by Kendall Ryan
After we checked in to the hotel, Emery took off for a business meeting downstairs in one of the conference rooms while I stepped out and explored Omaha. There isn’t much to see, which is why I’m already back and seated at the hotel bar with a bottle of imported beer in front of me.
I glance down to check the time on my phone. I have another thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Emery for a business dinner in the hotel’s one restaurant—fittingly, a steakhouse. If there’s one thing they’ve got in Nebraska, it’s cows. I went over to check out the restaurant earlier, wanting to make sure they’ll have a vegetarian option for her.
Plus I was just bored. I have my laptop, and I logged on to check on some properties and reply to work e-mails, but I’m unaccustomed to being out of my own city and am too restless to concentrate on work.
I wonder if this is what Emery’s transition to LA has felt like? If so, I give her even more credit for how well she’s handled things. I glance at my phone again. Twenty-nine more minutes.
Fuck.
• • •
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the private dining room of the restaurant, talking to a junior associate named Donald Kemp and his wife, Tabitha or Tracey, I can’t remember. He’s about as exciting as a wet towel. My eyes keep wandering over to the set of French doors, hungry for the first sight of her. Where is she?
Finally Emery floats in on a pair of high heels that make her legs seem to go on forever. And my heart rate trips over itself in a race to catch up.
She’s in a cocktail dress. Classic. Black. Little spaghetti straps delicately resting on her shoulders. Her yoga-toned legs are something I’ve rarely gotten a glimpse of since she’s usually in jeans or a business suit, and they live up to the very high standard set in my many dirty fantasies.
I open my mouth to excuse myself from Donald when an older man with floppy gray hair and a bad set of veneers approaches Emery, placing his hand on her waist and leaning in to tell her something. She cringes.
Murderous rage boils inside me and I want to deck the son of a bitch. Clenching my fists at my sides, I excuse myself and stride over toward her. Thoughts of pissing on her leg, like a dog does with a hydrant, to mark my territory flash through my mind. Shit. I can’t do that to Emery. Stopping beside her, my eyes land on Mr. Pudgy, Gray, and Slimy.
“Hayden, this is Mr. Pratt, my boss at the firm,” Emery says pointedly, obviously sensing my murderous attitude and trying to calm me down. “And this is Hayden Oliver. He’s a real-estate developer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I bite out in a clipped tone.
Mr. Pratt nods, and I wonder if this is Larry The Creeper she’s told me about. Most likely she has a couple of bosses at the firm, but a gut feeling tells me this is the head honcho.
“Emery’s doing phenomenal work. It’s a pleasure having her, as I’m sure you know,” he says, giving me a sly wink that makes my stomach turn.
Doesn’t this guy realize he’s old enough to be Emery’s father? Ick. No wonder she’s sworn off men. Then again, now that I’ve met Emery’s mother, there’s no way she’d stand for a douche-nozzle like this guy. I’ve discovered where Emery gets her no-nonsense attitude.
“By the way, call me Larry,” The Creeper says, leaning in toward me. His breath is a mix of rancid mayonnaise and week-old bologna. Gag.
Taking a step closer to Emery, I tug her away from his grabby hands and closer to me. Her eyes widen and meet mine.
I lean down to whisper near her ear, letting my lips touch her neck just slightly. “I’ll behave. I just don’t want him touching you.”
She gives me a tight nod, her eyes darting between mine and his. It’s clear she doesn’t want to get in the middle of the standoff happening between me and her boss. But I sense she’s grateful to be away from him just the same.
I guide Emery over toward the bar. “Something to drink?” I ask, my voice calmer once we’re away from her foul boss.
“Please.” Her eyes plead with mine, and I can sense that whatever happened today, it was a hell of a day. “Something strong. But not too strong,” she adds.
I scan the drink menu and motion the bartender over. “A red sangria, please.” It’s made with a nice cabernet and a splash of orange liqueur, so it’ll be a little stronger than plain wine, but not strong enough that she’ll be tempted to act undignified in front of her colleagues. And with the sliced oranges and cherries as a garnish, it’s fun and girly without being obnoxious.
