by Amy Olle
The early morning stillness hung over the island when Luke parked his SUV under the oak tree in Emily’s driveway. He shouldn’t have come back, but he couldn’t stay away. Just as he couldn’t stop himself last night from stroking out another climax with her name on it.
The occasional peep of a bird and the rustle of wind in the trees accompanied him as he rounded the side of the house.
He’d always enjoyed Thief Island, with its wild weather and the constant roar of wind and sea, but this spot, Emily’s house, was particularly alluring. On the northernmost tip, her property sat up high and boasted one of the best views anywhere on the island. His pace quickened.
A split second before he reached the backyard, an unusual sound reached his ears and he lurched to a stop. Struck by the sight and sound of her, he stood in the grass, his hands loose at his sides.
A garden hose in her hand, she moved around the patio, giving water to the flowers bursting out of the ground. All the while, she sang.
Her voice, though strong and sure, and without the slightest hint of a stutter, wouldn't overpower anyone. It was soft, sultry even, and heartfelt. Genuine and unassuming, like the woman. At the crescendo, a rasp came into her tone that grabbed him by the balls.
Her. He wanted her.
She sang of a long-ago lover, her song at once a celebration and a lament, a bittersweet mix of the joy and sorrow, and a flood of emotion—every emotion—rushed forth to drown him. Captured by her voice and her peaceful heart, he was unable to move toward her or run away.
He had to have her.
It didn’t make any sense, why he wanted her so badly. He could have any woman. Yet none of the other women had managed to do what the shy, meek Emily Cole had managed to do.
Get him hard and keep him hard with wanting.
Just then, she started and spun in his direction. The spray of water from the hose shot across the patio and he lunged to avoid its frigid shower.
“Luke!”
He showed his palms. “Don’t shoot.”
She let go of the nozzle. The water stream collapsed and disappeared.
He bounded up the porch stairs.
“I already m-made breakfast,” she called after him.
He turned slowly and narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you make?”
“I bought m-muffins and pastries.”
His lip curled. “Store-bought muffins? Are you serious right now?”
The screen door snapped shut behind him, his last glimpse of her tripping over the hose and scrambling after him.
He ate his smile, enjoying every moment he spent with her more than the last.
When she burst into the kitchen, he closed the refrigerator door, a carton of eggs in his hand.
“I’m perfectly capable of feeding a lone houseguest.”
“There’s a time and a place for processed junk food. Breakfast is not it.”
She opened the cardboard box from the bakery in town and chose a cinnamon roll smothered in white frosting.
Her moan of pleasure when she bit into the bun tugged at his groin. “You’re a cop. I thought baked goods were your weakness.”
“I’m watching my figure.”
Her gaze flitted down his frame and back up again. “Nice job.”
His bark of laughter surprised him. God, she was fun. He enjoyed everything about her. Her animated features and frequent blushes, her sharp mind, and even the way she talked. Not the stutter necessarily, though he found it endearing, but her slow, deliberate speech intrigued him more and more all the time.
She didn’t fight to be heard nor toss around careless thoughts or sentiments. Everything she said was specifically chosen for him, and he found himself hanging on each choice, awaiting the words she’d finally pick as worthy for his consideration.
His laughter died when her pink tongue darted out to lick a splotch of white frosting from her lower lip. The punch of lust stole his voice, and when she mentioned something about taking a shower, he grunted.
He focused on slicing a potato and tried to block out the image of her under the warm spray, water sloughing over her smooth skin and beaded nipples, and his mouth closing over one pink areola.
He slammed his mind back to the potato wedges. He’d always been able to get lost in the mechanics of cooking. The mix of flavors, the aromas, the precise timing.
Today, it wasn’t working.
She returned on a fresh-scented cloud that teased his nostrils. She’d dried her hair and pulled it into a ponytail that hung down her back in soft waves. As usual, she wore not a speck of makeup. A pair of blue jeans hugged her heart-shaped ass and a pale blue tank top exposed the ivory skin of her shoulders, still dewy with moisture.
He carried the dish of fried potatoes through the swinging door to the dining room. Her scent followed him.
When he returned to the kitchen, she tortured her swollen bottom lip. “M-Max still hasn’t come down?”
“Nope.” He plucked a leftover potato wedge from the pan and popped it into his mouth.
“He hasn’t left his room in two days.”
Luke swallowed. “He hasn’t left at all?”
She shook her head and her bright hair shimmered about her shoulders. “Do y-y-you think—” Her throat worked. “Sh-should I knock?”
“You should knock.”
She hesitated.
He turned her shoulders and gave her a little push toward the foyer. “At the very least, you have to make sure he isn’t dead.”
She blanched.
“I’m kidding.” He hustled her toward the stairs. “We’re going to have to work on your sense of humor.”
“Later, okay?” With a resolved nod, she placed one foot on the first step, but then she whirled to face him. “I don’t know what to say.”
He folded his arms over his chest and blocked her retreat. “Say ‘kitchen closes in ten minutes. If you want to eat, you need to do it now.’”
Her features pulled into an adorable frown. “That sounds rude.”
“Say it however you like, but that’s the general message you need to convey.”
