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He takes more, tilting my head to the side, parting my lips so his tongue can meet mine. The way he makes me feel is almost enough to enrage me.
I let him slip his hand up beneath my short dress. It’s so little material for him to contend with and he’s so smooth at getting what he wants. My panties feel wet against his middle finger as he runs it along the seam, back and forth, teasing me. I shudder and he feels it, already trying to coax out more. It’s easy. I’m easy. Or perhaps not. These feelings have been pent up inside me for so long. Drawing them out shouldn’t be hard for him. Can he tell I would give him everything?
His ring finger joins his middle, running the length of my underwear, drawing circles over the most sensitive little spot so that my mouth pops open and I cry out.
He doesn’t shush me. He doesn’t seem to fucking care.
His fingers hook into the side of my panties and draw them aside. The silk was nice, but nothing compared to Emmett’s fingers. Thick, long, so so skilled at making me feel like I might shatter at any moment.
“This is what it will be like,” he says, all confidence as he kisses me roughly and then peels back to finish. “When you’re mine.”
It’s on that word that ownership seems to take full effect, because at that precise moment, he presses his fingers inside me.
A soundless gasp.
Eyes pressed shut.
Tiny tingles building up, up, up.
There is no stopping it.
Emmett had a hold on my life even when I was still a child at St. John’s, racing through the woods, trying to catch a glimpse of the French prince.
I love you.
It’s the thought I hold on to, cling to as he draws his fingers out then presses them back in, swirling his thumb where I need release. He lets me ride his hand in a cruel, savage way I shouldn’t like as much as I do.
His French words whispered against my lips are like drops of kerosene.
It’s so painful.
When I come, it doesn’t feel good so much as earth-shattering. For a brief moment, my world depends solely on him. My gravity, breath, life—they’re all his.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Emmett
“Come home with me.”
It’s the third time I’ve asked.
I have Lainey in the back of my car. We’re heading through the city streets, back toward her grandmother’s house after leaving Bar 717. At any second, we’ll arrive and she’ll get out, and I hate that I haven’t been able to change her mind about coming back to my place.
“It’s not even midnight.”
She shrugs, keeping her attention out the window. “Then you still have time to go find another woman to kiss when the ball drops. I’m sure Miranda would be all too happy to oblige. And if not her, the next one down the line…”
I haven’t touched her since we walked out of that draped-off corner of the bar, but I’ve had enough. I reach over and grab her by the chin, forcing her to look at me. I’m not being kind or respectful. I’m being a fucking animal.
“What do you need me to say? She means nothing. They all mean nothing. If I never saw them again, I’d think nothing of it.”
She tries half-heartedly to pull away, but I don’t let her.
I lean in closer. “You’re the one I want, petite souris.”
Her green eyes are wide with panic. Her pupils dilated. Her lips bruised and red.
What we did at the club was torture, barely a taste.
The car starts to slow. We’ve arrived, and Lainey’s relief is palpable.
She’s unbuckled and opening her door before we even come to a full stop. I follow suit, flinging my door open to walk her up the stairs.
She’s not amused.
“Do you find it so hard to believe that I want you?” I ask.
She whirls around to face me, her voice turning desperate as she throws her hands out toward me. “Do you find it so hard to believe that I don’t care?”
“I thought we were done with lies.”
I almost touch her again, almost pull her into my arms and force the issue.
It’s hard to stay away and watch her shake her head as she looks up to the cold night sky. When she resigns herself to meeting my gaze again, a fissure of fear runs through me. There’s a detachment there, a purposeful separation between us.
“Emmett, I almost feel bad for you. When’s the last time a woman actually turned you down? When’s the last time you were heartbroken over someone?”
I drag my hands through my hair, utterly exasperated that she’s trying to degrade the issue to something as mundane as that. “Don’t paint me with that brush. You know I’m not that guy. We sat in the library at St. John’s and whispered our fucking secrets to each other. We had a kinship, you and I, and you know full well I’ve dealt with heartache. I’m a bleeding heart on your doorstep, Lainey. I’ve known so little love in my life that it’s blatantly obvious to me what this is.”
