Chapter Twenty-Eight
EMERSON
We were in bed.
It wasn’t weird.
It should have been weird.
But ever since confessing to him about finding out I was pregnant in high school two months after Miller left, I felt—free.
I’d confessed to the wrong guy—and felt better, exhausted but better.
“You know . . .” Sanchez was flipping through channels on the TV, shirtless, wearing a pair of low-slung black sweats that hugged him in all the places I really shouldn’t be looking if I was going to keep my promise not to sleep with him.
“What?” I yawned behind my hand and fluffed my pillow about ten times before he finally sighed and jerked it away from me, then pounded it with his giant fist, only to chuck it off the bed and pat his chest instead. I gulped. He repeated the motion. And because I was exhausted, I gave in.
His body was warm against my cheek, and then I found my hand drawing circles down the rivets of his perfect abs.
And somehow my legs inched themselves closer to his until I was both tangled and pressed up against him like a freaking sticky pretzel.
“Is it my heat or my body?” he said with a warm laugh.
“Both?” I snuggled closer. He felt so good. Both safe and dangerous, and just . . . right.
Great. Now I was quoting Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
“Were you saying something?”
“I wouldn’t have left.”
“What?”
“You,” he whispered as he started playing with my hair, twisting it between his fingers like he did when he was thinking. “If you asked me to leave you now, I wouldn’t. I can’t imagine us being friends in high school. You know, because I was the shit, and you sounded like a total loser.”
I punched him in the stomach. He clenched his abs so the blow wouldn’t hurt—the bastard—and kept laughing.
“But . . .” His hand found mine, probably to protect other parts of his body. “Had we been friends, had I slept with you, tasted you, been with you, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“He had no choice.” I sighed. “His dad was moving.”
“Em . . .” He wasn’t calling me Curves anymore.
I wasn’t sure what that meant.
“You always have a choice.”
“Not in high school. You don’t understand. You—”
“No, you don’t understand.” He sat up and gripped my face with both of his hands. “You love someone, you stay. There is literally no choice beyond that. All I’m saying is I would have fought. I would have emancipated from my own parent if that’s what it took. I would have gone with my dad and then hitchhiked my way back, and every single time I was caught, I would go to sleep, wake up, and do it again. Hell, I would have transformed the shit out of some car and driven myself. There is no choice, Em. There isn’t. Not when you love someone. Love doesn’t need a justification for its actions. It’s a free pass. And I would have taken that free pass and run—back toward you. That’s . . .” He released my face. “That’s all.”
He leaned back against the bed and switched the channel again.
The shadows from the TV danced along the walls . . . and down his sculpted lips and face.
And I seriously stopped breathing.
Because in six years . . .
It had never occurred to me that neither of us had fought it.
I’d cried.
He’d cried.
It had been horrible.
But neither of us had fought it beyond that; we’d just freaking accepted it, like it was law, like there hadn’t been alternatives.
We’d accepted it and tried to move on.
“I can hear you thinking.” Sanchez’s lips twitched as he kept flipping through channels as if it was a hobby.
And suddenly, all I wanted was to stop thinking—to kiss him, to thank him, to be with him.
Him.
I wasn’t sure who moved first, he or I, but suddenly the remote was launched into the air and, in a tangled mess of arms and legs, we were kissing with me on top and him on bottom, his hands gripping my ass so tight there were going to be bruises.
The spiral was slippery.
The fall—easy.
I let myself.
I closed my eyes and just allowed it, allowed his hands to roam across my body like he owned me.
It was like diving into dark water not knowing what was beneath, not knowing if you would ever breathe air again, but not caring if those few seconds of bliss were all you’d ever experience.
That was Grant Sanchez.
He pulled away from me. His eyes were at a complete half-mast as he inspected my lips. “Yeah, Em.” He licked his lips then tucked my hair behind my ears with shaky hands. “I would have fucking run back to you.”
All the air left my lungs in a whoosh as I sagged against him, my hands reaching for his neck as our mouths met in an open-mouthed kiss, lips parting. His hot breath ran down the side of my cheek as he pressed kiss after kiss down my neck.
Body trembling, I tried to tell my heart to stop beating so loud.
But it was too excited.
Racing toward him.
Toward someone who I’d always seen as the wrong guy.
Who quite possibly could end up being the right one.
Because no matter how damaged your heart may be, it never loses its ability to choose again, to try again, to want love even after loss.
How could something so wrong feel so right?
He cupped my breasts through my shirt and then, in a fit of cursing, tugged it over my head, nearly taking off one of my ears. He tossed it to the ground and looked his fill.
“Sprinted.” He pressed a hungry kiss to my mouth. “Sprinted and prayed for wings the entire way.” Another kiss and another, I was counting them, storing them for later, just in case.
Because I was still afraid, afraid that this was a dream, that this feeling—this thing we had between us—wasn’t real.
And I needed it so badly to be real.
For something this good to stay this good.
He groaned as he lowered his head. His rough hands tugged off my bra and tossed it with the shirt, and that same tongue, the one my mouth mourned to lose, was swirling around one nipple then the other.
I arched against him.
The feeling wasn’t something I was used to.
A guy taking his time.
My only experience had been a few horny, rushed times in high school with my best friend. Powerful, but different than this, so much different. Liquid heat spread until it was impossible to sit still.
“Shhh, I’m having a moment with your breasts.” With the strength of the football player he was, he flipped me—ME—onto my back and pinned my hands above my head. “I may need to have several moments. They have a lot to say.” He moaned, pressing his ear to my chest. “Uh-huh, what was that? You want to stay? In my bed?”
