35. Liam
It’s late afternoon and I’m talking to Emmy as I drive down to a job in Santa Cruz. She’s been in San Jose all day—something to do with the grocery store.
“Well, if you missed me today and you’re ready to go on that date,” I tell her, “let me know.”
“Come by my office tonight and I’ll show you the parts I’ve missed,” she replies. “I’ll pay so much attention to those parts it’ll blow your mind. Well, something will blow anyway.”
My dick hardens embarrassingly fast.
Goddamn, I wish I could just agree and stand my ground on another day. I don’t know why she’s willing to have furtive sex in her office and talk to me on the phone for hours, yet a date is where she draws the line. “Nope.”
“Come on, Liam,” she groans. “You can’t be serious about this bullshit.”
“I’m not giving the milk away for free anymore. You’ve missed all of me, whether you want to admit it or not, and we aren’t sleeping together until we’ve gone on a date.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “I’m calling Troy.”
“No, you’re not. Get ready for dinner by candlelight.”
“Get ready to jerk off in the shower alone.”
I laugh again but when we hang up, I’m questioning my strategy. I know Emmy likes me. I’d stake my life on the fact that she wants more than a quick fuck on her desk. But I’d also stake my life on the fact that she’ll hold out way too goddamn long to prove a point.
I arrive in Santa Cruz and find that absolutely nothing is happening. Every one of my guys is standing out on the sidewalk beside their cars, deep in conversation, which is exactly the kind of shit the homeowner will throw in my face later on. We have even a single delay and he’ll be saying, “Well, if your employees weren’t standing around all day, maybe you’d be done.”
I park the truck and storm toward them. My mouth opens and then falls closed again at the look on JP’s face.
A look everyone else seems to share. Fuck.
I brace myself for the worst. A nail through the hand, a fall off the roof, the homeowner’s incredibly expensive car crushed by falling bricks. “What happened?”
“It’s—” JP’s voice cracks.
“It’s Mac,” says one of the younger guys. “He died.”
I stare at him, trying to think of anyone we know by that name other than the healthy twenty-two-year-old who I just watched getting married last week.
“Our Mac?”
The guys nod. “Snorkeling. One of those face mask things. They think carbon dioxide built up inside it. Cassie thought he was fine, and then she realized he’d been still too long. They couldn’t revive him.”
I slump against the side of someone’s truck.
Six months ago, he was showing us all the ring he was going to propose with. Two weeks ago, he was gamely walking around the store with that sash on.
A week ago, he was trying not to cry as he and Cassie said their vows.
And he had no idea. He saw an entire future ahead for himself, for both of them. You know life is unpredictable, but you never think yours is. You know lives end early, that people get taken away from you, but you always assume you’re somehow immune to it.
I help the guys pack up, as quietly stunned as they are, and then I go by Mac’s brother’s house to pay my respects. It’s evening when I get home. I stand in the shower, letting the spray hit my back. Two days ago, Mac still had his whole future ahead of him. He probably showered thinking only of the hours ahead, thinking of dinner with his pretty wife. I can’t get over the fact that it all ended for him so quickly, so unpredictably. He thought he’d kiss Cassie ten thousand more times. He thought he’d sleep with her nearly that many. You just never know when you’re nearing the end.
I dry off and get dressed. I’m not sure what exactly I’m doing when I get back in my truck and start driving, but I wind up on Main Street, parked in front of the store, dialing Emmy’s number.
“Come out to the truck,” I say. “Now.”
“Ohhh-kay?” she says as if it’s still in question.
She walks outside. I catalog everything about her as she locks the door behind her—the long silk skirt that will slide through my fingers like water; her bare arms; the stubborn, luscious set of her upper lip. I’ve missed her since yesterday. I’ve missed her all weekend. This town is going to be empty as hell for me once she’s left it for good.
There’s uncertainty in those pale eyes of hers as she climbs into the passenger seat.
“What’s happening right now?” she asks as I reverse out of the space without a word.
“You’ll see,” I reply gruffly.
“You know it doesn’t turn into a date if I haven’t agreed to go on it,” she says.
I don’t reply as I turn onto my street and swerve into my driveway. I go to her side of the truck, wrap my hands around her waist, and set her down. Her feet are barely on the ground before I’m stepping into her, letting my palms glide over the silk covering her ass.
“Well, well, well,” she begins. “Looks like somebody didn’t mean—”
My fingers tighten. “Can we not?”
She hesitates, her smug grin slowly fading. “Can we not what?”
“None of your jokes about how this is meaningless, okay? I know you’re leaving. But just this once…I want to feel like something you’re not going to forget.”
She studies my face and I watch hers, as it goes from surprise to wariness and then something softer. “Okay,” she whispers.
I grab her hand and turn toward the house. She comes, but reluctantly. I can feel her skittishness as if it’s my own. This is different for us, and she wants no part of it.
When we get inside, I turn toward her. My hand rests on her jaw, and she swallows.
There’s something fragile in it, in her. She’s smart as hell, and tough, but somewhere in her, there’s a girl, too. One who was wounded badly, once upon a time, and is determined not to be wounded again.
My mouth finds hers, my hand moving down to her hip, to the small of her back. She reaches for my belt…always rushing, always wanting to bypass the parts of this that are intimate, that make her feel vulnerable.