When I turn to hand her the drink, she beams at me.
“Thank you. That’s perfect.”
I place my hand at the small of her back, the strange need to be close to her flashing through me.
Once Emery has her drink and she’s taken a few sips, I can see her begin to relax. Her shoulders drop by about two inches and her mouth relaxes into a welcoming grin. I bet there are knots in her back and neck that I could work out later . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Finally, we sit down for dinner. I pull out a chair for Emery, only to watch Asshat Larry slide into the seat next to hers. I have to lean down and ask one of her colleagues if he minds trading seats with me so that I can sit beside her. Many of the associate attorneys have brought their wives. In fact, the only person riding solo is Larry.
I seriously want to kick her creepy-ass boss in the nut sack. I don’t like the way he’s been looking at her in her cocktail dress all evening, and weaseling his way in to sit next to her is just weird.
At least everyone at our table is in a celebratory mood. They won a settlement today that’s been two years in the making. Tomorrow will be about tying up loose ends, signing the contracts, and working out the small details. Emery contributed, despite being new and young, and her boss is impressed with her. So that’s a silver lining.
We make small talk, the conversation often turning toward technical minutiae and office politics that Emery navigates with ease. I love watching her in action, sparring with these men twice her age. It’s pretty incredible. Finally, the waitstaff scurries out with steaming silver trays, ready to serve dinner.
“What the hell is this?” Larry looks down at Emery’s plate, which contains grilled veggies and pasta in wine sauce—exactly what I ordered for her when I came to the restaurant earlier and learned the menu for our dinner party had already been selected, without taking her preferences into consideration. “Someone get this girl a steak,” he demands, glaring at the waitstaff.
“No, Mr. Pratt . . . I mean Larry,” Emery says. “It’s fine.”
I lean in toward him. “She’s a vegetarian. I made sure she’d be taken care of tonight.”
Her gaze darts over to mine and a grateful look crosses her features. Something tells me if I hadn’t intervened tonight, she’d be stuck eating a few spears of broccoli for dinner, and I’m not okay with that. I get that she wants to make a good impression with the senior partners, but damn, she should be able to eat what she likes.
“A vegetarian?” Larry scoffs.
I’m not sure how he didn’t know that information. Emery’s been working with him for a month. I distinctly recall her setting me straight about that when we first met. Then again, maybe she’s just more comfortable with me.
I dig into my steak while Emery, seemingly pleased, swirls pasta on her fork and shovels a big bite into her mouth. She eats with gusto, with none of the fake, coy dieting crap that some girls pull. Oh, I’ve had one lettuce leaf—I’m full.
As I tune out the dry conversation about mergers and acquisitions happening around me, I notice little things about Emery during dinner. The way her simple gold necklace rests against the dip in her delicate collarbone. The way her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks when she looks down. The sound of her laughter when she lets loose—it’s a throaty sound, and I find I like it way more than is normal.
Generally with women, I have the finesse and mental fortitude of a rhinoceros charging through a watering hole. With Emery, I want to cat
alog every little detail. I could stare at her for hours. The way she dabs her cloth napkin at her mouth, so as not to mess up her lipstick. It’s cute.
When dinner is through, I make my way over to the bar, needing one more drink if I’m to survive the rest of this evening. I’ve just ordered a Scotch on the rocks when Larry saunters over. The piece of broccoli between his front teeth is so large, it practically requires its own zip code. Of course, I don’t say a word.
“It’s good to hear today went well,” I say, mentally checking Make small talk off my to-do list. I’m about to wander away when Larry turns to face me, pinning me against the bar.
“How long have you and Emery been dating, son?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say, correcting him.
Larry raises one bushy gray brow. “She said she was bringing her boyfriend.”
“Did she?” I ask with more than a hint of curiosity in my tone.
Larry nods, the broccoli between his teeth waggling at me. “She did.”