My laughter broke through the nervousness of him seeing me naked, a guy who was the new face of Armani, the same guy who made girls forget their names, the same guy who within five seconds of meeting me declared us best friends.
Each touch of his tongue was painful; I was on sensory overload and was pinned down by over two hundred and fifty pounds of Bellevue Buck wide receiver.
He made me feel powerful—sexy.
I writhed beneath him. “Are you done talking? Because I’m kind of dying here.”
He pressed that same ear higher. “Your heart’s just fine, see? Beating’s a little erratic. I may need to give you a sedative later. Hope wine’s okay.”
“Sanchez.”
“Grant,” he whispered. “Say my name.”
“Grant.”
He hissed out a breath before his mouth met mine again. His giant body hovered over me protectively as if he was afraid the ceiling was going to see me shirtless or something.
“Tell me you’re staying here.”
“Where else would I go?”
His eyes searched, and I knew exactly what for.
I held my breath.
And then he was kissing me again.
His hands tugged down my shorts until the heel of his palm was between my thighs. Between his mouth and his one hand, I was ready to die a blissful death.
“Stop squirming.” He chuckled in my ear.
“I’m not. I don’t do these . . . this . . . . things . . . like this.”
He pulled back, his eyes serious. “Good.”
And then the rest of my clothes were gone.
And I was completely naked. With him.
I gulped.
He placed both hands on top of my thighs and grinned. “Let me.”
“Let you what?”
“Let me taste you.”
He was asking permission. Who was this guy? This so-called womanizer? The one who asked permission and made me lock my door at night?
With a playful smile, he waited, his head nearly resting between my thighs, his fingertips drumming across my skin as if he had all the time in the world.
“No sex, but I do want to lick you, make you scream,” he finally said. “Final offer before I lock that door and let you cry yourself to sleep like you know you will if you turn me down, because—and here’s where I really seal the deal—I’ll cuddle.”
“What?” I leaned up on my elbows. “Did you just say the C-word?”
His grin went from playful to downright lethal. “Which one was that again?”
“I walked right into that.”
“And I’m about to lick that.” He winked. “Plus, you know what they say. You lick it, it’s yours. And you, Emerson, you’re in my room. You’re mine.”
I nodded.
But I didn’t say it.
Not yet.
The only thing he didn’t own was my heart—at least not yet—and I knew that if I said it, if I confessed, my heart would follow. Then Miller—everything about him—would be gone forever, and although I was moving on, I needed at least to tell him first, about everything.
It must have shown on my face, my indecision, because Sanchez waited.
“Yes.” I breathed. “But you have to cuddle and stop, if I need you to stop.”
“Deal, but here’s a little secret. When a guy knows what he’s doing, a girl won’t want him to.”
“Oh.”
Anxiety mixed with excitement as he lowered his head, and then cool air hit between my thighs, causing me to flinch and then spread them.
“Neat trick.” I gritted my teeth.
“I’m full of them.” I could still see his eyes flashing before he let out a hoarse moan. “And now I feast.”
I was about to protest. To say he was being ridiculous, scold him—who knows? It was Grant Sanchez!
And then all logical thought flew out the window.
And my body pulsed with Grant Sanchez.
And the way his tongue slid places I didn’t even know existed, applying pressure, sucking, licking, making me feel like a wanton little slut.
But so good.
So—free.
I clutched the sheets between my fingers as sweat pooled in the palms of my hands. His tongue thrust, only to retreat just when I needed it more.
He groaned between strokes.
And with each movement, little spasms hit me, until he gripped my thighs with his hands and whispered against my skin, “Patience, Em.”
I almost kicked him when his hands joined team Try to Make Emerson Die in a Professional Football Player’s Bed.
And then absolute magic.
An explosive shudder ran through my body as I shamelessly climaxed against his mouth, my body nearly launching off the bed and throwing itself off the balcony in triumph.
Only to have a second tremor follow.
And a third.
My eyes were still closed when I felt his lips on my neck and then covers sliding over my body. And that same man, the one I promised myself I’d stay away from, pulled me against his body.
His aroused body.
One that said, I may not sleep tonight because I’m so hard I could pound nails.
He whispered in my ear. “Thank you.”
I went completely still.
“But.”
“Em.” He slid his hands down my bare arms. “This. This is all I want from you. Not all the sex, not all the foreplay, though that’s great. Right now, I want to take care of you. Just you. And then I want to hold you, in my bed. And not sleep a room away from you, wondering if the last man you think about is the same one I have to get along with for the next sixteen games without ripping his head off or wondering if he misses your taste the way I would. If he thinks about you naked like I’m going to. I can’t do that now. Not after tonight. Probably not ever. So don’t analyze this, don’t make this about you. Let it be about me, this man sharing a bed with you, and his jealousy over a past he was never a part of—and the fear he has over the fact that the past could still unfairly dictate his future.”
I finally exhaled the breath I’d been holding. “You say really poetic things for a dumb football player.” Tears filled my eyes. Please, God let it be real.
Don’t take him away too.
“Graduated summa cum laude, Curves. Told ya.”
“Grant . . .” I flipped around to face him. He was so pretty, so ridiculously good-looking with his chocolate-brown hair and heart-stopping smile. “Why?”
“Why did I graduate?”
“No, why me?”
He peeked under the sheet. “You for real right now, Curves? Look at you!”
“Serious.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Why me?”
He sobered and cupped my chin. “That’s easy.” He pressed a kiss to my mouth. “You refused to be my friend. And everyone wants to be my friend, for whatever reasons they may have. But you pushed, which meant you were one of the good ones. And when you looked at me, it wasn’t about what I had. It was what I was lacking.”
“You like me because I find your faults?”
“Hell no.” He laughed. “I like you because you make me want to fix them.”