by Evelyn Adams
“At least let me carry the pizza.” She felt silly walking beside him empty-handed while he balanced both the box and her bag. “If you drop the pizza, one of us is going to have to cook, and you do not want it to be me.”
“I’m not going to drop it.” He maneuvered around one of the concrete columns, balancing the box like a waiter during the dinner rush.
As they approached the elevator, he glanced in her direction and she held out her hands. “Give me the box, Southerland. You can deal with everything else.”
He hesitated, and she could practically see the options rolling across his face. He finally held out the box, but she didn’t have any doubt that he could have just as easily managed the elevator and anything else that came their way without any help from her.
“You don’t have much of a commute, do you?”
Emerson followed her into the elevator and punched the button for the fourth floor.
“I picked the building because it had a mixture of commercial and residential space. I’m not the only one who lives on site and when we grow in the next couple of years, there will be room to expand. The second floor is primarily vacant. The realtor’s been showing the office space in the front half, but there hasn’t been much interest in the back. It would make a great information security lab.”
His expression shifted as he talked about his business, not softening exactly. It was more like he lit up from the inside. She didn’t have any trouble seeing the passion that drove him. He wore competence like a custom-made suit, and it only made him sexier. She didn’t have any doubt Emerson Southerland would be good—hell, spectacular—at anything he set his mind to.
The elevator opened onto a normal hallway, but the door they stopped in front of was anything but ordinary. She could tell just by looking that it was made of sturdier stuff than the flimsy wooden door that marked the entrance to her apartment, and the touchpad lock looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. He keyed in a seven-digit code and pushed the door open, waiting for her to enter before following.
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting from Emerson’s home, but it wasn’t the eclectic blend of objects and furnishings stretched out in front of her. A deep-brown leather sofa that would have looked at home in an old school gentleman’s club took up the most real estate. It was flanked by a pair of hand-carved wooden tables that looked like they came from Bali or Indonesia, but they wore a patina that made it clear they were authentic and not some Pottery Barn reproduction.
A huge flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite the sofa and the rest of the wall space was covered with a combination of strange tribal masks and an abstract piece that reminded her of work done by Aboriginal artists. The shelves taking up part of the other wall held groups of bottles and small pottery bowls. It was the kind of collection that happened over time, not some designer-created tableau, and everything about it charmed her. It felt more like walking into a wizard’s private studio than the apartment of the head of a security firm. The state-of-the-art gaming and entertainment system along with the electronic lock were the only indication of Emerson’s work.
Seeing the game system reminded her she knew something he didn’t. She wondered what he’d say when he realized they’d been playing together online for months. She probably ought to tell him, but something made her hold onto the information for the time being.
“You have a great place,” she said, soaking in the surroundings.
“Thanks. It’s kind of a mishmash of things I’ve collected over the years,” he said, sounding sheepish for the first time since they met.
She could get used to an uncertain Emerson. It eased the lines on his face and made him look younger. Not that he seemed old to her. It was more that he seemed to carry the weight of everything around him on his shoulders all the time. It bugged her that she’d contributed to that burden, but she couldn’t see an easy way to eliminate it. Even if she insisted on staying at her place and stopped having any contact with him, she didn’t think it would stop him from caring. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man to let go once he’d made something his concern.
“Here, let me take that.” He’d set her bag somewhere while she’d been ogling his apartment. Taking the pizza box, he motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat. What can I get you to drink?”
“A beer would be great if you’ve got it.” She didn’t drink much but her nerves were running on overload. It would feel good to have something to take the edge off. She relaxed back against the leather, wondering if it would be bad form to kick off her shoes so she could curl her feet up underneath her. Better not.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea with the concussion...” He took in her expression and let the rest of what he’d been about to say trail off. “Beer it is. I’ve got a decent IPA and a grapefruit shandy. There’s probably an amber or something darker left over from the last time Gabe stopped by.”
She should have known a man with tastes as refined as the apartment suggested would have more than Foster’s in his refrigerator.
“The shandy, please. Between the grapefruit and the veggies on the pizza, we can practically count this as health food.”
“That’s a stretch.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, but his smile was warm.
It made her contemplate other ways to get him to smile, and then her thoughts drifted to the shape of his lips, the chiseled line against the hint of stubble on his jaw. She forced her attention back to the end tables before she embarrassed herself and tried to trace his mouth with her fingertip. Compromising, she ran her hand over the intricate carvings, hiding her smile when she noticed Emerson following the path of her fingers.
“I got them in Bali,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice came out as a rasp. “Not too far from Australia.”
His eyes were dark and she had a feeling she wasn’t the only one thinking about something other than the tables. Before she could think of how to comment, he headed for the kitchen.
“The bottle is fine,” she called out as he reached into the cabinet for a glass.
He stopped and turned, hitting her with the kind of look she imagined he reserved for animal abusers and tax evaders.
