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I haven’t touched a woman like this in so long. It’s nothing like the way I touch the women onstage.
This is pure want. No,need.
Conflict battles inside me. I’m supposed to be watching over Emma, not touching her like this. Her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, her nails lightly scratching my scalp.
I have to take a moment to breathe. To remind myself why I’m here.
“We should take a break,” I tell her, my rough cheek sliding against her soft one so she can hear me.
“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?” She slides her palm down my chest to cup my erection. I grab her hand and pull it back up to my chest. I refuse to come in my pants in the middle of this club.
“You’re trouble,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and smiles. I can feel my own lazy smile take over my face.
“Let’s be wild and spontaneous,” she says.
“I’m neither of those things.” I think about my life before tonight. Every night the same. Shower after the show, then late dinner alone. I’d be hours into an REM cycle by now. It’s the same routine I’ve had for years.
“Me either.” She laughs. “I just don’t want the night to end.”
She’s smiling, but I can see the sadness creeping in behind her brown eyes. I want to blame the alcohol, the heady attraction to Emma for making it hard to tell her no, to walk away, but the truth is I felt this pull to her the moment I saw her on the rooftop.
I drop her hand and move mine to her chest.
“Me either,” I echo.
My fingers trace along her collarbone, then up along her neck until I’m tilting her chin up toward me. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips part in preparation for what is to come. This time, I don’t hesitate. When my lips meet hers, the last of my restraint melts away. Emma’s soft mouth opens farther for me and I’m a goner.
Our tongues taste and lick. She tastes sweet, like honey, and a faint citrus, the lemon from the shots we took.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the man that has been raising his little sister, worrying about her safety and wellbeing, paying insurance and bills, denying himself to set a good example for her, sags in relief. I let my hand tease into her hair and tighten my grip there. Putting my hands on Emma, letting myself touch her this way, taste her, has awakened something primal in me.
I pull back, still holding Emma close to me, and let our kiss linger between us. Her cheeks are pink. When her eyes open, they’re glossy with lust. She’s fucking perfect. Just for tonight, I want something for myself. I want Emma.
CHAPTER7
Emma
My head is pounding. Wait. That’s the door. I bolt upright in bed and my brain revolts. My attempt to peel open my eyelids is met with resistance, my mouth feels like somebody shoved a handful of cotton balls in it, and my lips are chafed and swollen. I try to wet my cracked lips with my tongue, but I come up empty, my mouth too dry to produce saliva.
I feel like hell. And I’m pretty much in need of every product Jennifer Aniston has ever done a commercial for. I look around for water and find a bottle beside the bed, along with two ibuprofen and my phone arranged neatly on the charging station. I guess between overloading my liver with alcohol and partying all night, drunk me managed the foresight to prepare for the mother of all hangovers.
There’s another knock on the door. Ugh. Why is someone knocking on my door so early in the morning?
I glance at the clock on the bedside table. It’s nine-thirty. Well, crap. I don’t think I’ve slept this late since I was pulling all-nighters working on designs at NYFIT. Another knock.
“Room service,” I hear a man’s voice from the other side of the door.
Shit. I throw back the covers and force myself to stand, which doesn’t go well for my head. The too quick motion has my head spinning. I reach out for the wall to steady myself until my vision returns. My legs are sore, likely from trekking around Vegas in heels. And dancing. I remember a lot of dancing.
I’m in a tank top and sleep shorts so I reach for the neatly tied hotel robe on the hanger in the closet. I bundle myself up, tying it tight around my waist. The robe is a necessity for modesty but not a great option for my overheated body currently in the throes of metabolizing the gallons of alcohol I drank last night.
Another knock tells me it’s too late for another option. I fan my heated skin, then finally, I open the door.
In the hallway I find the room service waiter with a food delivery cart.
“Good morning, miss. I apologize if I woke you.”
I’m staring at the assortment of food, juice, coffee and flowers that his cart contains. Did I also have the foresight to order enough food for a basketball team last night?
