by Teresa Hill
Rye picked it up and said hello. A moment later, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, "It's your neighbor. Mrs. Wells. She heard some of that outside, and now she's worried about you. You need to tell her you're okay."
Emma did that and only that, then gave the phone back to Rye. He told Mrs. Wells that he was a friend of Sam's and that he'd look out for Emma, and then he hung up. They got another call just like it not five minutes later.
"Small-town living," Emma said, thoroughly ashamed. Rye hadn't really told them anything, but if they'd heard Mark yelling, they knew enough.
"They're looking out for you. That's good. I told them if they see anything suspicious to call the sheriff. You know, it's not a bad idea for you to tell him what's going on, Emma."
"You think so?"
"Cops don't always take trouble between a man and a woman seriously," he said softly, his thumb lightly rubbing the bottom of one of her feet. "If they know ahead of time there's been trouble... Well, if you need to call them, I want them here fast and to know what they're getting into."
"You don't think he'll leave, do you? Not after tonight?"
"We can hope. I was rough with him. Not just because I was so mad. I was trying to scare him. I want him to think twice about what might happen to him if he comes back. I hope I didn't just make him angrier," Rye said. "He thinks there's something going on between you and me, which might also make him madder."
"I thought it was all over," she said. "I mean, I was scared, but I didn't really think he'd come here."
On the porch of her house, screaming at her and trying to grab her.
She started to cry again. Rye pulled her down onto the floor beside him and then into his arms, into that spot she'd wanted. She pressed her face into his shoulder, into that warm, dark place that was so comforting and smelled of him.
She'd spent another lifetime, up until she was not quite twelve, being scared. It was like living with a time bomb, except there was no face on this particular clock. She knew it was ticking, but never knew when it would go off.
Mark was like that now. She didn't know where he was or what he would do. She didn't know if he was coming back.
"I hate this. I hate it so much," she said, weeping into the hollow between Rye's shoulder and his chin, wishing she could just crawl inside of his skin, because she knew she'd be safe there.
All these things she thought she'd forgotten... They were still inside of her. She remembered what it sounded like when her biological father hit her mother. She remembered the sounds her mother made, awful, pitiful sounds. She remembered hiding from him and trying to make herself as small as possible, trying not to even breathe.
"Your father?" Rye asked. "He didn't just hit your mother, did he?"
"No," she said.
He dipped his head to hear the whispered confession, kissed her softly on the cheek and then stayed there, his lips next to her right ear. "Tell me."
"It was just that once. I'd always been scared it would happen, but it only did once, and then we left. Not that we were done with him. The damage had been done to my mother's body then, and she was pregnant with Grace when we left. He found her one more time, after Grace was born, and that time, she never recovered. He's in prison now, and I promised myself I'd never be that scared again. That no one would ever make me feel like that again."
"Good for you," he said.
"I feel that way now, Rye. My father made me feel that way and now Mark has, and I'm so mad at myself for being in this position again. I'm falling apart, too, and I hate that even more."
"Shh." His breath brushed past her cheeks, her lips. He kissed her closed eyelids, kissed a tear from her cheek. "Emma. It's all right. It's done."
She sobbed, clinging to him even harder. "What makes a man think he can do that? That he has the right?"
"I don't know. But you're not going to let anyone treat you like this. This is going to be over, and you'll put it behind you."
"I don't feel fine right now. I feel like Mark could come barging in here any minute."
"Hey." He took her face in the palm of his hand and tilted it up to his. "I've got you. I'll stay right here."
"You said you had to leave."
"Well, now I've got to stay, as long as you need me." His forehead came down to rest against hers. He kissed the tip of her nose. "Promise."
"You must think I'm awful," she said, not quite able to meet his gaze. "That I'm such a mess."
"No. Just scared. You're caught up in something crazy. It happens. Life can just explode around you, and all of a sudden, nothing makes sense. You really can't do anything except hang on and try to ride it out."
"You know that?" she asked, the tears running down her face faster than he could catch them and wipe them away. "It's happened to you?"
"Yes."
"But you made it," she said. "You're okay."
"I think I'm still caught up in it, too. That really crazy time. That maybe I'm just starting to come out on the other side of it."
"Then you can hang on to me," she said.
"Emma—"
"I feel safe with you. I feel perfectly safe right here with you."
She felt the tension coming into his body. They'd been close, still were, and he'd been kind and so very tender, gentle and heartbreakingly sweet. It had been intimate without being sexual at all, and now it seemed she'd crossed that line, as she kept doing with him, and made it something else.
