Page 56 of Anything But Lonely

Am I dreaming?

This has to be a dream?

I must be asleep because there is no way that I am currently standing here, mere inches from Emerson’s bed, looking at her in nothing but a little black thong that shouldn’t even be considered underwear.

She may as well be naked with how little it actually conceals.

Her body is on full display, and it’s like she was plucked out of my deepest, darkest fantasies. Her pale skin is almost completely covered with all of her tattoos, and I find myself staring at all the designs I’ve never seen before.

I probably have the tattoos on her arms and legs memorized with how often I’ve caught myself staring, and I’ve always wondered which ones were hidden beneath her clothes.

Right now, seeing the tops of her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, there’s ink I only ever wished to see.

My mouth waters at the sight of her pale pink nipples, perfectly on display by the spiderwebs around them, and I’m practically drooling by the time my eyes find hers again.

Come on, rockstar. I know you want to.

At this moment, I can’t think of anything I want more.

Seeing her like this is the closest thing to torture I’ve ever known.

My chest tightens, my fingers ache with the urge to reach out, and every part of me is fighting the same battle—wanting to pull her closer while knowing it’s a line we shouldn’t cross. My body leans toward her before I can stop it, every instinct reaching for her.

She’s my son’s nanny.

She’s hurting and grieving, and I don’t even think she realizes it.

She’s looking for an escape.

And that escape is me.

“Emerson, we can’t,” I manage to say, and it takes all of my remaining strength. “This isn’t a good idea. This is crossing a line.”

She’s right there, close enough that I can see the tiny movements of her breathing, but she might as well be miles away. The restraint feels almost like a physical weight pressing against my ribs, keeping me from crossing a line I can’t uncross.

“If you can tell me that you’ve never thought about this,” she whispers, “then I’ll put my shirt back on, you can go back to your bedroom, and we can pretend this never happened.”

She inches closer, and I’m almost too distracted thinking about what her lips taste like to register what she says next.

“But if you can’t,” she continues, “then I think we should take advantage of tonight,” she says. “Just this once. Just tonight. And then it’ll be out of our systems, and we can pretend that it never happened.”

Just this once.

Out of our systems.

She drives a hard bargain.

The words echo in my mind, like a devil on my shoulder.

I’ve been fighting my attraction for Emerson since the night I met her.

She makes it hard to focus, hard to see straight, and maybe if I just give into this lust, just for tonight, I’ll be able to focus on my son, on this tour, and what the fuck comes after it’s over.

“Just this one time,” I say, more to convince myself than anything else.

Emerson nods, and I feel my resolve slowly fading.

And when she wraps her arms around my neck, every ounce of restraint I thought I had disappears, and I crash my lips into hers.