Beautiful Deep

by Jordyn White

  This massive apartment feels too big and too lonely. I have the day off, so I have way too much time on my hands. I put in a morning workout, cleaned the living areas of their apartment, went for a run, then got desperate enough that I started straightening up Pierce’s area. I have no idea if he’s going to mind. I’ve never gotten into his stuff. But I’m too pent-up with frustrated energy to care.

  I straightened up his desk. I cleared off and put away the supplies on his big wooden framing table, then wiped down the top. I swept and mopped the floors.

  I’m giving serious thought to cleaning the windows. That would take all damned weekend.

  Instead, I decide I need to get out of the house. I get cleaned up, but when it comes time to get dressed I have no idea where I think I’m going to go.

  “Fuck it.”

  I throw on my workout pants, a tank, and a loose-fitting tee. If a run along the beach doesn’t tire me out, I don’t know what will.

  Minutes later, I’m on my way to the ocean, wondering why I didn’t take the long way around so I wouldn’t have to pass so near the resort. It’s as I’m approaching Guido’s, at the bottom of the hill, that I see Rayce’s black Jag in the parking lot.

  I grip the wheel and my heart pounds against my chest as I drive by, trying to get a glimpse of him through the windows of the building and wondering if he’s in there.

  But I know he is.

  He’s in there.

  And I’m here.

  I stop at a light. Adrenaline courses through my body as I look at Guido’s in my rearview mirror. The light turns green, and I take a right, not in the direction of the ocean. As if my body is making its own decisions, I navigate a U-turn, pull into Guido’s parking lot, and turn off the car.

  The voices in my head that have argued with me ever since I first saw Mr. Rayce Rivers have gone silent.

  There is no more thinking. There is just doing.

  Chapter 22

  Rayce

  I’m sitting in my usual spot in the back and see her through the window before she comes in the door. Just like the first time I saw her I can’t take my eyes off her, but it’s so much worse this time. Because now I know her. And because I can’t stop wanting her no matter how hard I try.

  She told me to stay away and I have, only because of the hurt look she had on her face when she said it. She meant it. It’s taken all the self-control I have not to go to her and persuade her to give us a chance.

  I almost feel like... begging, if I’m honest. I don’t think I’ve begged for anything since I was eight.

  But when Emma walked out of my kitchen two weeks ago, she scooped a big hole out of my chest and took it with her. That hole isn’t empty either. It’s filled with wanting so strong I’m out of my mind half the time.

  And now here she is, opening the door. The mere vision of her is torment.

  She’s wearing soft workout pants that ride low on her hips and a loose shirt that comes just to her waist. It has a wide neck and the strap of a sleeveless tank peeks out from underneath. This is the most I’ve seen of her neck ever, the smooth skin unmarked, and it’s driving me crazy. How many times have I wished I could just gaze upon her body and take in the complete package, swirling tattoo and all, instead of these maddening pieces here and there.

  When she comes inside, her eyes sweep the room as if she’s looking for someone. She spots me and her searching halts. She holds my gaze. Her blonde hair is falling in loose waves to her shoulders.

  It’s physically painful, this wanting her.

  She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t look surprised. She looks like she knew I was here already. She slowly approaches the counter, eyes still on me.

  We don’t break eye contact until Guido’s son asks if he can help her. She glances at my plate, which is empty. This seems to decide something for her. She looks at me, heat flashing between us, then to Guido’s son. “I’ll just take a Sprite. Small.”

  She watches him as he goes to get it, crossing her forearms and resting them on the high counter. The hem of her shirt lifts slightly, revealing a slender slice of her stomach. That curling tattoo I saw on her thigh all those weeks ago isn’t just on her thigh. That sliver of bare stomach is marked on one side by that same, thin, graceful design.

  My entire body hardens with desire and the seat of my pants get uncomfortably tight. Right here in fucking Guido’s. I need to look away, get myself under control. Instead I drink her in, from that sin-inducing waist to her sandaled feet and pink pearl toenails to the curve of her breasts and lower back to the graceful line of her neck.