I lay my hand over hers to stop her, and she clicks her tongue in disapproval. She’d prefer a quick fuck against the wall, after which she’d demand I return her to her car.
One of many reasons I’m not leaving this up to her.
“Come on.” I slide my fingers through hers and pull her back to the bedroom, then slowly lift her tank and pull it over her head. My palms glide over her shoulders, down to her ribs. I cup a breast in each palm, letting my thumbs skid across those peaked nipples visible beneath the lace.
I almost miss her quiet intake of breath, the barely visible shiver in response.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re being like this?” she asks.
“Since when are you eager to talk?” I reply, unzipping her skirt and letting it fall to the floor. That silences her. I figured it would.
She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, in nothing but a bra and panties and those fucking heels, watching as I pull off my shirt. She’s incandescent in the dim light, all legs and curves and uncertainty.
I’m still only half undressed, but I’m too impatient to wait another minute. I push her back to the mattress with my lips first on her neck, then tugging at her nipples as I work to get the bra away. My mouth runs over her stomach and presses between her thighs.
She’s soaking wet, and as much as I’d like to take my time with this, tonight I’m not. I climb up the bed, pushing the boxers down before thrusting inside her. She gasps in surprise.
“Too much?” I whisper, wincing with pleasure.
“No,” she says. “God, that was so hot. I wasn’t expecting it.” I slide in and out slowly, wanting to savor this. Wanting to pretend we are in some parallel universe where having her in my bed, all flushed and hazy-eyed, isn’t a one-off but something that happens every night, and that will continue to happen every night for the rest of my fucking life.
Her nails dig into my ass, silently pleading with me to move, and when I do it, her hips arch to meet mine because it’s still not enough.
I’m pretty sure I know what she wants, but it’s time she started using her words. It’s time she admits that she likes me. It’s time she admits that we aren’t simply hooking up, but barring all that, she can, at the very least, tell me she wants me to fuck her harder.
“Tell me, princess,” I say against her ear. “I want to hear you ask for what you want.”
“Harder,” she says.
I laugh. “Sentence form, Miss Hughes.”
“Fuck you,” she says, arching again, trying to get there on her own.
I pull out, hovering above her, pressing my lips to her damp hairline. “Look at me, Em,” I demand. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallows, her cheeks flushing prettily. “Fuck me harder,” she says.
I pull one thigh over my shoulder and slam inside her.
“Again,” she says. Her eyes are closed, long lashes grazing her cheeks, lush mouth ajar.
“Look at me.”
I wait until she does before I give her what she wants, and I stop when she looks away, training her to give me what I want. She’s so closed off, but during sex, there’s always a moment when it feels as if I’m looking straight into her soul. I want to be there when she goes over the edge. I want to know it’s me and not Donovan fucking Arling or anyone else in her head when it happens.
We are slick with sweat. The blanket is kicked off. I am going to come so fucking hard the minute she lets go. My fingers move to her clit as I rise up, pulling her so high that only her head is still on the bed as I piston in and out.
“Oh, God,” she swallows. “I’m close.”
“So am I, baby,” I whisper. At the sound of that endearment, one I have never used once in my life, she clamps down, crying out. And for a moment, right before she closes her eyes, I see everything inside her laid out like a buffet.
And it’s glorious. Under that tough exterior, she’s soft as a cloud and fragile as glass. Under that smart fucking mouth and those flashing eyes, she’s fiercely loyal and scared and sweet as hell.
I let go, sinking into her with one last thrust, and when I finally come back to earth, she’s watching me. Her mouth is swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes a summer storm. She’s allowing me to have this, this handful of earnest seconds, and she’s terrified I’m going to make her regret them.
Her mouth opens and I already know it’s to say something that’s both mean and funny at once. I press a finger to her lips as I roll to the side. “Don’t, okay? Don’t ruin it. Please.”
She bites her lip, pushing herself up to a seated position, covering her tits with the sheet, as if she’s a different person entirely—one I wasn’t coming inside twenty seconds ago.
“Now, are you going to tell me what’s up?” she asks.
I sigh heavily. “Mac, one of my guys—”
“I know Mac,” she says, her voice low and worried. “He’s the one who just got married, right?”
I sink into my pillow. “He was snorkeling on his honeymoon. They think too much carbon dioxide built up inside his mask.”
“Is he okay?” she asks.
I swallow. “No. He didn’t make it.”
“God.” She covers her eyes with a single hand. “I’m so sorry. He was a really good guy.”
“He was.”
I pull her back down to me and we remain like that in silence—her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine.
“I’m the last person you should have sought out,” she whispers after a long minute. “I’m sure you know some female who’s less emotionally stunted than me.”
“That’s pretty much all females,” I reply, and she swats my arm. “But you’re the one I want. Even if you insist it’s just sex.”
Her swallow is audible. “I’m sorry. It’s just how I’m built, I guess.”
“Bullshit. It’s not how you’re built. You’re scared. That’s it.”
“I’d normally argue with you but given the circumstances, I won’t.” She starts to sit up again and that arm I’ve got around her tightens.
“Stay.”
Her gaze drifts between us. “I’m pretty sure I just met your needs.”
I tug her close and press my lips to her neck. “You haven’t even begun to meet my needs, Em. But the night is long.”