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Dumb thought, he told himself, shaking his head as he felt her move into the room cautiously.
Striding to the walk-in closet, he pulled one of his T-shirts from one of the drawers built in beneath the hanging clothes. From another drawer he pulled free a pair of his sister Stacey’s cotton leggings. She was always leaving clothes scattered around the upper level of the house.
Moving from the closet, he glanced at where Emerson stood in the center of the room, staring around it, resignation filling her face.
She might as well resign herself to it. Other than the bolt hole, this place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox. There was no getting in and no getting out without his help.
“Shower’s in here.” He moved to the door at the far end of the room, opened it, and flipped the lights on. “Towels and washrags are under the sink, fresh soap, both bar and that shower gel gunk my sister likes, is on the shelf beside the tub. Get whatever you need.”
“Now you have a sister, too.” She was leaning against the door frame, looking around the bathroom with hazel eyes that were gleaming a brighter green than before. “Guess you weren’t hatched after all, Macey.”
“Guess I wasn’t,” he drawled, his lips quirking as he watched white, sharp little teeth nibble at her lower lip.
She was nervous. He rarely saw Emerson nervous, and had never seen her uncertain, until now. Seeing it in her made him want to kill. It made him wish he was hunting terrorists with Nathan and drawing their blood. It plain pissed him off that Emerson would know so much as a moment of uncertainty or fear.
He watched as she backed out of the doorway and turned to the bedroom again. Her shoulders were stiff, her head held high, and as he moved around her he caught the flicker of indecision on her face. “I want you to promise me you won’t try to leave while I’m trying to sleep, Em.”
“I am not stupid, Macey.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid,” he assured her. “But you’re headstrong as hell. The admiral gave the orders, sweetheart; calling him or trying to run to him isn’t going to do anything but endanger your life. And if I have to stand and listen to another bastard strike you, I just might have to lose my temper.”
He reached out to run the backs of his fingers over the bruise that had formed on her cheek, remembering the killing rage that had swept through him when he heard the blow.
“It wouldn’t do a lot for me, either,” she assured him, pulling away from him as a flush brightened her cheeks and renewed arousal glittered in her eyes.
Oh, she was hot. As hot as he was and just as ready for bedroom aerobics as he was; she was just more cautious.
Macey caught her arm as she turned away from him, holding her steady as her gaze flashed back to his. Wide, wary, her eyes glittered like emeralds and threatened to ensnare him in a web of arousal.
“I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” Her breath hitched as he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her to his body once more.
He couldn’t help it. He needed to feel her breasts against his chest again, needed the taste of her kiss going to his head like potent liquor.
“It’s the only idea.”
Her lips parted, whether to protest or meet his kiss he wasn’t certain, so he took the kiss.
It was late. Weariness was dragging at both of them, but he couldn’t help it; one more taste, one more touch, that was all he needed. His head lowered, his lips touching hers gently as he stared into her eyes. He didn’t take the kiss this time, he eased into it, eased her into it. He licked at her lips until they parted further. He nipped at the lower curve and felt her ragged breath of response, watched her lashes flutter as her hands clenched on his upper arms.
And he felt that tight clench in his heart again, the one that had warned him years ago that Emerson’s touch went deeper than flesh. Deeper than bone.
Macey could tell that she didn’t know whether to push him away or to pull him closer to her. Her breathing was harsh, irregular, those temptingly full breasts moving against his chest heavily. He wanted to fill his hands with them, feel her hard little nipples against his tongue again. He wanted to devour her.
“Macey, please…” A whisper-soft plea fell from her lips as he licked over them, her eyes dilating, the small ring of green darkening in arousal.
Macey cupped her cheek with one hand, his thumb relishing the feel of satiny flesh dewed with moisture. He could feel her burning, heating up for him.
“I want to touch you, Em.” He nipped at her lower lip. “I want to feel you silky and wet.” His hand moved from her cheek, down her neck, her shoulder. Going lower, he watched her eyes, her expression, each nuance of emotion that flickered over her face as he gripped the material of her skirt and drew it upward.
She trembled in his arms, a delicate little ripple of response that fanned the flames inside his own body higher. He was burning for her. Touching her was addictive; the more of her soft, sweet flesh that he touched, the more he wanted to touch. The more he needed to touch.
As the material of her skirt cleared her thighs, Macey watched Emerson’s lips tremble, part, fight to draw in air.
“Can I touch you, Emerson?” he whispered, his fingertips running along the elastic band of her panties as they curved around the cheek of her rear.
“Macey…” There was protest and hunger, fear and need resonating in the tone.
“Just a little touch,” he crooned, keeping his voice soft, cajoling.
