by Teresa Hill
He felt so good on top of her, overwhelming, overpowering, overheated, and this was a kind of intimacy she couldn't imagine sharing with anyone but him. She couldn't imagine trusting anyone else the way she trusted him.
"Rye," she whispered into his ear, "I'm so glad it's you."
He kissed her, slowly, sweetly, hotly. "Are you ready for this?"
"Yes."
He arched his back slightly, thrusting smoothly, slowly, stretching her, filling her. She wanted him all the way inside, struggled to find a way to take him there, squirming and wriggling her hips and lifting her body up and to his.
"Careful," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."
"It doesn't hurt. Not exactly. It... Rye!" She needed him. Now.
"I'll get there, Em. All the way. I promise."
And he did.
Ever so slowly, until she thought she would scream. As it was, she feared she'd left the imprint of her fingernails in his shoulder, she'd held on so tightly. He'd rocked, little by little, coming deeper with each thrust. She'd nearly wept in frustration, and then there it was.
The barrier in the end seemed like nothing. One minute they were both straining against it, and with the next subtle thrust of his hips, it was gone. He pushed his way so deeply inside of her, they both gasped and went still.
He dipped his forehead down to hers, nuzzled her ear with his mouth. "Told you I'd get there."
She groaned, thinking maybe she just wouldn't ever have to move again. Not wanting to ever let him leave this spot.
He was inside of her, a part of her. They were in that place where two people couldn't get any closer.
"You okay?"
"Yes," she said.
He eased back maybe an inch, and before she could protest, he came right back. "Hurt?"
"No."
Her body had a grip on his, and this sliding sensation... It was interesting. Better than interesting. He pulsed inside of her, throbbed. She could feel it. There was a rhythm to it, like the one beating inside of her.
"More," she said.
She could feel the grin come across his face, feel laughter rippling through his chest. He pulled back and came forward again. "Like that?"
"Yes. Like that."
Before it was done, she had her legs wrapped around his waist practically, at his urging, and her body was rocking back and forth against his. The rhythm built higher and higher. It was like someone else had taken over her body, her but not her. Like she'd become a madwoman, begging him to finish it, to take her harder and faster and higher. She held on to him as tightly as she could, until her arms ached, and her whole body ached, and tears seeped from her eyes.
He was a powerful man, and it was a beautiful thing, the way he moved against her, the way he seemed as out of control in the end as she did.
The way the waves rippled through her and her entire body went tight. The way she squeezed him in little waves, and the way he buried his face against her neck and his whole body shuddered as they strained to get one centimeter closer, because nothing could be close enough.
She felt him come inside of her, felt the pulsing heat, felt what it did to him when it happened. He shuddered and then collapsed on top of her.
It seemed like nothing in the world moved in that first instant afterward. Like the whole world had spun down to a grinding halt.
And then she became aware of the fact that her body still throbbed joyously, as did his, with him buried deep inside of her.
They were both gasping for breath, and he kissed the side of her face next to her ear, and then strung kisses along her cheek, her jaw, finally her mouth.
He kissed her eyes, her nose. "You okay?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He laughed again. "I must be crushing you."
"No." She wrapped her arms around him when he started to lift himself off of her. This could not end. "Stay. Stay right here."
And he did.
* * *
She slept like the dead, or maybe like someone who wished she was dead by the time she slowly came awake.
Her head hurt. There was light coming from somewhere. When she dared open her eyes just for an instant, she realized the light hurt, too. Her stomach felt hollow, like it might have been pulled from her body and stomped on by a herd of wild horses and then put back inside her. She felt feverish and oddly cold at the same time.
Somewhere in the very back of her throat was a faint taste of alcohol, and then she remembered....
Emma groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow.
No, not her pillow. Hers was big and thick. This one was flat, almost nothing. What was the point in having a pillow like this, like a pancake?
Then she remembered... She'd gotten drunk.
What a fool she'd been.
She'd gone to Brian's apartment.
She'd tried so hard to like it when he touched her, when he kissed her, which was so unlike the feeling of Rye touching her, Rye kissing her.
Emma's eyes jerked open at that.
She was in a bedroom, an oddly empty room.
There was a bed and nothing else.
Hardwood floors, sanded smooth, but unfinished.
She remembered that look... That unfinished look.
Then she heard the shower running.
She remembered that shower, didn't she?
She figured out at about the same time that she wasn't wearing anything at all, that she was oddly aware of every inch of bare skin pressed against the sheets, and she was a bit sore in a place that had never been sore before.
Then she remembered Rye.
"Oh, my God." She closed her eyes and begged, "Please, please, please don't let me have done this."
He'd found her. He'd come to get her when she'd called Sam. She could have sworn she'd called Sam, but Rye had come and brought her here and...
She'd yelled at him. She'd cried all over him and told him her stupid plan and why she hadn't been able to go through with it. She'd told him how miserable she'd been and how lonely and that she'd been waiting for him all these years.
She'd told him she loved him.
And then she'd done something almost as stupid as what she'd planned to do with Brian.
