by Elle Kennedy
She exhaled a wobbly breath, suddenly resembling that innocent girl he’d known all those years ago. “I’m here until after New Year’s.” She paused. “And what I want is…” Another shaky breath slipped out. “Sex, okay? That’s what I want, and that’s all this can be, Dean. Just really good sex between two people who used to be in a relationship. I can’t promise we won’t get interrupted by my work again. I can’t promise anything, actually. But I think we can have a good time while I’m here.”
Jesus. The irony of ironies. Emma was reciting the same speech he’d given to women countless times before. He had to admit, it felt oddly disheartening to be on the receiving end of it.
“Look, we obviously still have chemistry,” she said with a faint smile. “So if you’re interested in fooling around while I’m in San Francisco, I’m totally down for it.”
He hesitated, and a flicker of aggravation crossed her eyes.
“I’m not sure why I’m even standing here trying to convince you,” she grumbled. “A little birdie said you were voted Bay Area’s Player of the Year.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “The little birdie is lying.” He grinned. “It was Manwhore of the Year, voted on only by Suz, and given to me in the form of a certificate she created in Photoshop then printed and framed like an old black-velvet Elvis painting.”
Emma’s melodic laughter heated his insides, but her humor didn’t linger, because she glanced at her watch again and frowned. “Shit. I have to call them back.”
“I’ll get out of your way, then.” Regret floated through him as Emma walked him to the door of the suite. Not only that, but he was pretty sure he was in for the biggest case of blue balls in the history of mankind.
In the doorway, she leaned on her tiptoes to kiss him, and Dean had to acknowledge that this was the strangest day ever. From start to finish.
“Am I going to see you again?” she asked softly.
A part of him was tempted to say no. For some reason, he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the idea that Emma was simply using him for sex.
On the other hand, who the hell was he kidding? This was Emma, the hottest woman on the planet and the only one who’d ever rocked his world hard enough to make him come back for more.
So…yeah…no was actually no-brainer. Besides, it went well with his goal of proving he’d changed. Nonstop, out-of-this-world sex, plus time to make his point? How could he turn that down? It was a win-win situation.
Dean dipped his head and kissed her again, dragging his tongue over her bottom lip before pulling back to rasp, “Call me the next time you’re free, and I’ll come over with bells on.”
“Okay.”
He opened the door and stepped into the hall, but Emma stopped him before he could go.
“Dean?”
He turned his head to find her dark eyes gleaming devilishly. “Yeah?” he said gruffly.
“Screw the bells. Next time you come by, make sure you’re wearing nothing at all.”
Chapter Eleven
What did guys do when they were basically shoved out of a woman’s apartment still carrying a boner hard enough to use as the cornerstone for a high-rise?
Dean had no frickin’ idea.
He’d snuck out of women’s places in a rush before, hastily doing up his pants or pulling his shirt over his head as he escaped, but nine times out of ten those escapes were after the big event had already occurred. And the one time he remembered truly getting caught with his pants down, so to speak, Dean had deliberately crawled back through the woman’s window once her roommates had gone to bed, and the two of them had finished what they’d started, albeit a lot quieter than the couple of hours before.
What he’d never experienced was the whole coitus interruptus with no happy ending in the immediate future. No, what he was feeling as he got into his car was a brand-new sensation. It wasn’t one he liked, and that wasn’t just because every inch of his body ached.
Years ago he’d waited for Emma, but there had been something rewarding in making the sacrifice. Now both of them had not only lost the lottery, but had their winning tickets ripped from their hands and torn into shreds before their eyes.
Nope, he didn’t enjoy this sensation one bit. The only thing that made him feel the faintest bit happier was pulling out his phone and hitting speed dial.
Frankly, if he had to suffer, who better to suffer with him than his best buds?
The first call went to Parker, only after seven rings it wasn’t his friend who answered the phone breathlessly.
“Dean?” Lynn’s soft voice brought a smile to his lips, instantly washed away as she continued, her concern crystal clear. “Are you okay?”
Shit. The rapid breathing in his ear clued him in to the situation he’d interrupted. Parker and Lynn fooling around, the phone going off, and Lynn insisting they had to answer it in case it was an emergency.
He might be feeling out of sorts, but he wasn’t vindictive enough to cock-block his buddy as well. “Oh damn, I’m sorry, Lynn. Yeah, I’m fine. I meant to call Jack. I’d better get in touch with him stat.”
He hung up before she could begin some long conversation and drive Parker insane waiting. He carefully hit Jack’s number, admittedly amused at the thought that maybe he should have kept Lynn on the line. He was pretty sure the last time she’d swung into a ramble, Parker had gone down on her while she was on the phone, just to tease the hell out of her.
God, he loved his friends.
He had better luck this time, making contact straight through to the other half of his bro pair. “I thought you were busy tonight,” Jack started in with no preamble.
“Change of plans.” Dean looked down sorrowfully at his dying woody. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“I need to get shitfaced.”
It was a sign of how good of a friend Jack was that he didn’t ask for an explanation. He simply grunted in amusement. “Will drinking ’til we drop also involve finding someone to beat the hell out of? Just so I select the proper location for your evening’s entertainment.”
