by Laura Kaye
Emma was entirely sure her jaw was sitting on the kitchen floor. She struggled to pick it up. “Yup,” she managed, and then she shook the boxes. “Come on, you know you wanna.”
His gaze went from the first box, to the second, then to her. He gave her a slow, blatant, lingering onceover that made her want to tear off her sweater for the heat that flashed through her blood. “You might be right, Emma. I do wanna.”
Her heart tripped into a sprint. Because she was pretty sure that she was game for whatever he might want. And why not? She was twenty-seven and single. She didn’t need anyone’s permission, nor did she require some sort of commitment to consider enjoying a man’s company. And more than all of that, no man had ever taunted and tempted and intrigued her the way this one did. Maybe it was that he’d protected her. Maybe it was all the layers she sensed beneath the hard-as-hell exterior. Or maybe it was that killer intensity that ricocheted off of him, some potent elixir of raw masculinity with a dash of danger.
Swallowing hard, she managed a nod. “So, I’ll ask again. Dessert?”
Chapter 8
Caine ached into his very bones. Ached with desire and need and lust.
As if Emma Kerry wasn’t fucking beautiful and funny and smart. As if she wasn’t direct and honest and sincere. As if she hadn’t sated his hunger for the first time in…ever. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself to eat until he was full. Now she was waving a red flag at him, and he wasn’t sure she realized that he was a bull that wanted nothing more than to charge until he’d pinned her to the ground beneath him.
He felt torn in two. Between restraint and letting himself loose. Between doing what was right for both of them and doing what they obviously both wanted. Between being dumbfounded that someone like Emma would want him, and not wanting to question it before she came to her senses and realized she was way too fucking good to be messing around with someone like him. Someone so broken. Someone so unworthy. Someone whose hands were so dirty with the grime of life’s underbelly.
“Regular or overload?” she asked again, looking at him like she was throwing down a challenge.
It was the rasp in her tone that did it. That little tell that her physical desire was true, visceral, real snapped the last of his restraint.
Slowly, he rose. Stalked across the kitchen. Took the ice cream from her hands. He reached over and dropped the boxes on the counter, and then he was right back to her again. All up in her space and walking her back until she was trapped. Trapped by him.
“You, Emma. I choose you for dessert.” His mouth came down on hers, demanding and firm. And that first brush of skin on skin lit him all the way up. He was rock hard and wound tight, full of need and wonder. What was left of his brain function raged against the recklessness of allowing himself even a single taste of her sweetness. He shouldn’t do this. He knew he shouldn’t. But he wanted to so fucking bad.
Just one good long taste.
On a moan, her lips parted and her arms went around his neck. Caine’s tongue sank deep, plundering her mouth like the invader he was. She tasted like orange soda and everything good in the world, and he licked and sucked at every little moan and mewl and gasp she gave him.
He needed to claim every single one. And he wanted more.
Plowing his hands into her silky, soft hair, he boxed her in tighter against the counter, the shifting press of her belly a too-soft tease against his hard dick. But this wasn’t going to be about that. He was going to make this about her. About giving her pleasure, not taking his own. If he gave and didn’t take, maybe she’d regret it less when she realized what she’d done—and who she’d done it with. And maybe, just maybe, he’d find it easier to walk away when this was over and she came to her senses. Like he knew she would.
“Caine,” she rasped around the edge of the kiss.
Fisting his hand in her blond waves, he urged her to tilt her head back. He trailed kisses and licks and nips across her cheek to her ear, her jaw bone, that soft spot on her neck. Downward, to where the slope of her skin met the neck of her sweater. God she was soft and sweet, the little sounds spilling out of her like rays of sunlight in the darkness. So warm and unexpected.
And then he was back at her mouth again like the greedy motherfucker he was. Tasting and exploring and penetrating until she was panting and pushing herself against his cock and he feared he might not be strong enough to keep his dick in his pants where it needed to stay.
Reaching between the tight press of their bodies, he popped the button on her jeans.
Her eyelids lifted slowly, like she was as lust drunk as he was. And he looked her eye to eye as he laid out his intentions. “I need to taste more of you. All of you.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, the words puffing against his lips because they were so close. “Taste me.”
Caine didn’t have to be told twice. He went down to his knees, his hands already working at the denim clinging to her hips. She wore white satin beneath the jeans—of course that was what she wore. And it shouldn’t have turned him on even more, but he couldn’t deny that it fucking did.
When he had the denim around her knees, he smoothed his calloused hands up the outside of her thighs to her hips, then back down again. He peered up at her, leaned in, and grabbed the edge of the panties with his teeth.
Holding her gaze, he worked them down, too. And then she was bared to him. Bared and fucking beautiful.
He didn’t ask a second time, but she nodded anyway. That pretty face so flush, her mouth open and her lips red from their kisses. From his kisses.
His gaze fell to the triangle of dark blond at the top of her thighs, and Caine was suddenly ravenous all over again. He worked a hand between her closed thighs and then pushed it up until he’d opened her stance a little and held her ass in his hand. And then he put his mouth on her.
Right. Fucking. There.
