by Emerson Rose
“Mr. Black, air out the room anyway, just in case Miss Jefferson needs to lie down. She’s very prone to fainting.” I narrow my eyes and whip my head to find him biting his lip. He’s trying not to laugh at me.
Like a flash-flood, irritation rips through my bloodstream, and I clench my hands into fists piercing my palms with my fingernails.
Mr. Black glances at me with eyebrows raised and his chin tucked, then he looks back and forth between us while I glare at Marcus. But I’m stubborn, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reply.
“Do as your please, Mr. Black, but don’t mind him, he has a head injury,” I say, jerking my thumb toward Marcus.
This banter seems to please Mr. Black, and his expression becomes less severe as we roll Marcus through the majestic front doors on a gurney.
“Welcome home, Imani, I hope you enjoy it here because I plan on keeping you for a very long time.” He sounds like the Mad Hatter from Alice and Wonderland. Maybe this is the brain damage. I really should start a log or diary to track his behavior. I should also interrogate some of his staff to see what exactly his normal behavior is, if he’s ever been normal at all.
I look around in awe as we move through an almost empty foyer. The only thing occupying the space is a round table in the center with an enormous fall flower arrangement in a vase.
A spectacular chandelier sparkles above us and a grand staircase runs up the center of the foyer branching out on either side to separate areas on the second floor.
To my right, there’s another set of double doors that open into an office. On the left is an open area that flows under the stairs toward the back of the house. We continue through a large spacious living room with vaulted ceilings and Old English furniture.
Tall floor-to-ceiling windows line the back wall of the living room. Each one covered in dense dark purple drapes that pool onto the hardwood floors.
There’s a lot of purple in this room, everywhere I look. Pillows on the couch, accents in various pieces of artwork, a throw on the back of a chair, all purple. It’s not a particularly feminine shade of purple, but one that exudes royalty. The decorator must have known Marcus personally.
The EMTs roll toward another set of double doors directly off of the living room that leads into the master suite.
A middle-aged Hispanic woman moves past us toward his massive California King bed and swiftly pulls back the covers. When she’s painstakingly arranged the sheets and blankets, she hustles to the window to open the heavy drapes that cover more floor-to-ceiling windows.
“That will be all, Maria,” he says, dismissing the woman without so much as a ‘thank you.' God, he needs to learn some manners. I make a mental note to put that on top of my to-do list.
The paramedics lower the gurney next to his bed and begin to help him move. “No, I’ll stand.”
“Marcus, it would be smart to let them help you; you haven’t been out of bed on your own yet.” I lean forward on my toes instinctively, and all of the hot fury I felt toward him outside is replaced with warm worry and concern.
“I can do it myself,” he says, and the paramedics look at me for help. I roll down off of my toes and shrug, raising my hands in frustration.
“Let him try, I guess, but be right there in case he can’t make it,” I say, and Marcus scowls at me. “What? I’m your nurse. I don’t know why you want me here if you don’t plan on following my directions.”
No reply, just angry stubbornness.
They lower the rail and move the gurney close to his bed. Marcus swings his good leg over, placing his foot on the ground. I tense and take a half step toward him, but he looks up at me with an expression that I’m starting to recognize, and I stop.
It’s the ‘don’t you dare’ look.
He places his good foot on the floor and uses his hands to guide his casted leg off the gurney, then he pivots on his good leg and sits with unexpected grace on the edge of his bed.
He’s pretty damn satisfied with himself as he glances in my direction, then he finishes the job and raises his leg that is in a cast up onto the mattress and the pillows that have been strategically arranged by his underappreciated servant, Maria.
I have to say I am impressed. It’s as if he has done this before. Or maybe not; it could be the absolute control he has over every perfectly toned muscle in his body.
Either way, I’m enjoying the sight of him moving on his own. I didn’t think it was possible for him to be more attractive, but Marcus in motion is living, breathing art.
He has the kind of body that would be on the cover of an anatomy book representing the perfect male body. Every part of his metrosexual body is sculpted, hard, and polished. He oozes money and authority, silently commanding attention with his impressive looks and confidence.
Dressed in a long-sleeved charcoal gray Henley that stretches across his fine chest in the most distracting way and a pair of soft jeans with one leg cut off at the knee to allow for the cast, he is by far the most attractive man I’ve ever encountered.
Helping him dress to leave the hospital was a lesson in discipline and a bit of a torture session all rolled into one. Covering his chest with that shirt was criminal. His abs should be on permanent display for the entire world to enjoy. I helped him put on his jeans with equal regret.
My hands trembled when he arched his back to make it easier for me to slide them over his hips, and he fucking loved every second of unnerving me. I would never have been able to do that with any other man.
The way he looked at me with his eyes full of passion and desire would have had my brain misfiring my fight-or-flight instincts all over the place.
Mr. Black is directing everyone where to go and what to do while shooing the EMTs out of the bedroom.
“Will you need anything else, Miss Jefferson?”
I’m surprised when he directs the question at me, and I shake my head.
“Imani, please call me Imani.”
