10. Henry
Henry
Taking Emily’s hand, I lead her back into the house to say our goodbyes. The living room is still warm with the scent of dinner, the low hum of conversation fading as Sarah, Logan, and Grace look up from their spots on the couch.
Grace is the first to move, practically launching herself at Emily.
“You’re officially my favorite future aunt,” she declares, squeezing Emily tightly.
Emily laughs, hugging her back. “Oh? And here I thought I had to work harder for your approval.”
Grace pulls back, grinning. “Nah, you had me at shutting Uncle Henry up at the dinner table.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Thanks, kid.”
Sarah smirks. “She’s not wrong.”
I ignore that.
Then Grace, in all her fourteen-year-old wisdom, leans in and stage-whispers to Emily, “Don’t let him boss you around. But if he does, at least make sure it’s in the bedroom.”
Emily chokes.
Sarah’s eyes widen. “Grace!”
Logan howls with laughter, and I swear, I’m reconsidering my entire existence.
Grace shrugs, utterly unbothered. “What? I’m just saying—”
“Bed. Now.” Sarah orders, pointing toward the stairs.
Grace winks at Emily, then skips off, leaving me standing there, mortified.
Sarah sighs, shaking her head. “I’m blaming you for this.”
Logan wipes away tears of laughter. “Don’t fight it, Henry. Your influence is clearly corrupting.”
Emily, still trying not to die of laughter, tugs my hand. “C’mon, Uncle Henry, let’s get out of here before she comes back with more wisdom.”
I don’t even argue and we’re both still laughing when we step outside, the cool night air crisp against my skin.
I shake my head as we approach the truck. “She’s a monster.”
Emily grins. “Oh, definitely. But an entertaining one.”
I grunt, pulling open the passenger door for her. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to live with her.”
Emily smirks. “You love her.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
And I do. More than I can put into words.
The drive back to Emily’s house is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that’s aware, thick with the weight of what’s about to happen.
I should be questioning this. Should be second-guessing every moment that led to me walking into her life.
But I don’t.
Not when she’s sitting beside me, stealing glances my way. Not when she wants this just as much as I do.
When we pull up to the house, Emily hops out, stretching her arms above her head and I barely catch myself from looking.
Her laughter still lingers in my ears, the warmth of the cabin wrapping around us, the scent of pine and firewood mixing with something softer—her.
She turns to me, her eyes dark and knowing, and I swear my pulse slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she murmurs, slipping off her coat, “like you’re about to devour me.”
I step closer, towering over her, my fingers grazing her wrist as I take the coat from her hands and toss it aside. “Maybe I am.”
A flicker of something ignites in her gaze—heat, challenge, want—and then she reaches up, fingertips tracing the scar on my shoulder. A ghost of a touch, yet it sends a slow, burning sensation spiraling through me.
“This is where you got shot,” she whispers, her eyes scanning the jagged line.
I nod, watching her reaction. “Yemen.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away like most people do when they hear about my past. Instead, she leans in.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
A slow, thoughtful hum escapes her, and before I can register what she’s about to do, her lips press against the scar—a soft, lingering kiss that sends a jolt of heat straight through my body.
I inhale sharply. “Em.”
She looks up, eyes locked with mine, daring me to stop her. I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp as I back her up against the nearest wall. My hands slide into her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and fuck, she tastes like wine and something sweeter—something entirely her.
She moans against my lips, fingers clutching my shirt, yanking me closer like she needs more.
I need more.
I slide my hands down, gripping the backs of her thighs, lifting her with ease. She wraps around me like she belongs there, her legs locking tight as I press her harder against the wall, our bodies flush, heat searing through the layers of our clothes.
She grinds against me, and Jesus, my control is hanging by a thread.
“Bedroom,” I mutter against her mouth.
She nods, breathless, and I carry her there without breaking the kiss, our lips tangling, hands roaming, desperation crackling like wildfire between us.
By the time we reach the bed, I’m already peeling her sweater off, my lips never leaving her skin, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone. She arches against me, gasping as my teeth scrape lightly over her pulse point.
“Henry,” she whispers, her nails digging into my shoulders, dragging me down with her as I lower us onto the mattress.
I hover over her, drinking in the sight of her beneath me—flushed, breathless, aching for me. My fingers trail down her body, slow and deliberate, savoring the way she shivers under my touch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, my voice rough, reverent.
She reaches for me, her fingers curling around the hem of my shirt. “Off. Now.”
I chuckle, but I don’t make her wait. I pull it over my head and toss it aside, then dip down, capturing her mouth again as my hands slide beneath the waistband of her leggings.
She lifts her hips, helping me pull them down, and then she’s bare beneath me, heat pooling between us, nothing but skin and fire and raw need.
She reaches for my jeans, fumbling with the button, her urgency making my head spin. “Too many clothes,” she mutters.
I smirk, helping her shove them down, kicking them off until we’re both finally skin to skin. The first press of her against me makes me groan—hot, slick, perfect.
She gasps as I slide my hand between us, my fingers teasing her entrance, feeling just how ready she is for me.
“You’re soaked,” I growl, sliding a finger inside, watching as her back arches, her lips parting on a breathy moan.
“Henry, please,” she whimpers, her hips rolling into my touch.
I don’t make her beg. I slide in another finger, curling them just right, drawing soft, desperate cries from her lips.
She’s already close, her walls fluttering around me, her body tightening, chasing release.
“Let go, sweetheart,” I murmur against her lips, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over her clit. “Come for me.”