His tongue immediately found her wetness and swirled it around until the volume of her moans told him he’d found her clit. And then he was absolutely relentless. Licking. Sucking. Flicking. Nipping. Lapping at her until his mouth and chin were wet with her juices and she was thrusting and straining her hips.
“Oh, God, Caine. Oh, God,” she rasped. And his name on her lips in this moment was like a prize for a man who’d never before won a contest. He just hoped it didn’t raise his hopes that he might win again. Because the odds were always stacked in favor of the house, not the player.
He went at her harder, faster, savoring every gasp, every drop of her arousal, every moment that he could see her like this. Raw and frenzied and hungry. For him. Her hands fell to his head, holding and guiding him, her fingers clenching in a bid to gain purchase in his short hair.
Christ, he could come from this alone. From getting to be the one on his knees making her pussy clench and weep against his mouth.
His thumb slipped into the wetness he was drawing out with his tongue, then teased her pussy and dipped inside her. His grip tightened against her ass, and his fingers slid between her cheeks, two of his fingertips brushing against her rear hole.
The groan she unleashed sounded like the most shattered satisfaction. “Coming, coming,” she cried, her pleasure coating his tongue and thumb. Maddeningly curious, Caine pressed his fingertips harder against that hole again, and she nearly buckled over him, her hips shuddering, her orgasm stretching out, her short nails scratching against his scalp. Fuck.
Fuck. The pleasure she got out of him touching her ass while he ate her pussy would be tattooed on his memory for the rest of his life. Which was so damn much better than most of the other things etched there.
“Jesus, Caine,” she rasped, still trembling.
He pushed her upright again, one big hand braced against her belly. Because there was no fucking way he wasn’t licking her clean. He did, and she let him, even though she must’ve been terribly fucking sensitive judging by the near pained cries and little pleading begs that spilled out of her mouth.
“Oh, God, please. Please, Caine. I can’t… I can’t take it… It’s so good but it…it’s too much.”
When he was satisfied, he peered up her body. Their gazes collided, and he snaked his tongue between those soft lips one more time.
Just one last taste.
And then he sucked his thumb clean for good measure, making sure she saw him do it. He wasn’t going to hide his enjoyment of her, nor the fact that he could find pleasure in things that crossed lines for some other people. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he had a line at all.
Finally, Caine pulled up those little white panties and put them back into place. Repeated that process with her jeans. Grabbed his hat and got to his feet, his boots a little clumsy and heavy against the floor after being on his knees for so long.
Chewy growled and barked, and then he was suddenly jumping at the door to the back porch.
Emma’s head dropped against Caine’s chest. “I’m sorry that my dog is cockblocking you,” she said, humor plain in her tone. “This is his needs-to-go-out dance.”
Well, that made things a little easier for Caine, then, didn’t it? “Don’t worry about it.”
Her hand cupped his dick through his jeans, and Caine was still so aroused that he groaned. Emma bit down on her bottom lip as she stared at his face, and the look she was giving him was so damn sexy. She whispered. “Oh, I’m not worried. I’m just wanting my turn.”
Caine nearly shuddered from the erotic promise, and from the fact that he needed to resist it.
Luckily for him, Chewy was going in circles now, barking like it was the new cool thing to do. “Hold that thought,” Emma said, smiling at him so damn pretty. Her cheeks were still pink from the exertion of her orgasm. Her hair was still mussed from his hands. Her eyes were still heavy with desire. She made for the door and shook her head as she bent down to give the dog a pat. “What is your problem anyway? Barking like a crazy man. Come on.”
Cold air poured in as she flipped on the back porch light and stepped outside. The chill lured Caine out with her, because he was in need of some serious assistance in cooling himself off before he took this thing with her places his gut told him he didn’t want it to go.
Chewy went out like a shot, sniffing all over the porch before finally running down the steps and repeating the sniffing circle in the small grassy yard. Flurries spun in the air around them, and Caine wanted to crack his head against the brick wall of her house for noticing how pretty they looked in Emma’s golden hair.
“Would you go already, silly dog? You barked to come out and now all you wanna do is sniff,” Emma said, peering over the railing.
Chewy finally found a spot to cop a squat, but then he was back to sniffing. Liking the cold, Caine pocketed his hat and inhaled a deep, calming breath, readying himself to walk away when they went back inside.
“No, Chewy!” Emma suddenly called out.
Caine looked into the dimness of the yard in time to see Chewy’s tail disappearing through the wooden gate.
“How did that get open?” Emma said, taking off down the steps. “Caine, grab the green bag of treats off the shelf inside the door for me.”
Frowning, he did as she asked, and then he jogged them out to where she stood in the alley in a stand-off with Chewy. About fifteen feet away, he looked like he would bolt if she took a step toward him. Caine opened the bag. “Here.”
“Thanks,” she said, reaching in before crouching with a weird toothbrush-shaped green thing. “Chewy want a Greenie? I know you do.” Chewy trotted over like all was right in his world, and Emma scooped him up as he grabbed the treat in his teeth. “I never let him off leash, and on those rare occasions when he escapes, it’s not always easy to get him to come back. But Greenies are his favorite, so they’re my secret weapon.”
