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“Go upstairs? Yes, great idea.” Beaming, she jumps to her feet and hurries to the staircase, and I follow her, suddenly as ravenous as a starved wolf.
* * *
When we get to the bedroom, she pushes me to sit on the bed and starts to undress, peeling off each layer of clothing with maddening slowness. It’s torture of the most delicious kind, and only the fact that I haven’t seen her like this before—all mysterious and adorably seductive—keeps me from grabbing her right there on the spot. Still, by the time she wriggles out of her panties, I’m about to blow—and judging by the coy smirk on her glossy lips, the little witch knows it.
“Come here,” I order hoarsely, reaching for her as she approaches the bed, but she avoids my outstretched hands, sinking to her knees in front of me instead.
“Emma…” My breath hisses between my teeth as she unzips my pants and frees my erection, the feel of her small, cool fingers on my cock exciting me almost past the point of no return. “Kitten, I don’t think—”
“Don’t think,” she murmurs, gazing up at me through her lashes as a soft, adoring smile curves her lips. “All you need to do is feel.” And as she bends forward, her hot, wet mouth closing around my swollen shaft before sucking it deep down her throat, I learn again what heaven on earth is like.
It’s not until much later, when we’re lying in a sweaty tangle of limbs, having made love two times in a row, that I wonder again why Emma changed her mind about living together—and feel a pang of guilt over the real estate deal I made behind her back.
If she ever finds out, she might leave me—which is why I can never tell her.
This and the investigator’s report I commissioned and everything else I’ve done to get us to this point has to remain my secret… because I can’t lose Emma.
I love her far too much.
38
Emma
Over the next two days, Marcus and I find a morning routine that works for us. Even without any kind of early meetings, he wakes up at the crack of dawn, and since we’ve both learned that I’m not a cyborg who can subsist on sex in place of shut-eye, he lets me snooze while he gets in either a run or a workout in his home gym. By the time he’s done, I’m up, and we have a quick breakfast together before rushing off to our respective workplaces. Well, he rushes off because Wilson drops him off first and then returns for me—which gives me time to leisurely get ready and even work on some editing. I continue said editing during my cushy commute in Wilson’s car, with the result that I get quite a bit accomplished by the time I get to my full-time job.
On Thursday, Marcus works late again, so I use the time to proofread my new client’s novella, and then, because I still somehow have energy, I open my super-secret project file to write a few paragraphs. It’s slow going, so I set it aside to play with my cats, but as I’m petting Cottonball, the scene suddenly unfolds in my mind.
It’s so exciting I get completely absorbed in writing it, to the point that when Marcus arrives an hour later, I’m startled to realize it’s almost nine p.m. and I still haven’t eaten. We have another delicious dinner together, followed by a prolonged lovemaking session, and when I wake up on Friday morning, I feel so good about life I don’t even get upset that Puffs broke another priceless vase overnight—especially since Marcus doesn’t seem to care.
When I get to work, I find the bookstore again mobbed by customers, but luckily, my boss is there to help. By noon, the flow of book shoppers eases a little, so I ask him to cover for me while I take a longer lunch break. Then I quickly wolf down the pear-and-gorgonzola sandwich Geoffrey so considerately packed for me and step out to run my errands.
My first stop is a clothing boutique a few blocks from my work. I’ve walked by it a dozen times in the past, but have never actually gone in. It’s got that organic-cotton, made-in-the-USA vibe, and I figured all the hipster-stylish clothes there are bound to be out of my budget.
Sure enough, the very first item I pick up—a plain but well-made T-shirt—is forty-nine dollars. The jeans that I pick up next—nearly two hundred. Dispirited, I’m about to walk out and try my luck elsewhere when I spot a discreet “50% Off” sign in the back.
Now we’re talking.
The sales rack isn’t huge, but every item of clothing on it is about ten times better than anything I have in my closet. Browsing through it, I find a casual long-sleeved dress, a little blue cocktail dress, three cute tops, and a pair of jeans in my size. There’s also a small shoe section in the back, where I see taupe-colored ankle booties that go with absolutely everything and a pair of nude pumps that would dress up any outfit—and would look beautiful with the blue dress.
