make a good one. Sausage, roasted peppers, mozzarella, tons of sauce. If you want, I can cook.”
Connor stops walking.
I glance back. “What?”
His eyes move over my face, intent and hot enough to make my pulse trip. “I want.”
We drive separately back to my apartment, and I spend the whole drive telling myself this is just lunch.
Normal lunch. Day-off lunch with the protective ex-military bodyguard who read a romance novel because I joked about it and looked at me in the rain as if kissing me might become a life-altering event.
So maybe not normal lunch.
My apartment is small, sunny, and cleaner than usual because I panic-tidied this morning before breakfast. Connor carries the grocery bags up without comment, though I catch the quick sweep of his gaze when we step inside.
Front door. Windows. Kitchen. Hallway. He can’t help himself, and I’m starting to understand that about him.
“You don’t have to threat-assess my throw pillows,” I say, taking the mozzarella from one of the bags.
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Only the windows.”
I laugh and turn on the oven to preheat. Connor leans against the edge of my kitchen counter while I chop peppers, brown sausage, and stir sauce in a wide pan. He watches me with that focused attention that makes my skin feel too sensitive in the best of ways.
“Here.” I lift the spoon, then realize too late how intimate it feels to offer him a taste straight from it. “Tell me if this needs salt.”
Connor bends, his eyes on mine as he tastes the sauce. His mouth closes around the spoon, and the kitchen goes very quiet.
“It’s delicious,” he says.
I scoff. “You barely tasted it.”
“I tasted enough.”
The oven hums behind me, still heating, and the scent of garlic and tomato fills the space between us. He’s close now. Not touching me, but close enough that I can see the exact shade of his dark blue eyes and the small scar near his eyebrow.
His voice drops. “Would you be mad if I kissed you without the downpour?”
My breath leaves me. The question should make me laugh. Instead, it sends heat straight through me, because I know exactly what he’s asking. Not just whether he can kiss me, but whether I’m ready to stop pretending I don’t want him to.
“I suppose I’d survive,” I say.
His hand comes to the back of my neck, broad and warm, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is slow at first, tender enough to make my chest ache, but there’s strength beneath it.
Control. Hunger. He kisses me as if he’s been waiting with every part of himself, and the first stroke of his tongue makes a soft sound break in my throat.
Connor hears it. His other hand moves to my hip, and he draws me closer.
My hands slide up his chest, over hard muscle and warm skin beneath his shirt, and our kiss deepens.
One kiss turns into another, and then another, until I lose track of everything but his mouth and the heavy, hot pulse building between my thighs.
The oven beeps.
I pull back, dazed, my lips wet and my body aching. “The pasta.”
Connor’s eyes are dark. “Right.”
I assemble the dish with shaking hands, layering pasta, sauce, cheese, and sausage while he stands behind me close enough to ruin my concentration. When I slide it into the oven and close the door, I have to grip the handle for a second to steady myself.
“How long?” he asks.
“Half an hour.”
His hand reaches for my hip. “Good enough.”
Then he turns me back to him, and we’re kissing again.
This time there’s less patience. He backs me out of the kitchen and down the short hall, his mouth hot on mine, one hand firm at my waist and the other sliding into my hair.
I walk backward because I don’t want to stop kissing him long enough to turn around.
By the time we reach my bedroom, I’m breathless, my whole body buzzing with need.
Connor pins me against the wall just inside the door. His hands brace on either side of me, caging me in. “You need me to slow down?”
“No. God, no.”
His control cracks. He kisses me harder, and I feel the full force of him then.
The size. The strength. The hunger he’s been holding back.
His hands move to the hem of my top, and he pulls it up, watching every inch of me that he uncovers.
My bra follows, then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts.
When he closes his lips around one hardened nipple, I gasp and arch into him, and his low groan rolls through me.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he says against my skin. “Every inch of you.”
My jeans are next. He opens them with controlled hands, then tears them down my hips with my underwear.
I should feel vulnerable standing naked in front of a man built the way Connor is, but the look on his face makes anything other than self-assurance impossible. He looks wrecked. Reverent. Starving.
Then he drops to his knees.
My back hits the wall as he lifts one of my thighs over his shoulder and puts his mouth between my legs.
I cry out, both hands digging into his hair.
Connor groans against me, and the vibration makes my knees go weak.
His mouth is hot and sure, his tongue dragging through my cream before circling my clit with devastating patience.
He learns me with frightening speed, following every gasp, every tremble, every helpless tug of my hands in his hair.
“Connor,” I plead, though I don’t know what I’m asking for.
He looks up at me from between my thighs, his mouth wet, his eyes so dark I can barely breathe. Then he sucks my clit, and the orgasm tears through me. I come against his mouth, shaking hard, my hips rolling helplessly as he holds me up and keeps licking until I’m sobbing from the pleasure.
When he rises, I pull at his shirt with desperate hands. He helps me get it off, then his belt, his jeans, the rest of his clothes. His cock is huge, thick and hard between us, and the sight of it sends a fresh wave of need through my already desperate body.
We end up on the floor because neither of us can wait. Connor gets me on my back and settles between my thighs, one arm braced beside my head. “Emi.”
“I need you,” I beg, reaching for him. “Now.”
He pushes into me raw, slow enough to let me take him and deep enough to make my breath catch.
He’s so big it borders on too much, stretching me inch by inch until my nails dig into his shoulders.
His jaw is clenched, his control hanging by a thread, and when he finally seats himself fully inside me, we both go still.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “You feel perfect.”
I wrap my legs around his hips. “Move.”
He does. Every thrust drives deep, barely controlled enough that I feel how badly he’s trying not to lose himself. I don’t want controlled anymore. I want the man who watched my door, came to my book club, walked me to my car in the rain, and looked at me as if he already knew I belonged to him.
My second orgasm starts low and builds fast, fed by the deep thrusts of his cock and the way he looks at me. Possessive. Devoted. Gone for me.
“Connor,” I gasp, gripping his back. “I’m going to come again.”
“Give it to me.”
I shatter around him, crying out as my pussy pulses hard around his cock. His control breaks with a rough sound, and suddenly he’s fucking me even harder, his hips driving into mine with a need that makes my entire body burn.
I need him closer. Deeper. I need to be claimed and filled and changed by him.
“Come inside me,” I tell him.
His eyes flash. “Emi.”
“Please. I want it. I want you.”
He loses the last of his restraint, burying his face against my neck as he pounds into me. His body is huge over mine, his muscles hard and taut under my hands, his breath rough against my skin. Then he drives deep and stays there, a broken groan tearing out of him as I feel him explode inside me.
The sensation sends a final shudder of pleasure through me. When he lifts his head and kisses me again, the kiss is slow, deep, and somehow even more intimate than everything that came before.
I taste myself on his mouth. I feel him still hard inside me. I feel the warmth of his cum deep in my body.
And I understand, with a clarity that scares me and steadies me at the same time, that something has shifted past the point of return.
We belong to each other now.