by Marie Force
“I know.”
“Maybe we should see this as a gift. She’s come back to you at this important moment in your life to make sure she’s with you.”
“That’s a nice way to look at it. I’ve always missed her, you know?”
“Of course you have.”
“I really wish she could’ve met you. She would’ve loved you.”
“Like your dad does?” I ask, laughing. Simon York and I have managed to put aside our differences because we both love Addie and want what’s best for her, but we’ll never be best friends.
“She would’ve loved the way you love me, just like my dad does.”
“He said that?”
“More than once.”
“Huh. That’s surprising.”
“What more could any father want for his daughter than a husband who worships her the way you do me?”
“I do worship at the altar of Addison York Roth. That is for sure.”
She tears up again. “That’s the first time I’ve heard my new name.”
“First of many times.”
“My dad told me a long time ago that I could do anything I wanted because I was smart and resourceful and beautiful. He told me I didn’t have to get married to be happy, but if I decided that’s what I wanted, it had better be to someone who was good to me. No one has ever been as good to me as you are, except my dad, of course.” She places her hand on my face. “He loves you, and my mom would’ve, too.”
“Now you’re going to make me cry.”
She kisses me. “I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I can’t wait either. I never thought I’d get married until you showed me otherwise. I’ve never had anyone who belonged only to me the way you do, Addison. I thought you were going to tell me you didn’t want to go through with it, and I wasn’t sure I would’ve survived that.”
“I’d never do that to you. Never, ever.”
Relieved and more in love with her than I’ve ever been before, I kiss her and wipe away the remaining tears. “Tell me about your mom. Tell me what you remember. I want to know everything.”
She relaxes against me and begins to share her memories.
Chapter 8
The carbonara smells delicious, but then again, anything that involves bacon gets my vote. I’m super lucky, or so all my female friends tell me, that I can literally eat anything and not gain a pound. I’ve always wondered if good metabolism runs in my family. Because I was adopted, that’s one of many things I don’t know. While I love that I can eat anything I want without gaining weight, I wish I had the lush curves Natalie and Addie have. What I wouldn’t give for bigger boobs and a little bit of booty.
My figure has been described as “boyish,” which is hardly a compliment, especially when you’re trying to attract the interest of a total stud like Emmett. Though I’ve seen ample proof of his attraction to me, I’m insecure enough about my lack of curves to wonder if I can be what he wants or needs.
He says he’ll give me one night.
I want much so more than that with him.
My phone buzzes with a text from a number I don’t recognize. I miss you. I wish you’d give me another chance.
Who is this? I ask, even as I have a sneaking suspicion that I know.
Tom.
Ugh! I blocked him weeks ago, which is why he’s using another number. I told you to stop contacting me. I’m not interested.
You never gave me a chance.
Block.
I met him on Tinder the first week I was in town and went out with him twice. I made the huge mistake of sleeping with him the second time, although we didn’t exactly sleep. We went back to my place and fucked once. Afterward, I asked him to leave, regretting that I’d given in to a minor freak-out about being in an all-new city with a high-pressure job that I didn’t want to fuck up. Stupid.
And now he won’t go away or leave me alone.
I hear the shower go off in Emmett’s bedroom and try not to think about him wet and sexy as I tend to dinner. It occurs to me that if he hadn’t gotten hurt last night, I wouldn’t even be here. I raise my wineglass in a silent toast to the gift basket Annie sent, giving thanks to the boys who wounded Emmett and gave me this chance with him. Not that I want him to be hurt, because I don’t. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the bruised dick.
My phone buzzes with another text, and my heart stops for a second until I see that it’s from Nat.
So how did it go with Emmett last night?
Good. I’m at his place now making him dinner.
That’s awesome! Progress.
While it’s true that I’ve made progress with him in the last two days, I still get the feeling that if he had his way, I wouldn’t be here.
Is this good? Nat asks.
I guess we’ll see…
She sends back the frown face emoji. I like you for him. He needs some lightening up, and no one is better at that than you are.
I know she means it as a compliment. She tells me all the time that I’m the funniest person she’s ever met, and I’m fully aware of my irreverence. People—teachers, bosses, parents—have been using that word to describe me for as long as I can remember. But I want Emmett to take me seriously and not think of me as a silly girl who’s messing around with a guy way out of her league, even if he is way out of my league.
He’s a brilliant, successful, sexy-as-fuck lawyer with a great job, a beautiful home, a sweet car and a life that works for him. Not to mention, he could have any woman he wants, so what would he want with an irreverent woman who looks like a boy from the side? I gave him a little demonstration of what’s in it for him this morning, but again… I don’t want my deep-throating ability to be the only reason he puts up with me.
It’s profoundly depressing to think that there’s probably no good reason for me to be here other than the fact that he’s too polite to tell me to get lost.