“Never mind. A glass would be great. I wouldn’t think about drinking it any other way.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, pouring the pale-gold liquid into a pilsner with exactly the right amount of head. As if there was ever any question. “Here you go.” He handed her the glass and a plate with two slices of pizza.
Her stomach growled, but she waited for him to settle on the couch beside her with his own plate and beer before taking a bite out of the chewy crust covered in melted cheese. She didn’t share Gabe’s aversion to vegetables, but the aubergine was better than she’d expected and the slight char of the other vegetables added a nice bite to the pizza.
“My God, this is good,” she said, rubbing the back of her finger over her lip to catch a stray bit of grease from the cheese. In any other food, greasy would be considered a bad thing but for pizza it was a necessity.
“Glad you like it.” Emerson watched her, a smile curving his lips, the heat in his gaze sending her thoughts spiraling again into places they had no business going.
Except, why not? They were both adults. Why shouldn’t they enjoy more than the pizza? It didn’t have to be complicated. Sex wasn’t for lots of people. The fact that she hadn’t gotten around to it yet was more a matter of circumstance than some kind of big life decision. She took a swallow of her beer, the grapefruit taste bursting in her mouth, a perfect complement for the pizza. She just had to figure out how to convince him it was a good idea. It shouldn’t be that hard given the fact he was looking at her the way she’d been looking at the pizza. It didn’t have to lead to rings and forever. Despite what he seemed to think about her age, it had been a long damn time since Sophie was naïve enough to believe in fairy tales.
They could just be two people enjoying each other’s company. She knew he wouldn’t hurt he
r and her body responded to him like he had her nipples on speed dial. The man just had to look at her and she had a hard time catching her breath, imagining his hands on her. His mouth.
“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he asked, reaching around her to grab the remote.
The position put him close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and breathe in the delicious scent of his aftershave and something she recognized from his apartment as just him. She crammed the last of her pizza in her mouth so she wouldn’t shout “Hey dude, wanna take my virginity?” Nodding in answer, she washed down the pizza with another swallow of beer as he turned on the TV.
Floating on the aftermath of adrenaline with a belly full of pizza and beer, she relaxed back into the sofa. This time she didn’t hesitate to toe off her shoes, shifting to face him as she tucked her feet underneath her. She watched his profile, memorizing the slope of his cheekbones and the set of his jaw as he scrolled through the Netflix offerings.
“There’s a Bridget Jones thing,” he said, looking like a man who’d never ventured into the land of romantic comedy before.
“I’m more of a Walking Dead kind of person. Unless that’s too rough for you. I wouldn’t want to scare you.” She winked at him and had the pleasure of watching him suck in a breath before his lips curved in a smile.
“Lucille and zombies it is.”
SHE WOKE UP to Emerson leaning over her to cover her with a chenille blanket. He was warm and the fabric of the blanket was soft against her skin. She felt cocooned and safe and very sure of what she wanted. She reached for him before she thought about it, her fingers twining around his neck. She didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing she remembered was watching them try to figure out how to kill Negan and arguing about bullets or fire as the most effective survival tool. Waking up to Emerson a breath away was better than anything she’d imagined.
“Hey sleepy, I lost you for a little while. You bailed on me before the big battle scene.” His voice was rough, and he searched her face as if he were trying to figure something out.
She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth to help him come to the same conclusion she had.
He moved closer, and for a fraction of a second, she thought he might give in and kiss her. She let her eyes drift shut in anticipation, but instead of his lips pressed against hers, she felt her world shift and tip as he hoisted her into his arms.
“Hey,” she said, tightening her grip around his neck. She wasn’t sure what she was protesting. She wasn’t tiny by any stretch of the imagination, but Emerson was clearly strong enough to carry her wherever he wanted to. She just hoped it was to his bed and that he’d be sharing it with her.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed. You need your sleep.” He cradled her in his arms, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, and started down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
She needed something but sleep wasn’t it. When he went to set her down, she held on purposefully sliding down the front of his body. He made no move to disentangle himself, holding her instead, his hands warm and strong against her back. She could tell he wanted her; she could feel the hard length of him pressing against the soft mound of her stomach. The thinnest thread of apprehension wove its way through her, but it didn’t begin to deter her. She wanted this. She wanted him.
Sophie had waited long enough, and she knew without a doubt Emerson was the kind of man who could show her what she’d been waiting for. He wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t bungle things like the boys she’d dated in Broome. All she had to do was figure out how to tip him off to her no-sex-so-far status. Or not. Really, was there any reason he needed to know? He already had an annoying tendency to treat her like she’d been raised in a convent. Nope, no reason to tell him at all, she thought, tipping her head up so she could meet his gaze in the dim light of his bedroom. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she tugged him to her as she stretched up on her toes so her lips could reach his.