"I need you," she said. "I forget to be afraid when I'm this close to you. I forget how bad things are and how stupid I must have been. I can lose everything, all the bad things. In you."
And then, despite all his protests, she leaned over once again and pressed her mouth to his.
* * *
He didn't mean to let her draw him in one more time, but dammit, the woman had the sweetest-tasting mouth he'd ever known.
She was so soft, so good. Sometimes she felt like everything good in the world, all wrapped up in a tiny package and handed to him.
He'd warned her about himself every way he knew how—except to blurt out the brutal truth of who he was and what he'd done. That would solve all of this She'd run so fast in the other direction, he'd never have to worry about her being this close to him again.
But he didn't tell her, because he wanted her hands on him and her mouth. God, how he wanted it.
He tried telling himself he could have just a little bit of her, took that innocent, thank-you kiss and tried very hard to keep it light.
Necking in front of the fire with Emma.
He could do that.
Rye angled her body around until she was facing him and leaning into him, until he had her pressed securely against his body, and he could drink from her mouth, long, sweet, drugging kisses. Taste after taste after taste.
It started a slow burn deep inside of him, but he could handle slow bum. He'd wanted her right from the start and been just as determined he wouldn't ever have her. But he could have a taste of her.
"Emma." He pulled away long before he was satisfied.
She blinked up at him, looking like a woman drugged into the kind of lazy, soothing happiness that came from pure sexual pleasure. "Yes."
"Stop that," he said. "Stop tempting me."
"How do I do that?" she asked.
"God," he muttered. "You'd have to be in another state to stop."
"Well, I'm not leaving, and you promised you wouldn't, either."
"No, I won't," he reassured her. He could suffer through a little sexual frustration for the sake of keeping her safe. No problem. He knew all about sexual frustration.
And then he kissed her again. Her mouth was moist and warm, her lips the same, from all the kisses they'd already shared. Her arms slid around his rib cage and pressed against his back. It wouldn't take much to lift her onto his lap and enjoy sexual frustration at a whole new level, or maybe go to work on the buttons of her blouse. He started to sweat just thinking about it.
Long, sat
isfying, frustrating moments later, he lifted his head once more. "I don't think I'm going to be spending the night in the carriage house."
"I don't want you to. I want you right here."
It was probably the only place he could be where he'd know she was safe.
"Nothing's going to happen," he insisted. They'd neck in front of the fire. She could crawl all over him, if she had to, and he'd hang on tight, but nothing else.
"Okay," she agreed.
Yes, the woman needed a keeper.
"You know, you never did tell me how old you are," he said. "I'm wondering more and more just how bad that's going to be."
"It's not like I'm jailbait," she insisted.
"So we've got that going for us," he said. "But it's bad. I know it. Otherwise, you'd have told me already."
"Does it really matter? You keep insisting nothing's going to happen."
"And I keep ending up right back here. You're hard to resist, Emma."
"I think you're doing a fine job of it, myself."
"No, I'm not." He kissed her as softly and leisurely as he could manage. "Give me this, Em. Just your mouth. Wrap your arms around me and lie here in my arms and kiss me until we can't stand it anymore, until you aren't so afraid."
"You're doing this because I'm afraid?" she asked.
"No, I'm doing this because I want to. Because it's going to be a long night, and you're probably going to spend it right here in my arms. You haven't slept since the day that jerk hit you, have you?"
"No," she admitted.
"Well, you'll sleep tonight. Right here."
"I don't know what I'd have done without you."
She raised her face once again to his, so trusting, so needy. Just a kiss, he told himself. Sweet, soft Emma kisses. He'd draw them inside of him, and they'd be all the softness he knew. If a woman could ever change him, ease the hurt, squeeze out all the bad times, it would be her.
For tonight, he'd hold her close. He'd kiss her until he couldn't stand to anymore, and he'd make sure she was safe.
Chapter 7
Emma slept in his arms. They made out in front of the fire and slept and talked and then made out some more. It was an interesting way to spend the night.
At some point, they spread out on the floor beneath the afghan, Emma curled up against his side, her head on his shoulder, his arms still around her. She woke to find the fire had died down and weak sunlight was shining through the front windows. His hair was all mussed, stubble dotted his jaw, and he looked like so much trouble and so much joy all rolled into one.
"Good morning." She eased back to get a better look at him.
"Good morning." He took his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sleep well?"
"Yes."
He grinned then. "Emma, do me a favor, okay?"
"Anything," she offered.
"Get upstairs before we end up rolling around on the floor this morning."
