Emma
Emma tried to understand how exactly she’d been talked into this. Not helping Dean, that was obvious and clear. Mia needed help, and he was completely convinced that this was the right way to help her. What he’d said was too true. She had different reasons for distrusting the cops, but she knew in her heart that they wouldn’t look as hard for a little-mixed girl as they would for one of her white students. Abbey would immediately be implicated, and Dean as well, just because they weren’t white. Hell, she’d probably be putting her own neck on the chopping block. She might be white-passing, more often than not, but her background was fairly obvious when push came to shove. Even though she’d worked hard at the center, she knew what happened when people started to look too closely and get suspicious. They wouldn’t be malicious about it. But there would be questions. And long, angry looks. She didn’t want to do it. Maybe that was childish, or petty, but she didn’t want to do it. Not unless she really believed that the police could actually save Mia’s life. She just didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe that they’d try, and Dean didn’t believe they’d do it.
Helping him seemed to be the only way to help Mia.
And apparently, helping couldn’t happen in her teacher costume.
“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” he’d said, “and you do not want to stick out there.” He’d made some noise about finding something in Abbey’s closet, but if the woman didn’t even like strangers in her house, there was no way Emma was going to let him talk her into putting on some of the woman’s clothes. That was just mean.
They’d gotten back into the Gran Sport, and driven across town to her apartment. And now he was sitting on her bed — which of course she had not made because she had not anticipated having a six-foot-tall, super cute, gorgeous man in her bedroom this evening — watching her go through her closet.
“What are you looking for here? Something just more… trashy? Actual club gear? Leather and lace? I need guidelines.”
He was silent, and she turned around to find him leaning back just a little, holding a purple lace bra in his hands. Because, of course, she hadn’t cleaned her dirty laundry off the bed, either. Dammit. His gaze turned up to her, and suddenly she was smoldering in her panties, so eager and hungry. She stalked back over to him, reaching for the bra, but he pulled it out of reach, forcing her to step closer, spreading her legs to make room for his knees. The position put her tits right in his face.
He groaned and dropped the bra, lifting her breasts in her shirt as he pressed his face into the flesh. All it would take was dropping her weight into his lap, and she knew damn well he’d take it from there. She wanted so much to let go of some of this tension, but not yet. Not yet.
She reached down and put a finger under his chin, tilting his face up so that he was looking at her.
“If you help me figure out what you need me to wear,” she said, letting all that want and smolder show in her voice, “I’ll put the purple bra on. And there are matching panties.”
“What kind of panties?” he asked, his voice barely more than a low growl.
“Hipsters.”
“Good. I hate G-strings. Hipsters are better.”
“If you rip them off me, I’ll never forgive you.”
He growled for real and bit at her flesh. She didn’t feel it much through the foam of the bra, but “not much” still translated into a wave of wet heat in between her thighs. “If I rip them off you, I’ll buy you new ones. All the new ones you want.”
She laughed and forced herself to step away. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what are we looking for here?”
“If I say ‘get naked’ would you listen?” She shot a glare over her shoulder, and he laughed. “Okay, fine. Just something less…” he gestured vaguely, and she waited to see if he’d fill in the space.
“Middle class? Preppy?” More vague hand waving. “Adorkable?”
A quick, sharp laugh. “Yes. That. Whatever the fuck that means. Just, you know, regular clothes. Like regular people wear.”
“I’m regular,” she said, quietly. He made a non-committal sound, and she didn’t really feel like she had room to argue. Not really. She was something, but regular wasn’t it. She’d never been regular. She’d never really wanted to be regular.
She found a pair of jeans that hugged her curves while giving just enough of a flare at the ankle to balance out her shape. A tank top that made her tits look amazing, and her favorite top, a leather vest with a knit hood. She shrugged it all on and turned. “Look like I’d be on the back of your bike?”
He had to swallow twice before he answered. “Yes. Yup. Yes.”
She laughed. “Let me touch up my makeup, and then we’ll go.”
“I’m disappointed you didn’t pick a skirt,” he said as she walked towards the bathroom. She turned, her eyebrows raised to ask the question. “I was looking forward to that show you promised me, back in the car.”
“Well, now you’re just going to need to be patient,” she said. It was difficult, getting the words out of her suddenly dry throat. All the moisture had hurried off somewhere else. The idea of planting her feet on that rebuilt custom dash, fucking herself with her fingers in the passenger seat of a goddamn Gran Sport… Shit, she might die from the sheer pleasure of that orgasm in those surroundings. Something to put in her daydream box, just in case they survived whatever the hell this was.
“Unless you want to take the time for me to change?”
“Nope,” he said. “I watched your ass change clothes once and didn’t touch. I don’t think I’d survive a repeat performance.”
Her cheeks flamed with sudden heat. She hadn’t even asked him to leave the room, had barely even noticed that he was there. How was she so comfortable with him so fast? Nothing good was going to come of this. This was not part of the plan she’d had for her life.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and he laughed at her, but followed her out of her small apartment.