Her entire body tenses, and then she’s shattering beneath me, moaning my name as her climax rips through her. I watch, memorizing every second—the way her thighs tremble, the way her fingers clutch at my biceps, the way her lips part in a silent cry of pleasure.
Fucking gorgeous.
As she comes down, I reach for protection, rolling the condom on quickly. Her eyes flutter open, still hazy with bliss, and she pulls me down, her lips brushing against mine.
“I need you,” she whispers.
With one slow thrust, I slide inside her, and fuck, she feels like heaven—tight, wet, perfect.
Her breath catches, her nails biting into my skin, and for a moment, neither of us move.
Then I do.
I pull back, then push deeper, setting a rhythm that has her gasping, her body arching to meet every thrust. Her hands roam—down my back, over my chest, clutching, desperate.
She moans, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
I kiss her deeply, swallowing every gasp, every cry, thrusting harder, deeper, until she’s trembling again, her walls fluttering around me.
“Henry, I—”
“I know,” I groan, feeling her tighten around me. “Come for me again, baby.”
I slide a hand between us, teasing her clit, and she breaks.
She cries out, her body pulsing around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, groaning as my own climax crashes through me, pleasure exploding in waves.
For a long moment, we just breathe, tangled together, our bodies still trembling from the aftershocks.
I brush a kiss against her shoulder, her cheek, her lips.
She sighs, curling into me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.
“Stay,” she whispers sleepily.
I tighten my arms around her, pressing my lips to her temple.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
As the fire crackles in the distance, I let sleep pull me under, holding the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.
***
Sunlight filters in through the window, casting long golden streaks across the sheets.
I don’t move.
Everything is warm, slow, and content.
Which is suspicious.
Because nothing in my life has ever been content.
I blink awake, body feeling thoroughly used in the best way possible.
The bed is empty.
Frowning, I sit up, raking a hand through my hair.
There’s a faint noise—clinking, soft humming.
I push off the covers, hunting for my shirt. No luck.
I sigh, grabbing the first thing I can find—my old, worn-out sweatpants—and head for the source of the noise.
The smell of food hits me before I reach the kitchen and my feet hurries in that direction. I stop in the doorway.
Emily is standing at the stove, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing my flannel. It’s huge on her, draping past her thighs, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing anything underneath.
I cross my arms, leaning against the frame. “You trying to feed me after wearing me out?”
She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “It’s only fair. Besides, I fully intend to wear you out again.”
Heat surges through me. I step forward, hands sliding around her waist as I pull her back against me. She hums, her body melting into mine.
I dip my head, murmuring against her ear, “You trying to kill me, Carter?”
She tilts her head, exposing her neck. “I dunno, Walker. You seemed to handle me just fine last night.”
I smirk, hands settling on her waist, lips brushing against the curve of her neck. She hums, leaning back into me, and just then the smell of burning hits my nose.
“The food!” And she yelps, shoving me back.I blink. “What?”
She rushes to the stove, frantically turning down the heat. “You distracted me!”
I lean against the counter, thoroughly amused. “Uh-huh.”
She glares at the contents of the pot and then back at me. “This is your fault.”
I raise a brow. “My fault?”
“Yes!” She waves a spatula at me. “You could’ve not distracted me.”
I snort. “Pretty sure that wasn’t on the table.”
“You’re impossible,” She huffs, crossing her arms. “I was cooking breakfast. Now it’s probably ruined.”
I smirk and peer over her shoulder. The eggs are slightly crispy, the bacon… well-done.
I shrug. “I’ve eaten worse.”
Her glare is full of heat, but she plates the food anyway, setting it down with a huff. “Well, congratulations. We’re eating overcooked eggs.”
We sit down to eat, our plates filled with slightly overcooked food, but neither of us complains. It’s… comfortable. The kind of easy back-and-forth that feels too natural.
Emily chews on a piece of bacon, eyeing me. “You always wake up looking this smug?”
I smirk. “Only when I have a reason to.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ugh. I take back what I said last night.”
I tilt my head. “Which part?”
She flushes. “Forget it.”
I chuckle, popping a bite of toast into my mouth. “Nope. You brought it up.”
She glares. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I smirk. “Immensely.”
She groans, dropping her head onto the table. “Why did I do this to myself?”
I grin. “Because you wanted to.”
She lifts her head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t look so smug about it.”
I chuckle. “No promises.”
After a while, the conversation shifts.
Emily twirls a piece of toast between her fingers, glancing at me. “Can I say something?”
I pause, watching her.
She sets her fork down, eyes flicking toward me. “So… this.”
I raise a brow. “This?”
“This… thing between us.”
My stomach tightens, but I don’t let it show. “What about it?”
She exhales. “I feel safe with you. I want you. But I don’t know how long that lasts, or what it means.”
I nod slowly. “So, you want to see where this goes?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. I want to not think about where it goes. Just… be in it. Until it doesn’t feel right anymore.”
A no-strings arrangement. Just heat, and the physical desires. That would be just enough to pretend we aren’t both standing too close to something dangerous.
I should hate this idea, instead, I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Sounds like a plan.”
She searches my face. “You sure?”
I lift a brow. “You worried I’ll get attached?”
Her lips curl. “Worried I will.”
Something in my chest tugs.
I push it down.
“Well,” I murmur, voice low, “Guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
Emily tilts her head, studying me.
Then she leans forward, her voice playful but edged with something deeper.
“Hope you can keep up, Walker.”
And just like that, I know this is going to be very, very dangerous.