“Yes, very well, Imani. I’ll check on dinner with Cook while you finish getting Mr. Castillo settled. I’ll return in a while to give you a tour of the house.”
“Thank you.”
He turns and backs out of the room pulling both doors shut at once with the formality and flare of a butler in an old movie.
When I turn around, I become acutely aware of the fact that I am alone with Marcus in his bedroom. Marcus Castillo, the man who woke from a coma screaming my name like he’d been starving for me and only me his entire life.
My palms are clammy, sweat from out of nowhere trickles down the center of my back between my shoulder blades. The past couple days have left my nerves shot. Being with Marcus is like bungee jumping. The fear of the unknown was watching him in a coma, like standing on the edge of a bridge about to jump for the first time.
He then regained consciousness, and the bungee bands recoiled, snapping me back to reality where I realized he might not be the man I’d been wishing for. I’ve been dangling off that bridge bouncing up and down on those damn bands ever since. Going up when he pressed his lips against mine, and down when he tried to change every part of my life to suit him. Back up I went when he flirted shamelessly from a hospital bed, and then down when his memory failed him.
I care too much, too soon, too deeply. And although I haven’t had any experience in relationships I know he could hurt me, maybe even destroy me.
But I can’t turn away.
“Can I do anything for you? Pain meds or water maybe? How about I get your things unpacked and your essentials within your reach.”
I’m rambling, and my heart is pounding like crazy. I’m on his turf now, and he is more than aware that he has the home field advantage.
I should have thought this through better. I should have taken a few days and separated myself from him to clear my head so I could make sound decisions, but I didn’t and I can’t turn back now. I signed up for this, and I need to find some middle ground from the get-go. His smile looks like it’s going to spli
t his face in half when I look him in the eye. Why, oh why, does he love making me sweat?
“Come here,” he says, and against my better judgment, I move closer but not too close. I stand at the foot of the bed where he can’t touch me.
“You know you can’t continue to stay out of my reach forever, don’t you? I’m going to need some assistance, albeit minimal. I do like doing things for myself.”
“I know…”
He taps his finger against his lips, silently telling me to stop talking and crooks his finger beckoning me to come closer. Like he’s cast a spell over me, I move to his side without a moment of hesitation.
His magnetic pull is too strong for me to resist. He takes my hand in his, turning it over to kiss my palm. I inhale a quick breath when the warmth of his lips connects with my skin. I watch him smooth his fingers along my inner arm to the soft spot where it bends and return to my open palm. How does he make such an innocent touch so erotic?
“You’re so soft.” His touch lights my skin on fire, burning every inch as he continues to caress my arm.
“You smell sweet, like cotton candy. Do you ever think about losing one of your senses?” he asks, closing his eyes. “Close your eyes with me.”
Puzzled and wary of losing one of my senses, I pause until he opens his eyes again. “Close your eyes, Imani,” he says again.
I close my eyes and peek once to make sure he has done the same. He guides my hand down the side of his smoothly shaven face to his neck and across his throat.
Then he takes my other hand and repeats the motion on the opposite side of his face. A moan vibrates from his throat, and he guides my fingers over his eyes and across his forehead, gently encouraging me to explore every curve of his face on my own.
“My favorite aunt was blind. She was the only person who ever really knew me. She was also the only person who ever loved me. This is how she learned to read me. With one touch, she knew if I was lying or hurt or even hungry. She was the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.”
I hold my breath while he gives me this gift. Somehow I know he doesn’t talk about his past with just anyone, and he’s chosen me to share it with.
I take the reins and move my hands on my own now, exploring and memorizing his face in an interesting way, by touch instead of sight. He’s equally beautiful both ways. My fingers glide over the dimple on his right cheek. I remember that dimple well from the many times I shaved his face.
Visualizing it in my mind feels so much more intimate. Instead of simply seeing him I’m feeling him, connecting on a level that I didn’t know existed.
I hold his face in my hands and caress his cheeks with my thumbs. I slowly take my time feathering my fingers over his ears and down the sides of his neck enjoying the different textures and sensations his skin brings me.
My lungs protest, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. He stretches up and guides me into a tender kiss. He gently covers my mouth as he softly traces my lips with his tongue. I lean in, craving more, but he shifts back onto the pillows taking me with him. He kisses the tip of my nose and each cheek tenderly before returning his attention to my mouth where he gives me what I want, deepening the kiss.
Our tongues glide, exploring each other’s mouths. When his hands move to my hips, he eases me down onto the bed next to him, but I boldly take it a step further. I lean into him and without breaking our kiss, I press my knee into the mattress and swing my other leg over his body, straddling his hips.
I kneel over him, careful not to put any of my weight against his body. A low growl escapes his exploring lips and a whimper of my own fills the room. He slides his hands up my thighs to my ass and pulls me down against him, forcing our bodies together. I feel his thick cock against my core as he holds me firmly against him. I resist at first, worried about hurting his leg.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about my leg,” he says breathlessly.
“It’s my job to worry about your leg.” I don’t sound much like his nurse, panting my concerned words between kisses. He moves so that we are nose-to-nose.