“Excuse me,” I say and head straight over to Emery, tearing her away from one of her colleagues. Dick, or Bob, or whatever.
She glares at me, nearly tripping over her high-heeled feet as I pull her to a quiet side of the room. “What’s gotten into you? Did you tell Larry I was your boyfriend?”
I’m not sure why, but my tone is dripping with annoyed frustration. I haven’t been labeled anyone’s boyfriend since . . . yeah. After which, a state of emergency was declared upon my life, and things have never been quite the same.
Planting one hand on her hip, her posture straightens. “Aren’t you?”
All of our time spent together over the past month comes crashing into me at once, like starbursts firing in my synapses. The casual meals we’ve shared, the easy conversations, me lacing my fingers between hers, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear and fantasizing about her. God, the fucking fantasies I’ve had . . .
My jaw tenses. Maybe this whole thing is my fault. One big, huge colossal mess. But it all felt right. More than right. Perfect, actually. It’s been easy and fun—in a way that it never has been when it comes to the women in my life.
Emery’s still waiting for me to answer, so I do the only thing I can think of. I lean down and take her mouth with mine. Her hands fly to the lapels of my suit jacket, and for a second, I think she’s going to push me away. But then she tugs me closer and groans into my mouth. Gripping her waist tightly, I devour her just like I’ve fantasized about for so long. My tongue strokes hers in long licks as little mewling sounds escape her. I want to strip her right here and fuck her against the wall, bounce her up and down on my cock while her boss watches.
My dick is already rock hard. Fuck.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I say in a low voice, practically panting.
“Yes,” she agrees, just as breathless.
Taking her hand, I pull her from the restaurant and down the hall toward the elevators. I consider pulling her into the stairwell—it’s closer than our room—but not nearly private enough for what I want to do to her.
Jabbing the button with my finger, I don’t release my hold on Emery’s hand. Finally the doors open and we step inside, joining an elderly couple who nod and smile at us. But then Granny’s eyes travel down to the large bulge at the front of my pants, and she takes a step back.
“Oh my,” she says, her hand flying to her mouth.
Emery giggles and buries her face into my neck. The warm puff of her breath against my skin sends tingling heat down my spine and into my groin, making my dick even harder.
“Not helping, sweetheart,” I murmur. I want to swat her ass, but in the presence of our audience, I resist. Just barely.
The elevator stops at our floor and we make a hasty exit. Emery stumbles, tipsy from the three sangrias she’s had, and lets me tug her down the hall.
Finally we’re inside our room, and when the door closes behind us, the only sound is of our thumping heartbeats. The room is dim, except for the bathroom light that was left on, creating a swath of light to see by.
“Why’d you tell Larry I was your boyfriend?” I ask, my voice a mere whisper.
“You saw how he is with me.”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “I wanted to fucking hit him in the face. Repeatedly.”
“I couldn’t come here and be the only one without a date. I needed you.”
“As a buffer,” I say.
She nods, reluctantly. “Do you mind?”
“No, actually. It’s cool. But why not say we were just friends, you know, tell the truth?”
She swallows and looks down at the carpeting. “Sometimes it feels like . . .”
“More,” I say, finishing for her.
Her gaze flies up to mine. “Yeah.”
I take a deep shaky breath, not knowing what to say next. This whole situation is my fault.
“But I know you don’t want that,” she says, her voice small.
“I want you,” I tell her, lifting her chin to look at me.
Alarm bells ring in my head. Beth’s warnings, Hudson’s lectures . . . but all of it means nothing. Because I want her. So badly it hurts.
Her hand dips down and she grips my cock through my pants. “Yeah, I picked up on that.”
A grunt of surprise pushes past my lips as she rubs her hand up and down. “Fuck.”
“You’re not fit to take out in public. Scaring women and children like that.” She makes a tsking sound.
“What are you going to do about it, Miss Winters?”