It started as the barest brush of a kiss. His lips skimmed hers as his hand slid up to cup her head. It was the sweetest, most delicious touch and her mouth parted on a sigh. She melted into him and everything shifted, got hotter. His tongue slipped past her lips, teasing and tasting, driving her higher with every stroke. She tightened her grip on his hair and swallowed his low moan, loving that she was taking him to the edge with her.
She couldn’t get close enough. Parting her legs, she hooked her thigh around his denim-clad hips, pulling him to her and letting out a groan when his fingers dug into her thigh. There were two layers of denim and too much fabric between them, and she still burned for him. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted Emerson. His grip on her tender skin tightened and she gasped against his lips. She’d wear his marks in the morning. The idea did something primal to her, ramping up her desire until she couldn’t wait any longer. Reaching between them, she slid her hands down the hard planes of his chest, feeling the muscles bunch under her palms. It wasn’t fair for a man to feel so good, so strong. Tugging on the hem, she tried to get to his bare skin, to run her hands over all that warmth.
“Wait,” he said, his voice a rough whisper in the dark.
It took her lust-addled brain a fraction of a second to realize he was pulling away from her, letting go of her thigh and shifting from between her legs. He didn’t step away, but he stopped kissing her and rested his forehead against hers.
“We need to stop.”
“Why?” She knew he wanted her. The evidence had been wedged between her legs moments earlier. It had to be some kind of crisis of conscience, which was just going to piss her off.
“I’m supposed to be looking after you, not taking advantage of you when you’re vulnerable.”
He could start looking after her by giving her a couple of orgasms and showing her everything he knew about sex. She opened her mouth to lead with that and then remembered the man had been willing to shield her body with his when the bullets were flying around them. She could take the time to ease him into the idea.
“I’m not an invalid. I know what I want.” She pitched her voice low and said the words slowly so they didn’t come out as a needy whine. Nothing sexy about that.
“It’s the adrenaline. It makes everyone react differently. Some people want sex.”
“Everyone wants sex,” she said, trying and losing the battle to hold on to her patience. But honestly, she finally found a man who could turn her on and he had some kind of crazy savior complex. “It’s not the adrenaline. It’s the way your hands feel on my body, the way your lips fit against mine. You can lie and say you don’t feel it, but we both know that’s not true.” She closed the distance between them again, fitting her body to his to drive home her point.
“Sophie, please.” His voice actually sounded pained.
“Please what?” she asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like his answer.
“We need to stop.” He took a step away from her and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She could push him, demand he acknowledge he felt what she did. But what if she was wrong and he was just humoring her? What if she wasn’t exciting enough for him? Sophie’s potential sex partners had been limited but she doubted a man like Emerson suffered from the same kind of challenge. He could get any woman he wanted into his bed, which meant one thing. Maybe he didn’t want her the way she wanted him.
Except she’d felt the way his body responded to her and even more, she’d seen how off-kilter he’d been after their kiss. Something else was stopping him from giving them what she was pretty sure they both wanted. Maybe. Or not. It was a whole lot easier to feel sure of herself when he wasn’t trying to push her away.
EMERSON SCANNED THE SCREEN IN front of him for what felt like the hundredth time. He wasn’t any closer to understanding the numbers stacked in their columns in front of him. Usually numbers were something he could count on. He’d made
a living seeing patterns others couldn’t, but every time he started going over the accounts for Rockcliff, his attention drifted to the woman upstairs in his apartment. Having Sophie in his space was doing a number on him. The fact that he couldn’t imagine her anywhere else only compounded his issues. It didn’t matter how he looked at it; he was well and truly screwed.
It didn’t help that she’d done nothing to discourage his attention and everything to pull him closer. When he’d lost his mind and kissed her, she’d kissed him back, opening for him, wrapping her leg around him and pulling him into the hot V of her lithe body. He’d had to force himself to let go before he did something stupid, like strip her naked and kiss every inch of her body until the only thing she could say was his name as she came apart in his arms. Under his mouth.
He ran a hand through his hair tightening his grip until he felt the small bite of pain, desperate for anything that would help him regain control. He’d managed to walk away from her the night before. To haul his ass down the hall and into a cold shower that didn’t do a thing to dampen his desire for her. But she’d been there when he woke up, sitting at his breakfast bar, fresh-faced and impossibly young, her blue-eyed gaze practically daring him to do filthy, filthy things to her. He wasn’t proud of the impulse, but it was almost as if the more innocent she looked, the more he wanted to have her, to be the one to smear her lip gloss, to tease and taste her until her lips were swollen from his kisses. Which was exactly why he had to keep his hands—and mouth—to himself.
Sophie was too young and too innocent for him. She made beautiful things for a living. She was an artist who looked at the world through that lens, and he was too jaded to see it as anything other than flawed. She belonged with someone like Gabe, with a man she could laugh with. Someone she could play with. The thought of her with someone else twisted uncomfortably in his stomach, but it didn’t make it any less true. He was building his business, and she was just starting out. Neither of them needed the compromise that love demanded.