“You are officially off the clock,” he says with that sexy as hell smirk on his face. Oh my God, I love that smirk.
Like a kid set free in a candy store with unlimited funds, I attack his mouth with more passion. I thread my fingers through his thick hair and tighten my grip urgently. He explores more of my ass, up my back, and under my sweater, caressing and unhooking my bra with the skill of a major player.
He is undoing more than just my lingerie; he’s making me break my most critical rules one after another after another.
‘Don’t let your eyes linger and don’t let your heart feel’ has been my mantra for a decade until Marcus.
There is an exception to every rule, and this mysterious bossy man with multiple personalities is my exception. I sigh as his hands glide around my trembling rib cage to my bare breasts. He cups them in his palms, teasing my nipples into hard peaks.
I drop my head back and gasp when he rocks his hips upward against my aching pussy.
I melt in his arms.
Hot lava replaces the blood in my veins. I am so far gone that I’m unaware of my surroundings. It’s just Marcus and his sweet, wet mouth on me, nibbling a trail back and forth from my neck to my breasts.
He leans away from me for a moment, and I instantly mourn the loss of his body against mine. I open my eyes for the first time since we began kissing and watch him as he lifts my sweater up to reveal my breasts.
“You are so fucking gorgeous. I knew you would be, but seeing you here on top of me in the flesh, baring yourself willingly, is like a dream come true.
Except in my dream, I couldn’t see your silky caramel skin or taste your perfect soft breasts.”
He is a master at drugging me with his words. I am in the midst of an out-of-body experience, floating above us looking down on a woman grinding her hips against a handsome, sexy man in his bed.
He worships her with his mouth, and she arches her back begging him for more. That woman is me.
Fuck, what am I doing? A hard rap on the door breaks the spell. I sit up and look into his heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes briefly before I swing myself off the bed and reach behind to hook my bra just as Mr. Black opens the door.
He immediately realizes his mistake and backs out, closing the door without a word.
“Goddamnit! If you hadn’t worked for me for over ten years, you’d be fucking fired, Black!” he yells, loud enough for everyone on Mercer Island to hear.
I jump when he yells and that fight-or-flight rush washes over me. Flight wins over fight, and I grab my purse to make a run for it.
I need to get out of here and think about what the hell I’m doing; this is so unprofessional, this is supposed to be my job.
“Imani, you are not leaving me.” His words twist my heart. I turn around and back out of the room with one last look at his handsome, confused, angry face.
“I need to get home. It’s late. I’ll be back in the morning at seven.”
“You cannot leave me. I need you. You’re my nurse.” I can see panic creeping into his mind like the fog that rolls in over the water early every morning.
“You said I’m officially off the clock.”
“I changed my mind. I need help with dinner and getting undressed for bed. I have meds that you’re supposed to give to me.”
He has a point. I really can’t refuse him. It’s only eight o’clock, and technically I’m scheduled until eleven according to our agreement. I take a deep breath and set my purse down on the chair next to the doors. He relaxes back onto his pillows, but he never takes his eyes off of me.
“I’m going to find Mr. Black and get that tour of the house now. I’ll see about your dinner but no more of this,” I say, waving my finger back and forth between us.
“Alright, but what is wrong with this?” he says, mimicking my gesture.
“This is totally unprofessional, and if you want me to do my job we can’t be
doing this anymore,” I say, repeating our new sign language symbol for making out one more time with more exaggeration.
He chuckles and without looking he grabs a remote from the bed where Carmen must have left it exactly where he would want it. I hear a humming begin behind me. When I turn around, there are two sliding panels opening to reveal a massive television hidden in the wall.
“I am not known as a patient man, Imani, quite the opposite, to be honest. But for you, I will try.”
And with that, I’m dismissed. He raises his arm and turning his hand to the side, he waves me out of the way so he can watch the football game he just switched on.
Well, I’m glad he finds it so easy to turn all of this off because I’m in serious post hot/wet panty mode with no relief in sight.
Having morals sucks.
I take a quick glance back at him before I leave and, yep, sure as shit, he’s still hard as a rock inside of those soft jeans. I guess he’ll have to handle that one on his own. I turn away and smile to myself, closing the door.
“Imani.” I open the door a crack.
“Yeah?”
“Leave the doors open. I want to watch your ass walking away.”
He’s trying to kill me with that damn smirk of his, but I’m willing to play along with his game. I open both doors wide and walk away with an extra sway in my hips just for him.
Fourteen
I walk through the living room, skimming my fingers along the back of an Old-World claw-foot couch. Deep purple, gray, and cream-colored throw pillows have been arranged in a perfect row like soldiers on a battlefield. The couch faces a fireplace that is the focal point of the room. And what a focal point it is. It’s large enough for a full-grown person to walk straight into without ducking his head, a monstrosity that commands your attention, a lot like its owner.
The home isn't a modern open concept home like you see on HGTV. It has character and charm that the homes built today are lacking. I like that there are doors and wide arches separating the rooms, making each one a surprise.
There is a formal dining room behind a solid, oversized wood door at the opposite end of the living room from Marcus’s bedroom.