  Finally, most powerfully, to her delicate, heart-shaped face. Because this is more than wanting a woman’s soft curves. It’s wanting this woman, and everything she is. And everything she makes me feel.

  She’s been watching me. She wants me to watch her.

  She pays for her drink with cash, tells him to keep the change, and heads for the door. I’m struck with a moment of panic. I want to hurry after her, but the last time I saw her was agony for both of us. Remembering that devastated look on her face when she begged me to stay away from her keeps me pinned in place.

  Before she leaves, she glances around the restaurant, as if to be sure no one is watching. In the space of a heartbeat, I do the same.

  There’s an old couple in the corner, eating their pizza in silence, eyes on their food. A group of young men circle another table, laughing and talking too loudly. Guido’s son is assembling a pizza behind the line, focused on laying out pepperoni slices in a fan that follows the curved line of the dough’s edge.

  No one’s paying attention to either one of us.

  My eyes swing back to her as she pushes open the door. She looks over her shoulder and gives me a meaningful glance. I straighten slightly, and this seems to satisfy her.

  She exits the building and heads for the parking lot. Heart beating in my ears, I watch through the large, open windows until she disappears from my sight.

  Am I imagining this? Does she want me to follow her?

  I recall again her distraught expression the last time I saw her, the pain in her voice as she told me to leave her be. But the last five minutes seem to be undoing all that. Still unsure of her intentions, I at least make a decision about what to do next.

  I’ve managed to keep my physical response to her controlled enough to be able to walk out of here without disgracing myself. I grab my plate and stand. I tap the counter as I pass by Guido’s son. “Tell Guido I said goodbye.”

  “Will do. See ya, Rayce.”

  I toss my plate in the garbage and push through the door, wondering if maybe I’ve got it all wrong and she’s gone. But no.

  When I get to the parking lot, she’s standing by her open car door, watching for me. She holds my eye for a second, then smoothly turns and gets in her car.

  My blood is pumping thickly. I debate between going to her car or mine, but she’s starting to pull out of her parking spot. I’m still not sure what’s going on.

  Keeping one eye on her, I go to my car and get in. I start the engine, but look over my shoulder to see what she’s doing. She’s stopped, waiting to exit the parking lot.

  I watch her for a minute. Then two. I don’t move. Neither does she, even though it seems there have been opportunities for her to pull out.

  I back out of the space and pull in behind her. She lets a small opening go by, but when there’s one big enough for two cars, she pulls out.

  I follow.

  And this is how it goes. One turn after another, she leads me through downtown and to an industrial section of town. She pulls up to a large, dark grey two-story building that’s home to “Joey’s Chop Shop.” My mind is trying to work out what’s happening and where the hell we are, but it’s difficult with the dull roar of desire and hope fogging up my brain.

  She pulls into the alleyway next to the building, then under a covered parking area with room for only two cars. The other space is occupied by a motorcycle I’ve s
een once before. I find a spot farther down the alley.

  By the time I do this and get out of the car, she’s standing by a side door. She’s holding the door open a few inches, and watching me. Meeting her eyes is like getting struck by something that makes it hard to breathe. Let alone think.

  I start to head over and she disappears inside the building. The door swings shut. When I get to it and reach for the knob, the thought crosses my mind that it could be locked. But it pulls open easily. It leads not inside the back of the chop shop, as I’d expected, but to a stairwell rising to the second floor. I’m guessing there’s an apartment up there.

  Hers.

  I stand at the open door, hand on the knob, looking up that stairwell and not moving. Not because I’m hesitating. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because it takes me a moment to absorb the fact that she’s trying to change the rules. And she has.

  But whether she knows it or not, I’m the one in charge of this game.