Dean laughed. The whole reason for drinking was so that he didn’t spend far too long beating the hell out of something. “Get me a keg or two, and I’ll be happy.”
“I’ll meet you at the Shop then.”
In less than twenty minutes, Dean was tucked into the corner of their favorite watering hole, the pitcher on the table already two glasses gone.
“Pace yourself, asshole, because I don’t feel like hauling you home with me and having Pepper find you passed out on our couch when she gets back in the morning.” Jack lowered himself onto the stool opposite Dean and helped himself to the beer.
Considering how little he’d had to drink so far, flashing Jack the bird was an appropriate response. “Where is the delectable Pepper tonight?” Dean asked.
“Staying the night with her mom. Her dad had to go out of town so they’re having some mother-daughter bonding time.”
Dean took a long sip of beer, the cool liquid barely registering. It was hard to focus on anything here and now, including the conversation. All he could think about was Emma writhing under him on the couch, the soft noises she’d made echoing in his brain. “That’s nice.”
What the hell had gone wrong tonight? He kept playing back everything from the moment she’d walked into the dojo to him walking out her door. Something was off, and it was bugging the hell out of him.
“They said if they have time, they’ll butcher those zombies that invaded last weekend. For the next barbecue.”
“Good for them,” Dean responded automatically before blinking himself alert. He stared at his friend in utter confusion. “Wait—what the fuck are you talking about?”
“What the fuck has you tied up in knots?” Jack countered, gesturing to Dean’s empty glass. “I know you can put it back with the best of us, but I’m pretty sure you haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the past ten minutes, and you’ve
nearly finished the pitcher.”
Decision time. Should he actually spill the beans? Not just about tonight, but about everything?
Jack examined his watch. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sex, and for some reason you’re feeling guilty. Am I right?”
“I didn’t have sex,” Dean grumbled, hating how wrong and how right his buddy was at the same time. Guilt? He had that in spades. “Started, didn’t finish.”
Dead silence echoed from across the table.
Dean ignored his friend, who was probably making exaggerated slack-jawed astonished faces. “She says she’s down with casual sex. That we should fuck for the next couple months while she’s around then wave goodbye as if…it’s only about feeling good.”
His friend cleared his throat. “Umm, Dean? Are you feverish?”
He snapped up his head. “It’s bullshit, okay? Pure, outright bullshit.”
Jack shook his head. “Sounds like a perfect setup for you. Well, maybe not the failing to hit the jackpot—”
“Say another word about that and I’ll rip your arms off.”
“Taunt you about striking out? Would I do such a thing?”
He glared harder.
Jack topped up his glass, ignoring the death rays shooting from Dean’s eyes. “Who is she?”
Do or die. “Emma Lee.”
He’d obviously done a bang-up job of keeping his yap shut until today, because Jack’s expression didn’t change. “Do I know her?”
“No.” Dean took a deep breath. “Think ancient history.”
“Like a couple years ago?”
“High school. Pre-Rangers.”
Now he got a reaction. Jack’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
Jack paused, considered, then shrugged like it was no biggie. “So have a fuck for old time’s sake then forget her. Easy enough.”
A flash of anger hit hard enough Dean’s fingers curled into fists. “Shut up.”
And before he could take it back, Jack had a finger in his face, gleeful delight dancing in his expression. “Damn, you finally succumbed.”
To what? Some weird illness that was twisting his guts into rock-solid knots? He swore softly, but his friend just grinned, zero sympathy on his face.
“You can stop looking like I just handed you a pony,” Dean grunted. “This isn’t funny.”
“Sure as hell looks hilarious from where I’m sitting.”
Dean shook his head. “You’re not listening. We were together a million years ago. I’m not the man I was back then.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Jack agreed. “You’ve gone through hell and back. It’s called life, bro. What does that have to do with anything?”
Why was it so frickin’ hard to admit this? Even to one of his best friends.
Or maybe it was because this was his best friend. “Sex. As in, back then I had to work like crazy on not losing it within seconds of touching her. My tastes have changed.”
Understanding finally rolled in, and Jack lost his amusement. Or so Dean thought. Because when his friend spoke, it was only to taunt a little harder.
“Yeah, I can see how having a guy who knows how to work it in bed would totally suck for a woman.”
“Asshole.”
“Idiot.” Jack reached across the table and gave Dean’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re flipping out over this chick, you obviously want to be more than fuck buddies, and you’re worried because you’re more experienced than when you were a teenager?”
It did sound stupid when Jack put it that way. But…
“What if it scares her?”
One of Jack’s brows rose skyward. “Really? Dean the Sex Machine is worried about being able to put a smile on a woman’s face? Dude, that’s not the part you need to get straight in your fucking head.”
Frustration lingered, but Jack wasn’t taunting anymore. He was focused and intent. “Look at the table, bro,” he ordered.