Wallowing in that unsettling thought, I stir the carbonara and put a pot of water on to boil. I bought the salad premade and got a small loaf of Italian bread. If I were home alone, I’d make garlic bread, but here I simply butter it and put it under the broiler for a minute without the garlic because, well…
Who am fooling? What am I doing here? Why am I forcing myself on a guy who doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me? Ugh, and why am I allowing myself this insecure meltdown, which is also not my style? It’s him and the effect he has on me. It’s all his fault.
My phone rings with another number I don’t recognize. I experience a sinking feeling in my stomach as I deny the call.
“Who’s that?” Emmett asks when he comes out of the bathroom, freshly shaven, his hair wet, wearing basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt that clings to every bump and ridge of defined muscle.
I go stupid in the head at the sight of him, which has never happened to me with any guy except him. I’m never like other girls who are so ridiculous over men. I like them. I enjoy them. I enjoy sex with them. But I don’t go stupid over them—or I never did, anyway, until I met this one.
When he waves his hand in front of my face, I realize I’m staring. And then the scent of… him… hits me like a slap to the face and I want to drown in it. It’s probably nothing more exotic than body wash, but I find myself leaning in for a closer whiff.
“Are you smelling me?”
“Mmm, you smell really good.”
“You are such a weirdo,” he says, though he seems amused.
“I know. Sorry. I love a man who smells good, and you smell amazing. All the time, but right out of the shower…” I release a shaky-sounding breath. “Really good.”
“Glad you approve.” He looks at me like he thinks I’m bonkers, which I probably am. But what can I say? He just does it for me.
The phone rings again.
I quickly reject the call because I don’t recognize the number.
“Who’s calling you?”
“It’s no one.” I drop the pasta into the boiling wat
er and stir the carbonara.
The phone rings again.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, powering it down.
“What’s going on, Leah?” he asks, sounding like the lawyer I see every day in the office. He’s all business.
“It’s nothing. This guy I dated a couple of times when I first moved out here won’t take no for answer.
“Block him.”
“I have. Twice now. He keeps coming back.”
“Turn the phone back on.” He’s deadly serious, and a shiver runs through me when I realize he’s gone into protector mode.
Christ have mercy, but protective Emmett is the hottest Emmett I’ve seen yet. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“Turn the phone back on, Leah.”
There’s something about his authoritative tone that has me doing what I’m told, which is a rare thing for me. The phone goes crazy beeping with voicemail messages—ten of them from two different numbers. What the fuck?
“What’s his name?”
“Tom.”
“Call him back.”
I put through the call, put it on speaker and place the phone in Emmett’s outstretched hand. “Is this Tom?” he asks.
“Who wants to know?”
“Listen up. If you call or contact Leah again in any way, I’ll be showing up at your place with cops in tow. You got me? The lady said no. Respect her wishes or you’ll be sorry.”
“Says who?”
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about doing what you’re told, or you’ll deal with me. Trust me, you’re not going to want to deal with me.”
My ovaries explode. Listening to him step up for me like this is incredibly arousing and touches me deeply, in a part of me that has nothing to do with sex or attraction or any of the things that originally drew me to him.
Emmett ends the call and hands the phone back to me. “Block those numbers.”
I block the numbers and then glance up at him to find him watching me with a fierce look in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“If you hear from him again, I want you to tell me.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Leah. All other kidding aside, this is serious. Men who can’t take no for an answer are not to be trifled with. If you see him or hear from him again, you tell me immediately, and we’ll get the cops involved.”
“I hear you, and I’ll tell you. Hopefully, you put a scare on him. I’d be scared if you’d said that to me.”
“You shouldn’t let any man scare you—ever.”
“If only all men thought the way you do.”
“I don’t have any patience for men who have to bully women to make themselves feel like real men. That’s total bullshit, and you should never put up with that.”
I can only stare at him in all his sexy glory, which has become even more glorious as I listen to him defend all of womankind.
“Why are you gawking at me?” he asks gruffly.
“I think you’re just… amazing.”
He scowls. “Because I hate bullies?”
“That and the way you put the fear of God in the guy who’s bugging me.” I shiver dramatically. “Very sexy.”
Emmett rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t take much to get your motor running, does it?”
“When you’re around? Nope. Doesn’t take much at all.”
“Is there any thought you have that you don’t feel the need to share with me?”
“I’ve had quite a few thoughts you haven’t been privy to, but I’d be glad to catch you up, if you’d like.”
“That’s okay,” he says, laughing. “I can use my imagination.”
I love that I made him laugh. Like he said, it doesn’t take much for me where he’s concerned. I turn back to the stove to check the pasta. “Not sure your imagination is vivid enough.”
He comes up behind me, slides an arm around my waist and pulls me back against his aroused body. “My imagination is extremely vivid.”
I’m so shocked—and thrilled—I can’t think of anything to say to that.
“What’s this? No smart-assed comeback? Are you losing your touch?”
