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There’s no hesitation, no tentative, gentle kissing. No awkwardness as we cross the line from friends to something more. He lays the rest of his weight on me, taking his free hand to run it up my side, over my breast and to the other before letting it rest over my throat, holding my jaw in place so he can kiss me how he wants.
His lips are soft and gentle, but firm, taking what he wants as much as teasing with each little nip. He moans my name against my lips, pulling back to look at me as if he’s making sure that it’s really me. That it’s really us doing this and not something he’s imagining. He licks his lips once more before coming in for another kiss, letting the hand that was wrapped around my throat fall across my chest.
My body becomes weightless. All the tension, anxious thoughts, and years of self-deprecation dissipate as he holds me, the only sound a heavy pulse coursing through my veins. “Emmett . . . I—”
The scraping of a chair across the floor breaks us from the haze. I rise to look over his shoulder as he turns his head to do the same, perking an ear to the side to listen to Allie mumbling.
“If I don’t get out there, she’ll be on the counter doing God knows what.”
I nod, gripping his sweatshirt and pulling him in for one more kiss before reluctantly letting him crawl off me.
“Itactuallysmells good in here, by the way,” he snickers as he playfully slaps my hip. “Never thought I’d say that about a meal you cooked.”
I scoff, reaching out to pinch him but he quickly scoots out of the fort.
“If you left out the wordactually, that would haveactuallybeen a nice compliment.”
~
“Say it; say the words again.”
“Dinner was great,” he mumbles.
“So, what you’re saying is this was the best meal you’ve ever had?”
He gives an exaggerated eye roll as he slips my jacket over one arm, and the other before sliding it up my shoulders. “I liked what you cooked tonight, that’s all I’ll admit to for now.”
“But you want me to cook your dinner every night from now until the day you die.”
“I don’t think I will get sick from tonight, but let’s not go that far.”
I told myself I wouldn’t get too cocky if the dinner tonight turned out okay, but to my surprise it turned out better than okay. Emmett had two big helpings and though it was spicier than I had anticipated, Allie loved it too. Considering he’s teased me many times over the course of our friendship about the curdled alfredo and a few other terrible meals I’ve tried to cook the few times his mom tried to teach me, it’s nice to hear his compliments.
He zips up my coat, careful to avoid snagging my hair in its teeth. When he’s done, he leans in for another kiss, his hand that’s still damp from the after-dinner dishes coming to delicately hold my cheek. “I’ll never get sick of kissing you,” he murmurs against my lips.
When he pulls back, he brushes my hair over my shoulder before meeting my gaze. “Will you let me take you out on a date? A real date, me and you. Let me take you out for dinner and drinks, or whatever you want.”
“How about you decide where we will go for dinner? I'll find us somewhere to go for drinks?”
He cocks an eyebrow at my request. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I have a place in mind I know you’ll love.”
Chapter Seventeen
“W
here the fuck are you trying to take me?” Emmett stares at the neonMatrixxxsign above the doorway, feet planted firmly in place.
“Give it a chance, you might be surprised at what you find.” I tug his arm with both of my hands, dragging his heavy body through the door and we slip past the bouncer with a smile. He nods his head, letting us in without an ID check.
Meg and I have been here so many times, too many times to count, the bouncer could probably pass as an emergency contact if I were in a pinch.
The first floor houses one of the sketchier clubs I have been to, including that one time I took a nursing gig in LA and we found a club where the majority of the women wore legit lingerie and you had to keep your drink clutched to your chest to keep it safe. On Thursday nights, this club lets in eighteen-year-old girls, but men still aren’t allowed until they are at least twenty-one years old.
Red flag.
For the most part, it’s your typical club—dimly lit, music so loud you can’t think, and bodies packed together like sweaty sardines on the dance floor. A second floor balcony overlooks the dance floor, and that’s where the creepers stand, sipping their drink and eyeing the crowd below, ready to prey on the girls who aren’t legal.