Dean glanced down, shocked to find a phone number written on the napkin in front of him. A napkin he didn’t remember seeing there before. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly.” Jack tilted his head toward the bar, where a blonde in a low-cut top fluttered her fingers at their table, her gaze locked on Dean as she licked her lips. “That’s how I know this Emma is special. You haven’t seen a single woman the entire time we’ve been here, including Bambi over there who was whispering all kinds of invitations a few minutes ago when she topped up the pitcher.”
“She was here?” Damn, he’d really been out of it. He considered for a moment, skimming his gaze over the woman’s lush curves and imagining how he could finish his evening. But the longer he looked, the more Emma’s image intruded. Her body under his hands, her face as he took her over the edge.
Jack was right, on all counts. Emma was special, and Dean wanted much, much more than to fuck her for a couple months. He wanted to finish proving he was different, but he also wanted to prove he was still one thing: perfect for her.
“Do you want her back?” Jack asked, voicing his thoughts.
Dean swallowed. Then he nodded. “Yeah…I think I do.”
No, he knew he did. His chest was tight and achy, his heart beating rapidly with each breath he took. He hadn’t felt this way in eleven years. For more than a decade, he’d fucked his way through life, hooked up with more women than he could count—or even remember—but he hadn’t realized until now part of the reason for that was because he’d been trying to get that feeling back. The excitement that came not from getting a woman naked, but from seeing her smile. The hot rush of emotion that spilled over him when he held her hand, or snuggled close in bed, or heard her laugh.
It was awe-inspiring that Emma Lee could still make him feel all those things after so many years apart. But damn it, now that those incredible sensations were flowing through him again, he didn’t want to let them go.
He didn’t want to let her go.
“So about the sex…” He hesitated. “I shouldn’t try to be all soft and gentle and shit?”
His friend shrugged. “You don’t need a game card, bro. Go with what feels right and see what she thinks.” Jack’s tone finally grew one hundred percent serious. “If she’s the one for you, don’t let her get away. It’s not just about sex. What I have with Pepper makes me happy in a way I never imagined possible. I want that for you. You deserve it.”
And so did Emma, Dean realized. She deserved the man he’d become—someone who knew how to reach his goals. And his current goal?
To make Emma fall in love with him again. With the man he was now, the man he’d be for her. It would be a challenge, but that was fine. Rangers didn’t give up that easily.
He could hardly wait to see her again, but next time it wasn’t going to be for a booty call.
Dean Colter was a man with a new mission.
Emma Lee’s heart.
Chapter Twelve
Emma stared at the horizon beyond the railing of the balcony, the surprisingly warm autumn breeze snaking under her loose hair and tickling her bare shoulders. Then she shifted her gaze to the phone she’d left on the glass table near the French doors. It hadn’t made a sound since she’d texted Dean almost an hour ago. Then again, not everyone was glued to their phones the way she was. In her line of work, people freaked out if she didn’t answer within seconds, but she imagined some people probably went hours without responding to a text.
Unless Dean was purposely ignoring her. She wouldn’t even blame him, considering she’d all but shoved him out the door yesterday. But it wasn’t as if she’d spent the rest of the night enjoying herself—being on the phone for hours trying to fix another one of Lorenzo’s screw-ups was the furthest thing from fun.
It was becoming glaringly obvious neither Stella nor Lou the bodyguard were capable of handling Enzo on their own, which meant Emma needed to sit down with Lorenzo and hammer some sense into that stupid pretty head
of his. Bad enough he’d blown off those interviews—now he was causing chaos during the interviews he actually bothered showing up for. Thanks to the inappropriate comments he’d made to the reporter from Vogue, two of the major department stores that sold Fire and Ice designs were threatening to stop carrying the line, and Emma wasn’t sure she’d managed to pacify the irate owners.
She also wasn’t sure she could deal with this bullshit anymore. She already suffered from anxiety and had the tendency to overthink things, so the added stress courtesy of Lorenzo was turning her into a bundle of panicky nerves.
Damn it, why wasn’t Dean texting back?
Maybe he’s not interested in being booty-called, a little voice taunted.
“Bullshit,” Emma murmured to herself, because from what Suz had told her, Dean Colter had invented booty calls.
Which, if she were being honest, still startled her a bit. The boy she’d known in high school had been sweet and patient and, frankly, a one-woman kinda guy.
And she had been his one woman.
So how did a man who’d remained a virgin until he was nineteen—because he wanted to wait until his girlfriend was ready—turn into the Manwhore of the Bay Area?
And…oh Lord, where had he learned to dirty-talk like that? She hadn’t expected him to be so filthy, but she wasn’t complaining, either. Dean’s sexual confidence had only fueled her own, and Emma honestly couldn’t remember ever being as vocal and uninhibited as she’d been last night.
Her gaze drifted to her phone again, but the damn thing refused to ring. Swallowing her disappointment, she refocused on the view of the bay and tried not to dwell on how lonely she was. When had her life become solely about putting out all the fires Enzo started?
The sound of the doors opening behind her had her spinning around in a whirl of panic, but the moment she laid eyes on the figure standing at the entrance of the balcony, her anxiety faded.
And her pulse raced.
“What are you doing here?” she squeaked.