I lean down and take her mouth again. Damn, one hit and I’m addicted to her. She lets me devour her mouth, her warm tongue stroking mine as I grind my erection into her soft belly.
Letting out a loud gasp, Emery breaks away from our kiss.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m sure you were lying about that whole nine-inches thing, but I have to know.” Her grin turns devilish as her hands move to my zipper, and she slowly tugs it down.
I lace my fingers and cross my hands behind my head as I lean back against the wall. “Have at it, babe.”
She smirks at me and then goes back to work, reaching inside my black boxer briefs. I feel her warm palm curl around me, and it’s heaven.
She grips me and pulls out my cock. “Holy shit.”
“What?” I look down to see her view.
We’re both fully clothed, with just my cock between us. Her hand doesn’t even close around my girth, but it’s such a pretty sight—her manicured red nails and delicate hand holding me this way.
“Women actually let you put this thing inside them?”
I want to laugh at her innocence, but I don’t. “Come here,” I say, leaning down to kiss her again.
I want her to stroke that pretty little hand up and down—I’m so fucking worked up that I’m ready to explode, but I don’t want to rush her. I know this is a huge moment for us. There might be no going back to being friends after this, and I have no idea what that means, or how to process it. I only know that I want her underneath me, on top of me, everywhere.
Reaching behind her, I unzip her dress and let it fall to the floor. She’s wearing a black strapless bra that pushes her titties up so nice and high for me to admire, and little black boy shorts. Practical, comfortable, but still sexy as hell. My hands skim down her body, over the dip in her waist and down to her ass, where her round cheeks peek from the undies she’s wearing.
Finally her hand begins working up and down. It feels good.
“Use two hands, baby,” I encourage her. She giggles but adds a second hand, and fuck, now that feels really good.
When I rub my thumb over the front of her panties, Emery releases a little grunt of pleasure. I want to make her come. I want to take her over to the bed. But instead, I switch our positions so she’s the one leaning up against the wall, braced with support. Then I push my fingers inside her panties and find her soaking wet. Her little pearl of a clit is already swollen and distended,
as if reaching out for me. I circle it with my finger and Emery moans.
“Hayden. Oh God.”
“You like me touching this hot little pussy?” I whisper, speeding up my strokes.
She cries out and rubs her greedy hands up and down my cock while her hips press forward, giving me all the access I want to her wet cunt.
“Hayden,” she says on a groan. “What are we doing?”
I look at her—really look at her—and realize she’s tipsy. And questioning what we’re doing. I suddenly feel like a grade-A asshole. She’s not sure about this, and my determination instantly fades.
“Emery. I’m sorry,” I murmur, taking a step back and tucking myself into my pants. Ouch. Damn zipper. I have to stop this before we go too far . . . do something we’ll both regret in the morning.
“W-what?” she asks, her eyes glassy and her cheeks pink. “What are you doing?”
“You’ve had too much to drink. You’re not thinking clearly, and I wouldn’t want to take advantage.”
She takes a step toward me, her chest bouncing in the push-up bra. “You’re not . . .”
I lean down and press my lips to hers. “It’s just not a good idea. Good night.”
I’m not sure when I turned so chivalrous, but I take a deep breath and force myself to walk away. Since we’re sharing a room, the only reprieve is the bathroom—and that’s where I go. I pull out my aching cock and jack it so hard and fast, I’m almost raw by the time I come.
When I’m composed and cleaned up, I exit the bathroom and find Emery already curled up in bed, lying on her side, facing away from me as she snores lightly.
And I know I’ve made the right decision.
At least, I hope I have.
Chapter Fourteen
Emery
Yet another endless day of negotiations and legal nitpicking. The hotel’s air-conditioning can barely keep the stifling atmosphere at bay.
I resist the urge to drum my fingers on the polished conference table. For Christ’s sake, you indecisive twits . . . what the hell is the problem? These suit-wearing chimps said they were happy with the paperwork when we e-mailed them our final drafts two weeks ago. Why did they wait until now to start hemming and hawing and scribbling notes?