I drop my head back against his chest and gaze up at him, feeling like I’m falling into something so deep and so vast, I’ll never experience the full depth of it. I’m not sure how it happens or if I could even recreate the moment when I think about it later, but one minute I’m looking up at him staring down at me, and the next he’s turning me and kissing me—and when I say kissing, I mean consuming. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. It’s a full-body event, and I’m all in. His hands curve around my ass and then he’s lifting me—effortlessly. I wrap my arms and legs around him because I never want this kiss to end.
Then the freaking pasta water boils over—excellent metaphor, by the way—and we’re forced to withdraw from each other. Before I can so much as take a deep breath and regroup, he shuts off both burners and picks up right where we left off. One of his hands is cupping my ass and the other is buried in my hair, so I can’t do anything but continue to kiss him. And for the record, there’s nothing in the world I want to do more than continue to kiss him.
He props me on the counter and slides his hands up to my breasts, shaping and caressing them and generally driving me crazy as his tongue makes me his bitch—or I should say, his bitch in heat, because I want to have him right now.
“Easy,” he whispers on a gasp against my lips when I push against his erection. “He’s still injured.”
I’m not proud of how I whimper at the reminder of what’s not going to happen, not tonight anyway. But there’re so many other things that can happen…
This is crazy. I have no idea how I went from wanting to get rid of her to kissing her as if my life depends on having more of her. This is not how I roll. I don’t do things unintentionally. Every aspect of my life is planned, controlled, organized, orderly. Every aspect except one, apparently, because she’s kissing me back as if her life depends on more of me, and goddamn if I can stop myself from gorging on what she offers so freely and sweetly.
Until I got to know her better, sweet wasn’t a word I would’ve used to describe Leah. Sassy, bold, mouthy, sexy, hilarious. I’ve only recently discovered she’s also sweet. Hearing some guy is hassling her flipped a switch inside me. I despise bullies and men who prey on women because they think they can get away with it. All my protective instincts went into hyperdrive when I saw that she was afraid of the guy. She tried to blow it off as no big deal, but I saw the fear in her eyes, and it reminded me far too much of—
No. Don’t go there. Just don’t. The memories surface despite my ardent desire to forget, and I falter, losing my bearings for a second, just long enough for Leah to pull back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I reach for her, cupping her face and bringing her back for more. Maybe if I drown myself in her, I won’t think about things that are better left in the past. It’s taken me years to accept the things I cannot change. I can’t go backward. Forward is the only option, and Leah is being rather forward with the way she wraps her tongue around mine and rubs up against me.
I put an arm around her waist and lift her without breaking the kiss.
The only ache in my cock now is the one for her. The injury might never have happened for how badly I wish I could lose myself in her and forget about everything other than her for a few hours. I can’t do that tonight—doctor’s orders—but there’s other stuff I can do. If she wants to wrestle with the tiger, maybe it’s time to show her my stripes.
By the time I carry her into my room, she’s wrapped her arms and legs around me as we continue the hottest kiss in history. Who knew that sassy Leah would kiss like a porn star?
You knew. My subconscious picks the craziest times to weigh in, but he’s not entirely wrong. One of the reasons I’ve gone out of my way to avoid Leah is because I suspected things might get out of hand with her, in more ways than one. Turns out I wasn’t wrong. This is already so far out of control, i
t’s not even funny, and it’s about to get more so. If only Kristian had told me to keep my fucking hands and every other part of myself away from her. Why couldn’t he have done what he should have as my employer? If he had, none of this would be happening.
I lay her on my bed and come down on top of her, cautious to make sure my cock doesn’t get further mangled. He’s happy pressed tight against the heat of her pussy, which is like a heating pad tending to his injuries. The poor guy wants to snuggle in and get comfortable.
Hell, where did that come from? I don’t get comfortable with women. I get uncomfortable as often as I possibly can, but I don’t do messy entanglements or romance or any of that crap. It’s just not how I’m wired. Most of the time, you couldn’t pay me to care about anything more than the physical release I provide my partner and then take for myself. That’s all there ever is to it for me, but this, with Leah, has complicated written all over it. Which is why I should stop it while I still can.
If it blows up in our faces, which it most surely will, it won’t just affect us. It will leach into my professional life, and that would be an unholy disaster for both of us.
It’s almost painful to withdraw from the hottest kiss in recorded history, but I pull back slowly and stare down at her flushed cheeks, swollen lips and big eyes. Those eyes fucking slay me. She looks at me like I hung the moon.
“Don’t do that,” I growl, the words out of my mouth before I can take the time to consider what I’m saying or how I’m saying it.
“Don’t do what?”
“Look at me that way.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like… that.”
She dissolves into helpless laughter that has my insides doing something weird. Maybe it’s gas. What else could it be?
She laughs so hard that tears run down her face. “You are such a weirdo.”
“I’m a weirdo? Hello pot…”
“Yes, you’re a total weirdo. It’s a good thing I’m attracted to weirdos, or I might have to call it a night.”