Back inside her little yard, she secured the black iron latch on her shoulder-high gate, and Caine frowned. It didn’t have an interior lock, but it was otherwise plenty stable. Definitely not the kind of latching system that slipped open by itself. So if Emma hadn’t opened it, who had?
Shaking his head, he followed her up onto the porch, and then he froze while she made for the door. Because the storm window on her kitchen window was part-way up.
“What?” she asked, turning to see why he’d stopped.
Caine walked to the window. When he’d done the security check for her last weekend, he’d lifted this window to see how easy it was to open from the outside. He’d been able to work it up about five inches, but no more because something in the old frame was bent, keeping it from going all the way up. That was good – because if Caine couldn’t easily lift the lower half of the storm window, an intruder couldn’t either.
Except, Caine was ninety-five percent sure that he’d lowered it again. Hadn’t he?
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize I’d left this up last weekend.” He worked it down again, unleashing a metallic screech as the bent frame protested the movement.
“Oh, geez. Don’t give it a second thought,” Emma said. “Not after everything you did.”
Right. Like examining this window. And putting it back in place when he was done. Which he would’ve sworn he’d done. Lifting his gaze, he looked through the window to Emma’s bright kitchen. The position of this window meant that he had a direct view of the L-shaped counter.
The counter against which Caine had just had Emma.
As casually as he could, he peered down at the ground outside the window. The snow hadn’t fallen enough to be useful for revealing tracks, but Caine’s instincts were screaming at him.
Dog flipping out. Gate being open. Window being up.
Made an equation that Caine really didn’t fucking like.
Even though there was no proof that those things actually made any equation at all.
“Something wrong?” Emma asked.
Yes. He shook his head. “Just irritated at myself. Security aside, that did nothing good for your heating bills.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. Come on. Let’s go back in.” She dropped Chewy on the floor and he took off for the living room. Caine watched as the dog made a circuit around the space before finally retreating to his dog bed, treat still in his teeth.
Yeah, I know something’s not quite right too, buddy.
He turned to find Emma clearing the table, so he pitched in carrying dirties to the sink. “Sorry about these,” he said, picking up the now room temperature boxes of ice cream.
Emma laughed as she pushed up her sleeves and turned on the faucet. “I would sacrifice Nutty Buddies for a shot at your mouth any day.”
He gaped at her, fucking stunned that she’d been that blunt. Jesus. The words wrapped around his cock as if they’d been her fist.
She laughed harder. “I told you I wasn’t any nun. Besides, there are more Nutty Buddies where those came from.” She rinsed a dish and placed it into the dishwasher.
His gut clenched. “Don’t walk up to that store alone again.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out that harshly, but following what he’d maybe just stumbled across on her back porch, the thought of her walking around at night again, of getting hurt this time, made him want to break things with his bare hands.
She put another dish into the rack, then looked up at him. “Okay.”
He gave a single nod. “I’m…I’m gonna go.”
Her expression was almost cartoonish in its surprise. Not that he thought it was funny. He knew he was being abrupt and awkward, but there was no way around it. At some point, it was going to be both of those things. So there was no point putting it off. “Why?”
“Dinner was fantastic,” he said, meaning it. The food in his belly made him feel like he had more gas in his tank than he’d had for a very long time. “And…making you come was something I’ll never forget. But we should leave it at that.”
In a quick glance, her gaze dropped to his crotch.
“Emma.” Not only was his dick not the problem, but she had
no idea that there was a three-way war raging inside him between his head and his heart and his still semi-hard cock. And just then, his cock was losing by only the slimmest of margins. But now that there was maybe something going on around Emma’s property, Caine had even more reason to keep his hands and his dick to himself. He needed to figure out if he was right, so he couldn’t afford the distraction.
Her eyes snapped back to his, and he didn’t want to guess at the emotions running across her pretty face. “Okay, then,” she finally said. “Be safe.”
That was his line, but he didn’t say it because he didn’t want to worry her.
He was plenty good at that all on his own.
And then he didn’t know what to say. So, with just a nod, he walked out of the kitchen and through the house. “Keep your ears open,” he whispered to Chewy, who lifted his little head and wagged his tail as if he understood.
Out at his Harley, Caine gave Emma’s street a slow one-eighty scan.
His blood was comprised of at least one part paranoia, so he knew he was more apt than the average bear to see trouble where it didn’t exist. Thing was, he wasn’t often wrong. Having been a target for trouble from the moment his mother had overdosed on heroin and his father had decided that a five-year-old kid was too great of an inconvenience to deal with, Caine had been raised on identifying and combating trouble.
As he looked at that perfectly quiet street, he felt trouble. He felt hidden eyes and he heard the echo of too-quiet footsteps and he smelled bad intentions heavy and thick on the night air.
And as long as his senses were telling him all of that was true and not just the product of his hyperactive ability to imagine worst-case scenarios, he was going to act like it was true.
Which meant one thing—he needed to surveil Emma Kerry’s house. To rule that trouble in or out, once and for all.
Chapter 9
Emma was sitting in the middle of her living floor on Sunday morning amid piles of colorful paper, bows, gift bags, and wrapped presents when the question came to her for maybe the dozenth time.