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"Yes."
He gave one curt laugh. "No."
She swept her gaze down and watched his cock jump as if she'd touched him. "I want to see you, Hart. I want to watch. Now do it."
He started to push up, started to swing his feet to the floor, and Emma reached for the door handle. "If you touch the floor, I'll leave. Lie down."
His scowl didn't budge, but he fell back to his elbow.
"Good," Emma sighed, the sudden burst of alarm spiraling back down to aching anticipation. She watched him, waiting . . . waiting for him to rebel or acquiesce.
His hand twitched against his side. Emma licked her lips. "Touch yourself," she repeated, more a whisper than an order, but he finally obeyed. His fingers, dark against his belly, slid down and curved around the dusky skin of his shaft.
She nearly whimpered at the sight. Nervous with heady, sexual power, Emma glanced up to his face. His cheekbones were flushed and stark, his eyes glittered.
"Did you really think of me the other night? When you did this?"
"Yes." His voice rumbled through her, shooting sparks along the way.
"Show me."
His hand was still for an impossibly long moment. Then his fist tightened. He stroked.
The knees that had previously supported her trembled away to mist, and she had to press her back more firmly to the door. He gave her nothing more in the meantime. His face was carved into lines of anger and tension. And lust.
"More," she ordered, and his whole body shuddered. But he obliged. He fell to his back and stroked again, working his flesh in a slow, steady motion. Emma's body glowed—a dull aurora of power and joy that pulsed brighter with every movement of Hart's arm.
But her feelings fascinated her almost as much as his actions. Her sex beat like a sharp, beautiful pulse. Her face burned with heat. Her limbs felt numb and insubstantial, as if she'd burned into nothingness.
And Hart. . . Oh, he was breathtaking. A long line of tensing muscles and sweat-touched skin. His shaft was thick and so very hard, straining against his tight grip. She wanted to feel. To stroke lightly, trace with her fingertip, squeeze him in her fist. She wanted to work him, see if she could find a rhythm that would make him gasp for mercy. As much as she'd seen in her short life, she'd never actually touched, but she couldn't go to him.
Instead, Emma placed a cupped hand to the throbbing between her legs. The slightest pressure of the heel of her palm made her gasp.
Hart's head snapped
toward her. His eyes opened, blank with pleasure. But his gaze sharpened as it swept over her body, lingering on her indiscreet hand. She pressed her fingers harder and Hart's free hand clutched at the sheet next to his hip. His teeth showed in a grimace of lust, his movement quickened.
She explored him with her eyes instead of her hands, drinking in the absolute wickedness of this night. She wanted to remember this forever. Wanted to think about this when she lay in bed with only her own hands for comfort. And, oh, he'd think of this too. She knew he would, and that made her satisfaction so much keener.
The muscled line of his thighs shifted. His taut belly sucked in and his chest rose and fell in a faster rhythm. Emma looked to his face, to his mouth drawn tight with pleasure. His eyes glittered with something close to rage.
"Watch me," he snarled, and Emma looked back to his stroking hand. She pressed her palm closer and her jaw shook. Her heart kept time with the rhythm he set, speeding up to meet his movements as they quickened. His free hand tightened around the silk.
"Emma," he whispered, "yes." And then he shuddered to his climax while Emma watched. And, oh, God, she wanted to feel him them, find out everything she'd never know. Was it hot? Slick? What would he taste like if she took him into her mouth right now, if she drank him up? Would he rise again if she went to him and crawled over him as she wanted?
His deep, desperate breaths began to slow, and this would be over soon, and Emma didn't want it to— "Get out," he gasped.
She shook her head. She wasn't ready to leave and he couldn't mean that. He couldn't. So she stood, trying not to move, trying to stay. But his breathing was almost normal now, and his limbs growing limp with relaxation. His eyes opened, bright blue against flushed cheeks.
The eyes narrowed. His mouth curled in a snarl. "Get the hell out of my room. Now."
And Emma fled, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 9
The bedcovers were a warm weight against his body, holding in heat and an unusual lethargy. Hart felt as if he'd sunk deep into the feathered mattress and he wasn't the least bit interested in climbing out. He threw an arm over his eyes to hold off the morning and floated slowly back into a heavy sleep of satisfaction.
A few minutes passed, perhaps an hour, and he blinked awake again. Before he'd even had time to stretch his limbs, memory returned and, with it, anger. His muscles froze to stone.