  I march up the stairs, unsurprised to find a door hanging open at the top. I swing it wide, revealing a massive space that must take up the entire second floor. I know immediately that there’s no one else in it. I’m vaguely aware of easels, what looks like a ballet barre and mirror in a near corner, and a kitchen and living area at the far end. There’s a wall of windows. High ceilings. Half-finished paintings damn near everywhere.

  There’s a million things I could look at, but in the middle of it all, in front of a large work table not too far into the room... is Emma.

  Standing there.

  Waiting for me.

  Chapter 23

  Emma

  He’s standing in the doorway, maybe twenty feet away, wearing the most intense expression I’ve yet seen on him. He’s in slacks and a button-down maroon shirt, no tie, the top button undone. He looks worn, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, but this does nothing to lessen the impact of his appearance.

  He’s striking. My body is lit up from his presence... and the fact that we’re alone.

  I can hardly think. It’s been that way since I first turned my car around. I’ve been driven by something so deep inside me it defies reason. It drove me to walk into Guido’s, get his attention, and keep it. He was at a back table, facing the door, and it seemed like he didn’t want to take his eyes off me long enough to even blink.

  I lured him out, led him here. It was all I could do to drive, hardly breathing as I kept checking my rear view mirror for him. All the while my pulse pounded in my ears and between my legs. Like it’s doing now.

  And now that he’s here, I couldn’t say what I want to happen next. I only know that I’ve been going crazy without him. I’m still going crazy, because even though he’s here, he feels so far away.

  I shuffle on my feet slightly, something I almost never do. “I wanted to talk to you.” As if I had any sort of plan.

  “Oh yeah?”

  He flicks the door shut and it slams behind him as he takes one long stride after another toward me.

  “What do you want to say?”

  Then he’s to me. I take one step to meet him and our mouths crash together. He’s clutching my face. Claiming my mouth. Demanding entrance. Gripping my hair with both hands. I’m clinging to him. Moaning. Spinning. God, how I’ve needed this.

  More, please more.

  His mouth assaults my jaw with urgent kisses. He ravages my neck. When he gets to the tender base, my knees actually buckle. He tightens his grip, supporting me with solid arms as my mind and body are dazed with his touch and his presence. His masculine scent, unmarred by cologne, is making my uterus clench.

  He wrenches the loose collar of my shirt over my shoulder. His hot breath warms my exposed skin. He runs his fingers over my neck, giving a groan—almost a growl—as if frustrated by something, but I can’t stop to think what because now he’s devastating my shoulder with his mouth. My legs are still too weak to do their job properly, a problem I’ve never experienced. What is he doing to me?

  He grips my face and returns to my mouth, our tongues searching, warring, desperate for what we’ve been craving for weeks.

  Then everything stops.

  He pulls back slightly, still holding my face. The only sound is our hard pants, mingling together. His intense eyes are on mine. My mouth is partly open but I’m unable to speak. Please, more.

  I want all of it. All of him. This. Us.

  “Are you ready for this now?” His voice is low and controlled. He’s always been in control.

  I breathe more than speak. “Yes.”

  But he doesn’t kiss me again like I wanted. He releases me, and the tiniest whimper of protest escapes me.

  He steps out of my reach and my body sways after him, following his movement like a reed in the tide.

  I’m confused for a moment, because in spite of his sudden departure, his eyes have lost none of their heated intensity.

  He gives an authoritative nod in my direction. His voice is deep and steady. “Take your clothes off.” His strong fingers began smoothly unbuttoning the sleeves of his shirt.

  A rush of relief and anticipation falls through me. I am struck. Unable to command my body. My eyes flit between his face and this controlled unbuttoning. One cuff undone. Two. I still can’t move.

  When he starts on his top buttons, my eyes lock with his. His eyes sharpen, and the command repeats itself in my mind. Take your clothes off.

  I hook my thumbs under the waistband of my pants, slip the material over my hips, and let them fall in a soft pile at my feet. I step out, then kick them away with one pointed toe. My movements are smooth like his. I don’t need to see myself in a mirror to know that. But I’m trembling at my core, and wonder if he is as well.

