The woman is incredible in every fucking sense of the word.
She eyes me from where she stands in the kitchen—if I can call it that since it’s little more than a hot plate, a mini fridge, a toaster oven, and a Keurig. It doesn’t hurt that the only thing she’s wearing is a pair of boy shorts.
No top. No nothing.
Talk about a morning view I’d like to revisit.
That fact makes it that much harder not to stare at her and her perfectly perky set of tits. I can remember so very vividly how her nipples feel against my tongue, and it makes my damn mouth water.
Fuck if my morning hard-on isn’t begging to take advantage of everything about her again, but there’s so much more at stake right now than coming again.
Like her not realizing that we’ve broken her first rule, not once but twice.
No overnights.
I would be surprised if she doesn’t already realize that and is making her coffee and plotting how to get control of the situation back. I’ll gladly give it to her if I get to end up sitting here watching her shirtless in her kitchen again.
“How do you want yours?” she asks.
“I can get it.”
“Relax. I’m perfectly capable of pushing a button and not screwing it up. If it were anything more than that, then you could be concerned.”
“Black, please.”
After putting in a fresh pod and pressing the button to start the machine, she pads to one side of the small loft and fires up her computer without looking at the screen. My attention stays on her as she checks her cell phone and gives it a roll of her eyes over something before flipping a file folder open and making a note in it.
A file folder.
Much like the one in a box on my table at home.
How the fuck can the little girl on that folder’s label be this same damn woman in front of me. Shouldn’t she be fucked up? Shouldn’t she be a mess of issues?
Maybe she is underneath and is simply doing a damn good job of hiding it.
Then again, it’s hard to see a thing when her self-assuredness, confidence, and strength roll off her in thick waves.
Thankfully, the jiggling of her tits as she walks to get our coffee steers my thoughts away from any further psychoanalyzing. They mesmerize me as she crosses the distance, and hell if I’m not blatantly appreciating them. It’s only when she stops at the edge of the bed and holds the cup of coffee out to me that I meet her eyes.
“You like what you see?” She laughs with a raised set of eyebrows, and I love that she is secure enough she can ask the question and make it sound sexy instead of conceited.
“No complaints here. I’m just trying to figure out how I can see this view more often.”
“Such a typical male. You get blown, fucked, then fucked again, but you still aren’t satisfied.” Her smile is wide as she sits on the bed facing me with one knee bent beneath her and the other leg hanging off the edge. “What’s it going to take, Malone?”
“More of you.”
There’s a silent moment that passes where her eyes soften and her smile slowly falls, vulnerability written all over her features before she throws her head back and laughs as if what I said is the funniest thing in the world.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She takes a sip of her coffee but leaves her eyes on mine from above the rim.
“It will?”
“It will.”
“Good to know,” I say as I lean back against the headboard and look around her place. It’s small but has a pretty cool setup. The colors are muted, the furniture is modest, but it’s a complete reflection of her. Practical and minimalist. The best part is the series of windows that face out to the field and trees opposite the landing strip.
“Who do you rent this place from, again?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Travis Barnhardt.”
“I think I know him.”
“You do know him.”
“I do? Oh. Isn’t he Dean’s dad?”
“Dean?”
“Dean from Mrs. Gellar’s class.”
Her hand stutters in motion as she lifts her coffee cup to her lips. The quick aversion of her eyes tells me she doesn’t like this topic.
I push anyway.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice is soft as she sets the cup down, picks it back up, and then straightens the sheets some.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, hating that the simple mention of Mrs. Gellar’s class puts her visibly on edge. “You’re right. Dean’s last name was Meyers.”
I wait to see a reaction from her, but her expression remains stone cold. “Yes, that was it.”
Silence falls between us as we both stare into our coffees, but questions nag me more than ever before since running into Emerson. It’s her dig about not trusting me that she played off as one thing when she really meant another. It’s her need to stay detached even though we’re clearly sleeping together.
“About that day . . .” Fucking Christ. I’m so goddamn distracted by her incredible body sitting half-naked before me that I blurted out my thoughts.
“No,” she snaps as she shoves up off the bed.
“We need to talk about it at some point, Em.”
“Actually, no, we don’t.” She turns her back to me and walks toward the windows.
“Em—”
“Stop!” she shouts. “I’ve dealt with it. I don’t need you bringing it up, so don’t talk about it again. Now, get out before you break another rule because you’re walking a fine line with me, Grant. The spending the night was a mistake. You bringing that up, wasn’t cool . . . so, play time’s over. The benefits have been used up for now. I have to get to work.”
I study her for a moment—a silhouette against the morning light beyond—the curve of her waist, the shape of her legs, her strawberry hair falling down her bare back in tangles. There’s so much shit I want to say, but the defensiveness in her posture tells me she won’t hear a damn word of it.
In time.
In silence and with gritted teeth, I rise from the bed and pull on my jeans and shirt. All the while, she stares out the window, ignoring the tension settling into place.
With my keys in my hand, I walk toward where she stands. “Your past sure as fuck doesn’t define the woman you are . . . and it isn’t my business, regardless of how much I care about you and want to make sure you’re okay. Em, I was there, and I feel like you hold it against me—”
“Or maybe I’m just this hostile with all men,” she whispers, never turning to face me, but I can hear the pain in her voice and hate that I put it there.
I take the final step to her and hear her breath catch as I press my lips to the back of her shoulder. “Nah, I think it’s particular to me.” She nods but doesn’t step away from me. “Can we somehow wipe the slate clean?”
“How, though?” Confusion laces her voice, and her willingness to even ask that question is telling. It doesn’t matter how much I think I know about her past, I don’t have a goddamn clue about the demons she still battles. And battle she does. Even now, she’s fighting them with loud declarations of denial and softly whispered pleas for help.
“From here on out, we forget the memories and just chase the moments,” I say with another press of my lips to her skin before walking out the door.