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40
Emma
I don’t understand what’s happening, why I’m in Marcus’s car—with him in the backseat next to me—heading over to my apartment.
“Don’t you have work?” I try again. “I thought you Wall Street types worked on the weekends.”
He lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug. “It can wait. I’m my own boss.”
I give up. Because there’s apparently no polite way to ask a man why he’s so determined to watch you do laundry and cuddle with your cats. Especially if that man is Marcus. Once he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him—I’ve learned that the hard way. And I do mean hard.
I’m very sore from all the fucking.
A tendril of heat licks at me at the recollection of how I got that way, and I sneak a glance at the cause of that soreness—who’s watching me with a darkly intent stare.
Holy shit. Does he want sex again?
Is that why he’s not letting me leave his side?
That must be it. I can’t imagine why else he’d come to my shoebox studio in Brooklyn instead of staying in his luxurious penthouse. I certainly wouldn’t leave that place if I were him.
I’m about to inform him that I can’t have sex for at least a few hours when my phone dings with an incoming text.
It’s from Kendall.
Well? Any more gifts from Mr. Wall Street?
Then a second one: Did you text him a thank-you like I told you?
Oh, crap. Kendall has no clue that we’re miles beyond thank-you texts, and why would she? I haven’t had a free minute to call her since Marcus ambushed me last night with the books, and the sex, and the dinner date, and then more sex, and—
“Who’s that?” Marcus asks, and I look up, my face flushing betrayingly.
“No one. I mean, it’s just my friend—Kendall, you know? That is, of course you don’t know; you’ve never met her. But she’s my best friend from college and—” I stop, realizing I’m babbling. “In any case, she’s the one who texted me.”
“What about?”
Is he serious?
He certainly looks serious, his thick eyebrows arched expectantly, as if it’s a given that I’ll answer.
“Just… something random.” I’m too flustered to come up with any kind of clever lie. “Like I said, it’s nothing.”
My phone dings with a third text, and I can’t help glancing at the screen.
Ems! Text him. I mean it.
“Nothing? Really? Let me see.” And before I can react, Marcus plucks the phone from my grasp, his eyes skimming over the texts with lightning speed.
“No! What are you doing?” I gasp in horror, but it’s too late.
A big grin is already spreading over his lean, hard face. “So Kendall knows about me, does she?”
My cheeks burning like Florida asphalt in July, I attempt to snatch the phone back, but he transfers it to his other hand, holding it out of my reach.
“Yes, she does. So what?” I snap, sitting back empty-handed. To get the phone back, I’d have to lean over his lap, and I’m not about to stoop to that indignity. “I didn’t sign any kind of NDA.”
“NDA?” He’s laughing now, white teeth flashing and cheeks bisected by those sexy grooves. “What have you been reading, kitten? Fifty Shades?”
My flush impossibly intensifies, and I attempt to grab the phone again—to no avail. He holds me off with one arm, still laughing, and I see his other hand’s thumb land on the little phone icon next to Kendall’s name.
“Oh my God, you just dialed her. Hang up!” I make another futile grab for the phone. “Marcus, hang up right now!”
He glances at the phone just as Kendall’s tinny voice says from the speaker, “Hello? Emma, is that you?”
I expect him to hang up then, or at least hand the phone over to me, but I underestimated his assholeness. Lifting the phone to his ear, he says with a wicked smile, “No, sorry, Kendall. This is Marcus with Emma’s phone.”
There’s a moment of dead silence, during which I try to decide if I should brain him or set him on fire, and then an incredulous: “What?”
“Give it to me,” I hiss, all but sprawling across his lap to reach the phone, and this time, he lets me have it, mischief dancing in his eyes as I scramble back to my seat, clutching my prize.
“—are you doing with Emma’s phone?” Kendall is asking warily as I lift the phone to my ear.
“It’s me, hi. Sorry about that. Marcus was just being a dick.” I glare at him as I say it, but instead of taking offense, he starts laughing again, his powerful shoulders shaking.
“Are you talking about Marcus Carelli?” Kendall sounds as if I’ve just blasphemed about the Pope in the Vatican. “The Marcus Carelli? He’s with you right now?”
“Yep.” I pointedly turn my back to him. “We’re in a car heading to Brooklyn.”
