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Yep. Definitely not healthy—and yet another reason why I need her to move in. Once I’m fucking her every night, this constant burning need is bound to lessen to manageable levels.
I hope.
Placing my hand on the small of her back, I lead her to my rental car, and as I’m opening the door for her, I catch her yawning widely.
It’s contagious, and I immediately have to suppress a yawn of my own.
“You know, we could go tomorrow morning if you’re tired,” I say as she slides into the passenger seat. “It’s even in the name—the morning-after pill. If I’m not mistaken, it can be taken within a couple of days of unprotected sex.” Of course, I did come inside her twice—the second time being in the shower. I wonder if that ups the odds that the pill won’t work. Come to think of it, just how effective is the thing?
Is it absolutely certain to work, or will there still be a chance I got Emma pregnant?
Covering another yawn with the back of her hand, she shakes her head. “No, let’s just go. We’re already out here. Might as well.”
“Right.” Fuck, what is wrong with me? Why did I even suggest waiting until morning? I should be racing to the pharmacy like my fund’s performance depends on it, not looking for reasons not to go.
Sliding behind the wheel, I shut the door behind me and start the car. As we pull out of the driveway, the living room window lights up.
Emma’s grandparents are awake and undoubtedly wondering what’s going on.
Sure enough, a second later, Emma’s phone pings. “Crap. Grandma just texted me,” she says, glancing at the screen. “Wants to know if everything’s okay.”
“So what are you going to tell her?”
She blows out a frustrated breath. “What can I tell her? I have to come up with some bullshit excuse, like a headache that I needed urgent medication for, or a prescription I forgot in New York. Of course, then Grandma will worry and—”
“How about you tell her I forgot my medicine in New York?” I suggest. “Say, a course of antibiotics I’m finishing up. Then all will be explained and she won’t worry.” Alternatively, we could tell Mary Walsh the truth—I have a feeling she’d be more amused than upset by this situation—but I don’t suggest that.
I don’t think Emma would want her grandparents to know that much about our sex life.
“That’s a good idea,” she says and quickly types a response. A few seconds later, her phone pings again, and she announces triumphantly, “It worked. Grandma is pacified and going back to sleep.”
“Excellent. We make a good team.” Smiling, I glance at her and catch a flash of her dimples as she grins back at me.
“We sure do,” she says, and as I turn my attention back to the road, one hand resting on my knee, I feel her small hand cover my palm, her fingers lacing through mine in a gentle squeeze.
7
Emma
I’m lured out of deep sleep by the delicious aromas of baked apples and pumpkin pie—and the sound of my stomach growling loudly. I’m tempted to ignore it and burrow deeper under my blanket, but a rough male voice murmurs, “You awake, kitten?” and soft, warm lips nibble on the sensitive junction between my neck and shoulder, while a big, strong hand strokes up my side and possessively cups my breast.
The sleepy haze in my brain dissipates in an instant.
Holy fuck.
I’m in bed with Marcus.
In Florida.
At my grandparents’ house.
Eyes popping open, I sit up and twist around to stare at the billionaire who so ruthlessly chased me here. He’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his thick brown hair mussed from sleep and his eyes heavy-lidded as he meets my gaze. With his hard jaw shadowed with morning stubble and his powerfully muscled torso uncovered by the blanket, he’s so potently, deliciously male that my skin warms and my thighs squeeze together in an instinctive attempt to ease the growing ache between them.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his gaze falling to my breasts—which I only now realize are uncovered, with my nipples tight and erect, as if I’m turned on.
Which I am, but I was hoping he wouldn’t know that. It’s bad enough we had sex again, for the third time, after returning from the pharmacy. That’s not how you convince a man you’re not that into him—which is the strategy I settled on last night, while we were asking the tired-looking pharmacist for Plan B.
I decided to take the risk and see where this leads, but without letting Marcus know the depth of my feelings. He’s already railroaded me into letting him stay here for Thanksgiving. If he knew that I’m in love with him, there’d be no stopping him.
He’d have me moved into his penthouse by dinnertime.