  His eyes have dropped to the curling mark on my thigh. He was not surprised to see it, which answers a question I’d wondered about before. He did see my tattoo beneath the dress I wore that night at the art show.

  He’s still unbuttoning his shirt. The material is gently gaping open, giving me a vision of his chest. Again, I am temporarily still. He releases the last button. The material hangs open and he slips it off his broad shoulders.

  I gaze at him shamelessly. His chest is chiseled and firm, his trim waist taut and smooth. His movements are fluid and intentional.

  He begins to undo his belt.

  I smoothly lift my shirt over my head. I’m not wearing a bra underneath, just a black tank. In the gap between the tank and my black string panties, my mid-drift is slightly exposed. His eyes are on the section of the mark he can see there.

  He wants to see how far this tattoo goes. I see it in his eyes. He looks more than hungry for it, he looks starved. I think I know what that groan was about when he exposed my shoulder. It was just bare skin, with no mark.

  His eyes come smoothly to mine. He doesn’t even need to say the words.

  Keep. Going.

  He wrenches his belt out of the loops with one even movement, the sound of it making my breath catch. He tosses it aside, the buckle clattering against the concrete floor.

  I grab the hem of my tank. He pauses for the first time, his hands hovering at the top of this unbuttoned slacks. His eyes lock on my body and the mark it contains.

  I slowly pull off the tank, baring my breasts, and let the material fall softly to the floor. As I let him look at me, my core turns molten. We’re both still.

  His eyes travel first over my tattoo, which curls in a smooth line up my thigh and side before cupping underneath a single breast. Then he takes in all of me, both marked and unmarked. Both body and soul. I’ve spent my whole life moving my body for other people to watch, but I’ve never felt so seen.

  He slowly comes nearer, eyes holding mine. I don’t move. My breath shallows as he comes close. He stops when he’s within arm’s reach and his gaze drops to my tattoo.

  His fingertips gently brush the base of the swirling mark. Heat hums through me. His other hand comes to the same place on my other leg, then both hands slowly tra
vel up my thighs. His hand follows the swirling mark—caressing, pressing, tracing—laying claim to even this, the one thing that is truly mine.

  His warm hands travel over the curve of my hips, up my sides, moving in concert as they cup my breasts, the thumbs sweeping over the peaks. My breath hitches in my chest.

  My hands go to his elbows and travel to his biceps, the hard knot of muscle under my thumbs. As his hands move smoothly up both sides of my neck, I lift slightly on tiptoe, lean closer, part my lips, needing him to satisfy this desire swirling deep in my core.

  He answers with his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, his bare chest pressed against me. Our kisses become urgent as he backs me up. He lifts me easily and I wrap my legs around his tapered waist. He carries me the rest of the way and sets me on the edge of the large, wooden framing table.

  He goes back to claiming my jaw and neck. I prop myself with both hands, my head falling back, as he hungrily takes first one breast and then the other into his mouth. I’m clutching at his back, his hair, his shoulders.

  I tighten my legs around him, bringing his hard chest against my throbbing center. The next happens in a heated whirlwind: he ditches his pants, sheathes himself in a condom, and literally tears off my damp panties. In one swift move I’m flat on the table and he’s on top, angling over me like a predator.

  “Ready?” he asks again.

  I nod urgently, scooting down slightly, trying to get closer to him.

  He enters me in a single, powerful stroke. I’m seized with a mix of pain and pleasure so strong I gasp and clutch his biceps.

  “Whoa...”

  He holds steady, allowing me to adjust to him. And holy hell is there a lot to adjust to. I breathe, my body heating up even more and my core softening as I expand to fit him.

  “All right?” he checks, his voice low with desire, but I don’t respond. My body is ready, back to wanting, but I am overwhelmed with our joining. He waits, keeping his eyes on me while I keep mine on his. Mr. Rayce Rivers is in me, in every sense of the word. I lace my fingers behind his neck, hanging on.