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“I didn’t know you would be here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I’m going to die of embarrassment. “It’s not for you.”
“Liar.” With a curse, he knocks my hand away and grips the lace in his fist. The ripping sound is louder than my heartbeat, louder than my breath. Emerson’s hands go to the crease of my thighs and I grab at his jacket to keep myself from falling. His thumbs run over my softest skin. “Jesus,” he says, and then he adds a pressure that opens my folds, exposing them to the air and the burn of his eyes. His breath is hot on my skin. “You smell so fucking good.”
Part of my fear drops away, but it’s replaced by another wave of shame that he’s so close like this, looking so intently, seeing everything.
“I need it,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and then his mouth is between my legs.
It’s so intense that I arch away, try to run. He grips my ass and pins me to the edge of the table. My mind is nothing. I’ll never think again. I’ll never paint again. I’ll be an explosion of pleasure, like fireworks in my brain. I can’t breathe. Getting lightheaded. The flat of his tongue is replaced with the tip, circling my opening, lapping at it like he’ll never get enough.
It feels so good. I don’t know how to do this. I try to spread my legs wider and move my hips into him. It’s dirty, doing this, it’s not right to do this in a closet at a charity gala. My fingers dig into his jacket. Oh, Jesus, it’s good. My mind careens between his tongue and my shame. Spreading my legs for a man in a supply closet. Letting him lick me, and taste me. Not stopping him.
He makes a sound against my pussy like I am the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth, ever ever ever, and then he focuses his attention on my clit. My vision blurs. I’m going to fall off the table, except I can’t. He’s holding me here.
“I can’t do this,” I pant. “I’ve never—I’ve never—”
“Come on my tongue, little painter.”
“Wait. Wait—”
He doesn’t wait. He does something magical with his tongue, something wicked, and pleasure tears into me like a bomb. It looks golden. My vision goes dark, tinged in gold. It looks golden, to have my breath stolen like this. It takes all my self-control away from me and rocks my hips and makes muscles I’ve never felt before clench and flutter. Emerson doesn’t stop. He keeps going and going and going and I reach the peak of this pleasure and meet another one. My despair comes out in a moan—god, no, I can’t let him do this, I’m already doing this—and his answering hum of approval is more than I can bear.
And it’s not over. He keeps tasting me until the last shivers have wrung themselves out, until I can see again. Until I take a full breath, then another. One last, long lick. My fingers are cramped from holding his jacket. Emerson stands, pressing the sleeve of his jacket to his mouth. His eyes gleam. I’ve never seen him rumpled like this. I made wrinkles in his suit, and his knees are dusty from the floor. His eyes drop down to where I’m still open for him.
He holds out his hand.
I take it.
Emerson helps my dress fall back to the floor. He swipes a thumb at the corner of my mouth. My heart thunders. If he were going to steal me, if he were going to take me, he could do it now. No one would notice for a while yet.
“The color’s back in your cheeks,” he says, voice low. “Let’s take you back to the gala.”
Chapter Twenty
Emerson
The next morning,I lean into the guest room and find my brother on his laptop. “Time to go.”
Sin cuts a look at me with suspicion in his eyes. “I’ve only been here a couple days.”
“And what did I do? I attended a goddamn charity gala. I’m fine. Get out of my house.”
The truth is, I need him gone. I cannot stop thinking about Daphne. The need to be with her is so strong it feels like a drug. She tasted so good I’m still reeling from it. The demand for more is on an animal level. Sin’s presence competes with it in the most obnoxious way. I can’t be calm when he’s here, and I’m thinking of her so much I’m losing bits of time. Five minutes here. Ten minutes there. I refuse to answer any questions about it. Sin won’t accept that it’s just planning, and then he’ll insist on staying, and fuck that.
He looks me up and down. “Are you going into the city?”
“I have a meeting. Be gone when I come back.”
“Fine.” His fingers tap on the keyboard. “But I’m staying close. I’m getting a hotel.”
“Good. Great to see you.”
Sin rolls his eyes. “If you thought it was so great, you’d tell me a hotel isn’t necessary.”
“Is it better if I said I wish you hadn’t come?”