"Oh, my God," she said again.
She'd blackmailed her way into bed with him.
Surely she hadn't done that.
Begged? That wasn't any better, was it?
She had to get out of there, couldn't stand the idea of having to face him this morning, the memory of what they'd done together burned into her brain. An experience that had seemed so wonderful the night before, but so humiliating in the light of day.
As the sound of the water in the shower ceased, she threw back the sheet and pulled on the clothes he'd given her to wear. She ran downstairs. Her shoes and her coat were by the door, the coat pocket still held her wallet and keys.
If she could get back to campus, she could get into her room and hide.
She threw open the front door as she heard him call her name, and then she ran outside.
* * *
He couldn't believe she was gone.
He had no idea what he would have said to her this morning, how he could have explained, where they could possibly go from here. But he'd counted on at least having the opportunity to figure it all out and to say it.
God, he'd slept with her. She'd been a virgin, and he'd slept with her. How could he have done that? How could he have let himself? All these years, he'd stayed away, and now this...
First things first. He forced himself to try to calm down, think this through. He couldn't tell her anything until he could find her. After assuring himself that she was nowhere in the house, he got dressed and called Sam's. What he might have said if his brother answered, he couldn't imagine. Thankfully, he got Grace, and Grace would do anything for him.
"Is Emma there?" he asked.
"No, she went back to school last night. It was her birthday, and you missed it," Grace s
aid accusingly. "If you ever missed my birthday—"
"I would never miss your birthday," he reassured her. And if he hadn't felt so bad about missing Emma's, so guilty... If he hadn't gone over there later, once he was sure the party was over, and hung around waiting for someone to tell him how she was, so he wouldn't have to ask, none of this would have happened. "I need a favor, Grace. I need Emma's phone number at school. And the name of the dorm where she lives."
There was no other phone number, just Emma's cell, but Grace gave him the name of Emma's dorm and her room number. He dialed her cell for a solid hour, telling himself she hadn't been drunk, and she had been sure of what she wanted. Not that it was any excuse.
Finally, Emma answered her phone.
"Let me guess," he said. "You're having second thoughts this morning?"
She hung up on him. Didn't say a word. He just heard a click and then dead air. He called back. She didn't answer. Her phone went straight to voice mail.
"Emma, I'm sorry. Okay? And I'm worried about you. Please talk to me."
She didn't. He waited so long without saying anything that the call finally disconnected. He called back, and before he could say two words, she said, "I don't want to talk about it, and I don't want to talk to you. I'm turning off my cell."
"Emma—"
Which was obviously what she did. She couldn't keep her phone turned off forever, but he was in no mood to wait her out. He got into his truck and drove, still seething at the way he'd obviously botched things with her once again. He found the dorm without any problem, parked in a place that he feared would surely get him a ticket, but he just didn't give a damn.
She was going to talk to him, one way or another.
He got out of his truck, slammed the door, stalked up to the entrance, and found her two steps outside the front door going somewhere, probably to escape before he got there. She paled at the sight of him and backed up until she was against the wall.
"One way or another, you're going to talk to me. You owe me that." Her chin came up. She gave him a painfully sad look. "Oh, hell, Emma. I'm sorry. What was I supposed to do? Tell me that? What was I supposed to do?"
She was trying to say something, trying not to cry.
A woman in the most somber brown dress, one who looked like a prison matron opened the glass-front door and glared at him. "Is there a problem?"
"No. No problem," he claimed.
"Emma?" she asked, clearly unwilling to take his word for it.
"We're fine, Mrs. Grant. We're just going over here to talk."
The dragon lady gave him a look that would have felled lesser men, or at least men who'd never been in prison. He took Emma by the arm and stalked over to a park bench under a tree in the corner. It was cold out here. He hadn't realized before. He'd been too steamed. And she looked hurt, dammit.
Logically, he knew he hadn't hurt her. At least not physically. She'd been with him every inch of the way. But emotionally... He didn't know where to begin emotionally. He couldn't make sense of his own feelings right now, much less hers. He'd been blindsided by the whole thing. Terrified when he'd gotten her call, terrified in the truck on his way to find her and again once he'd seen her. Even more so when she'd explained her little lose-her-virginity plan to him. He'd been furious that she'd been drinking, that some little shit had torn her blouse, furious at what might have happened to her.
It seemed she'd been miserable for two solid years, and that was about to burn a hole in his gut, too. He had no idea where to even begin or where they went from here. The best he could do was, "Tell me what's wrong, Emma."
She shot him an incredulous look.
"Okay... You obviously regret what happened...." Hadn't he known they would? Wasn't that why he'd tried so hard to resist her all this time? Logic went right out the window, and he had to ask, "Did I hurt you?"
"Just my pride."
Pride? Okay, it hadn't been one of her finer moments. But, hell, they all did stupid things every now and then. She was one of the most levelheaded, responsible people he'd ever met, except when it came to him. Not that he wouldn't rather cut off his right arm than ever hurt her. Which he'd done.