She plopped down hard on a step. Her expression twisted with such misery, he almost took pity on her.
Almost.
“You know, there are a few things I’d like to ask him.” He started up the stairs. “Why don’t I just—?”
“No!” Emily surged to her feet. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”
She backed up several steps before she turned and started to climb. At the top, she snuck a glance back at him over his shoulder.
He gave her a stern look. “You can do it.”
“I’m not very good at talking to p-p-people.”
A pang wrenched his chest. “Visualize.”
One eyebrow inched upward.
“Studies prove visualizing success increases the likelihood you’ll succeed.”
“It does?”
He had no freaking idea, but he heard a lot of such talk at the seminars Cynthia kept sending him to and he had to say something that might bring some color back into her cheeks.
“It’s true if you make it so.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Okay, listen to me. You’re a piranha,” he said. “A small fish with a big bite.”
Her startled laugh knocked him in the chest.
Truth be told, he couldn’t find a single humorous thing about the moment. Not the thundering beneath his breastbone, nor the white-hot lawlessness surging through his veins at the light, tinkling sound of her laughter.
When he’d started this, he’d wanted a distraction, and certainly he’d gotten that much. What he hadn’t bet on was the desperate quality of his growing desire for her.
And as she turned from him, her terror palpable, something inside him shifted and forever changed what he saw when he looked at her.
A small smile touched her lips as she made her way down the hall.
He’d taken the time to figure her out, and he
used his knowledge to challenge her, a fact that rendered her insanely giddy. Maybe she should’ve been upset that he’d manipulated her, but she wasn’t. Not even a little bit.
Her mind turned to the task ahead of her. She visualized herself knocking on the bedroom door and informing Max that a scrumptious breakfast awaited him downstairs.
She lifted a hand and knocked two soft taps on Max’s door. She waited. No noise reached her from within the bedroom. Was he asleep? Was he dead?
With an audible gulp, she knocked again, louder this time.
A crash and thump sounded on the other side of the door, and then a clatter of noise erupted. The thunder of footsteps shook the floor. Emily took a step back just as the door swung open and Max loomed before her.
He wore black running pants, but nothing else, and his dirty-blond hair stood on end. He peered at her with bloodshot eyes, red rimmed and heavy lidded. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Are y-y-you hungry?”
“No.” He pushed the door.
Her hand shot out and stopped it from closing. His gaze flew to her face, but words jammed in her throat.
He shoved both hands through his ruffled hair. “Look, I’m right in the middle of something—”
You’re a piranha.
“I can b-b-bring y-you food. If y-y-you w-want. Do you w-w-want a tray of food?”
Annoyance melted from his expression. “That’d be great. Thanks. Just leave it in the hall.” He turned, and with one foot, kicked the door shut in her face.
But not before she saw the deep, angry scar slashing across his back from his right shoulder to the top of his left hip.
Luke balanced the skillet in the drying rack and let out the dirty dishwater. He was giving the countertop one final wipe down when she burst into the kitchen.
“I did it.” Dark eyes shining, her cheeks flushed an attractive shade of pink. “Just like you said, and it worked. It actually worked.”
Coaxed by her delight, a smile touched his lips. “Congratulations.”
Her eyes shone. “Thank you so much.”
“You did it all on your own. I just bullied you into it.”
She flitted around him. “I’m going to take a tray to him.”
“What’s he doing up there anyway?”
Her hands stilled over the plate a moment. “I don’t know.” She resumed her task of loading down the tray with food. “Sleeping, I think.”
“That’s a lot of sleeping. You sure he isn’t plotting world domination or something as nefarious?”
She paused for a split second, a crease wrinkling her brow, before her expression cleared and her smile returned. “You’re too suspicious. Being a cop has jaded you.”
He didn’t argue.
She fussed with the arrangement of items she’d laid on the tray. “Finally, someone’s going to enjoy all this amazing food.”
“I didn’t do it for him.” Distracted by the whiskey-colored swirls in her brown eyes, the words fell from his lips.
His heart thrashed. What the hell was he doing, telling her that?
Startled brown eyes searched his face. “Wh-why did you do it?”
He threw up a seductive smile. “I’m hoping you’ll feel beholden and offer to give me more kissing lessons.”
Her eyes grew wide.
His balls tightened. “You have me feeling all inadequate and insecure, but maybe with a little more instruction from a professional like yourself, I’ll be able to overcome my fears.”
She licked her lips and her features tangled with an adorable mix of arousal and uncertainty. “I might be willing to tutor you.”
She was the perfect woman. Perfect for him, that is. No drama. No deception. If he wanted to know her thoughts or feelings, all he had to do was look at her face. It was all there, for anyone to see. She fed his hunger yet presented zero risk of capturing his heart. His heart, the one thing he’d never surrender to a woman, was safe with Emily.
He sidled closer, twisting his fingers through the end of her ponytail. “Would you teach me how to please you?”
She looked at him with grave, lucid eyes. “Y-you want to please m-me?”
At the reappearance of her stutter, his heart pinched. “Very much so.”
He smoothed a hand down the column of her slender neck and dipped his head to draw in her scent, stronger near the base of her earlobe. The hitch in her breathing stirred the rising ache between his legs.