And God knew he should have found a way to keep from having her last night. He'd never thought he would, but he'd burned for her, and he could have sworn she had done the same for him. He'd been surprised the bed hadn't gone up in flames, despite the considerable restraint he thought he'd managed to use with her. Then she'd run away from him this morning.
"Okay, pretend I'm totally lost here. As clueless as any man can be, and explain it to me in little bitty words that maybe I can understand, Emma. Because I'm not leaving until I understand what I did that was so wrong."
"Oh, for God's sake, you didn't do anything wrong," she said. "It was nice of you to be so accommodating."
"Accommodating?" There was nothing accommodating about it. He'd been dying for her, and he'd finally let himself have her, and now she seemed to hate him for it? "Try it one more time, Em. Little bitty words, remember? I'm just not getting it."
She looked like she'd just as soon spit on him as anything else, but she said, "Don't you remember anything I said to you last night?"
"I remember everything you said."
"And how do you think you'd feel if you were me, and you'd said those things to someone?"
What? Back to her genius plan? Okay, it was bad, but hell, he'd had to admit to killing someone. The two really didn't compare, did they?
"You're embarrassed?" he guessed. But that didn't equal fury, did it? It didn't equal this kind of pain.
She looked even sadder. Tears were coming any minute. He had to stop them.
"Emma, it's not like I haven't ever done anything..." Not stupid. Her whole little plan was incredibly stupid, but he'd yelled that at her last night when he'd been scared for her and so mad he could hardly see straight. He wouldn't say that again. "It's not like I've never made a mistake. Not like I haven't done things I regret. It happens. Not that often to you, I know, but... Give yourself a break. So you're not perfect."
She didn't have to be, certainly not for him.
And he had to find a way to apologize for the past two years, for the fact that she'd been so unhappy. He'd never wanted that for her.
"A mistake?" Then she was crying. Damn. "I backed you into a corner until, out of a sense of fear over what I'd do next and maybe guilt, you took me to bed with you."
"Guilt?" No, he just couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand the idea of anyone else touching her. Couldn't walk away from her one more time. Couldn't stand her looking so lost or being so sad. "It wasn't guilt, and I thought it's what you wanted. I sure wanted it."
"Oh, right. That's why all the other times I've thrown myself at you, you turned me down. The only reason you were even there last night was because I was drunk and in trouble and thought I'd called Sam. Didn't I call Sam?"
"Yes. I came by the house later, and I—"
"Felt some obligation to come save me from my own stupidity?"
"I was scared shitless about what had happened to you."
"That's what I said. You were scared, and then you felt guilty. That's all I had to do to have you, huh? Scare you and then turn on the guilt. If only I'd known, I could have had you years ago."
"Emma, it wasn't like that." Oh, hell, it had started like that, but...
"Please, just leave me alone," she said. "I'm sorry I dragged you back into my pathetic little life. I'm sorry I scared you, and I'm sorry I played the sympathy card so well that we ended up in your bed."
"Sympathy? What the hell do you think sympathy had to do with it?"
"Oh, please. Are you going to make me say it?"
"Say what? I have to understand why you're so upset." He couldn't begin to fix it until he understood, and he had to fix this. He couldn't stand to see her this way.
"It's humiliating, Rye. What is it people call it, a pity fu—"
"Don't you dare," he said.
; "You were afraid if you didn't, I'd find someone else. That I'd do another really stupid thing and maybe get hurt."
"Emma, there was no way I could have let you do that."
"That's what I mean. You bailed me out of another messy problem. I'm glad you didn't get thrown in jail for it this time, and I'm sorry. Really, I am. The next time I get into trouble, I promise I will not call you."
"Well, who the hell are you going to call, if not me?" He was screaming at her by then, and as baffled as he'd ever been by any situation he'd ever gotten himself into with a woman.
He had to get her out of here, someplace private where they could talk. He'd counted on them having a nice long talk this morning, and he supposed he should have taken the time for it last night, before he'd touched her. But he'd been so mad he could hardly see straight, and then he'd just let himself have her. No more pretending. No more waiting. How it had all gone so wrong this morning, he would never understand, and he really didn't want to have this conversation turn into a public shouting match.
"I have to go," she said, getting to her feet.
"No way," he said, rising, too.
She started to stalk off, and he grabbed her by the arm.
"Rye, let me go."
"So you can run away again? No."
"I think the lady's done talking," a deep, authoritative voice said.
Rye looked up and there was a cop. No... campus security.
Great.
That's what he got for getting involved with a college girl. The guy was looking at him like he had to be the scum of the earth, trolling college campuses for little girls.
Yeah, he could just imagine how this looked.
"Let her go," the officer said.
Rye let go. He didn't argue with cops or pseudo-cops or anyone like that.
"Anything I should know about?" the officer asked.
"No," Emma said. "I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
She nodded. The pseudo-cop looked at Rye. "That your truck?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"You need to come with me, so I can write you a little ticket. It's a permit-only zone, and I don't think you're a student, are you?"
"Not quite."