He trailed his fingertips over the bare skin of her shoulder, and then pressed his lips to the spot. “If I do anything that pleases you, will you tell me?” With the tip of his tongue, he took a tiny taste of her skin.
“Th-that.” Her breath rushed over his skin. “I like that.”
Triumph tugged a smile from him. Her pleasure mattered to him more than he wanted. “What do you like? Tell me.”
“I like the way you touch m-me.”
His hands skimmed down the curves of her body to the exaggerated swell of her hips. “Where?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
His cock jerked painfully and he swooped down to claim her mouth. She opened for him easily, eagerly, and his heart lightened. His hands found their way beneath the hem of her shirt, the flat of his palms smoothing over her silky skin and narrow ribcage. A gasp tore from her when his thumbs brushed over her pebbled nipples.
Breaking away, he dropped his head and pulled one nipple into his mouth through the fabric of her tank top.
She arched into his touch.
Her. I want her.
Whatever this was between them, she wanted it as much as he did. With a desperation that bordered on needy, he wanted her. He wanted to feel. He wanted to feel her wet heat wrapped around his cock.
He popped the button of her jeans. The soft scrape of her zipper as he lowered it roared through him. His fingers pulled back the waistband of her panties and slipped beneath.
Her breathing stopped, and then redoubled with short, shallow pants. Large round eyes fixated on his hand in her pants, willing it.
He pushed his fingers through the soft fuzz of her bush to her wet, swollen core. Her startled yelp slid into a throaty moan that carried the brutality of desperation.
For a moment, he feared she would retreat. Their game had gotten out of hand and—
She shifted her stance, parting her thighs for his touch.
Her.
He had to have her. He would have her.
He stroked the folds of her sex, teasing and toying with her sensitive, puffy lips while she whimpered and rocked against his hand. Together, they drove toward something.
Climax, yes, but something more. Deeper.
His name was a moan falling from her lips, wrapped in a teardrop of uncertainty.
“What it is, sweetheart? Tell me.” His voice, thick with some unnamed emotion, snagged on the words. “Tell me anything.”
Tell me everything.
“I need you to—” She gasped with her arousal. “I need you—”
A wayward strand of hair fell across her forehead and he pushed it back. With a small wrinkle between her brows, she stared at him with eyes glazed with lust. Lost to the sensation, she clutched his shoulders and swirled her hips.
The torture of her expanding pleasure was exquisite and heartbreaking.
“You need me to what?” He was desperate to understand.
She shook her head. “I need you.” Her head fell back and a moan vibrated in her throat. “That’s all. I need you. Only you.”
A moment of startled disbelief seared him, and then he knew only heat and hunger. The fire consumed him, overwhelmed him. Overrode him. He undid his fly and his heavy shaft bobbed free.
Her mouth formed a tiny O of surprise when she gazed at his erection. His cock jumped and he snatched her to him to suckle her luscious lips.
She wriggled under him, working her blue jeans down over her hips, and soon stood fully exposed to his touch. With a groan, he smoothed his hands over t
he rounded globe of her bottom and lifted. Her arms came around his neck and she slid down his body, until the head of his cock pushed at her entrance.
He pressed her back to the wall. Eye to eye, he drowned in whiskey. He tilted his hips, but a fraction inside, he came up against her tight passage. She shifted and he slipped deeper.
Sweet Jesus.
With his hands on her hips, he eased himself inside her. The little sounds originating in the back of her throat as her body adjusted to him almost sent him over the edge. Still, he nudged further into her secret center until he reached home.
The glory of finally reaching her tight wet heat leached the strength from his body. His head dropped to her shoulder. God, she was tight. So tight.
Then he started to pump his hips, only three delicious slides before she cried out and her sweet pussy quivered.
Her. He had her. Now. Forever.
Her tight passage clamped around him and her cry of release broke his heart while he pounded up into her. With every thrust, his knowledge of her deepened.
Her. Her. Her.
He shattered.
The last talons of numbness suffocating him the past six months burned away with the pureness of her orgasm. His world was gray and tasteless no more. Hadn’t been since Emily Cole burst into his life with a heart-tugging stutter and a hot-pink vibrator, and yanked him back into the world of the living.
Except, he didn’t want to be in the world again.
Anymore.
Ever.
He stumbled back.
He never lost control. Not like this. Not ever.
Certainly not over some woman.
His self-control was all he had. The only thing separating him from the delinquents and degenerates he faced every day.
The only thing that separated him from his dad.
“Luke? Are y-y-you okay?”
He couldn’t think for the ache in his chest. Was he having a heart attack? “I… this…”
What had he done? He’d just fucked Emily Cole. Emily fucking Cole.
He tucked himself back into his jeans and yanked up the zipper.
The blood left his head in a rush. He’d just fucked Emily Cole…
Without a condom.
Oh, shit.
With a ruthless shove, he buried his hands in his hair. He hadn’t done anything so reckless since he was thirteen years old and, at Noah’s urging, bleached his dark hair platinum blond using lime, as the ancient Celtic warriors had, for authenticity’s sake.