"Do I have to?" She reached for him. How could she help it?
He caught her hands and held them away. "I'm doing my best here."
"I know. I wish you weren't."
He got to his feet. She laughed and did the same. She was perfectly safe with him. He was only going to let things go so far, and while she hoped to change his mind about that in time, for now, she was enjoying every minute of it. He kissed like a man who had all the time in the world to savor the taste of her, to explore every nuance, every sensation, and he was wonderfully touchable.
"Last night was wonderful," she said.
He groaned. "God, don't say that. If you say that to anybody, they're going to think—"
"I won't tell anyone." She laughed, feeling on top of the world this morning, which was amazing after feeling so horrible the night before when...
When Mark showed up.
Rye touched her chin, then ran a finger over the tip of her nose. "Hey, don't go back there, okay? I worked hard to cheer you up, to make you forget."
"And I did," she said, the worst of what the day before had brought coming back to her in a rush. "It's just..."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, folding her into his arms once more. "And don't think you're fooling me. This is just some new bit to get your hands on me, right? Drum up a few tears and hang your head, and look what happens?"
She did manage to laugh then. "It worked, didn't it?"
"You are a shameless woman, Emma."
She lifted her head from his shoulders and stared up into his beautiful dark eyes. His mouth was right there, stretched into something of a smile now, and there were little laugh lines crinkling together at the corners of his mouth. She wanted his mouth, all of his heat, all the need.
"I'm only shameless where you're concerned," she said.
The smile disappeared. Heat flared in his eyes, and he went tense.
"You do want me," she said, because she needed to believe that.
"What man wouldn't want you?" he said. "Emma, you can't be that innocent. Please, tell me you're not."
"I'm not," she lied quickly and, she hoped, well. She couldn't let him guess how innocent she was. He'd back away for sure.
Truth was, she'd never quite managed to lose herself completely in a man. Sometimes she thought she was cautious, sometimes reserved. Sometimes she wondered if there were something wrong with her, that maybe she was waiting for something she'd never find.
Mark had...
Oh, she didn't want to think about Mark. But he'd never pushed for anything more than she was willing to give. He'd told her more than once that he was glad she was such an old-fashioned girl.
Emma shivered, coming back to the present, the good with the bad.
Deal with it, Emma.
"I'm just a little shaky right now and not trusting myself," she said. "But I trust you."
Emma eased up on her toes and tilted her face to his. He groaned and dipped his head again. It was a scathing kiss, a fire starter. The man certainly knew how to start a blaze. Maybe he truly had been holding back the entire time with her. Maybe he had the kind of control she'd never even guessed at, if this was how he'd really been wanting to kiss her.
She found herself plastered against him, his hands slipping down to cup her hips and pull her into the cradle of his thighs, hard, throbbing heat waiting for her there.
Oh, my.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on tight as he backed her up against the wall and leaned into her in a way that had her thinking about a scene in a movie that had made her blush.
She thought about hands sliding up her bare thighs, beneath her dress, if she'd been wearing a dress. About bare hands on her hips, sliding beneath her panties and lifting her into him. Hands working frantically to free her and him, and about him having her right here against the wall.
She made a little whimpering sound, and that was enough to break the spell. He lifted his head, his eyes darker and more dangerous than she'd ever seen him, and then he shuddered and backed carefully away. His hands came to rest against the wall on either side of her head, and he leaned into it, so that his face wasn't so far from hers but the rest of his body was.
"Good God," he muttered. "Emma..."
"It was my fault...." Oh, her cheeks were burning now. "I'm sorry."
He winced and threw his head back to groan. When he faced her again, it was with something of a smile. He touched her face so softly and said, "That takes two. And we really need to get the hell out of here. If you and I stay here together much longer... You know what's going to happen."
Did she? Emma leaned against the wall on trembling legs and tried to breathe. She supposed she did, and she didn't have any objections, but he would. He'd never take her to bed with him once he found out how old she was. Which was really a shame, because this was honestly the first time she'd ever really wanted to go to bed with a man out of anything other than curiosity.
This went way past that into honest, deep-down need and greed. Did good girls like her feel like this? Because if t
hey did, how did they ever manage to stay good girls?
"Do not dare look at me like that," he growled.
"Sorry."
She couldn't quite look him in the eye then and made the mistake of letting her gaze drift lower and lower until she hit the waistband of his jeans and then went ever so slightly lower to...
Oh, my.
If she thought her face was red before, it was surely flaming now. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she couldn't quite look away from the unmistakable ridge straining against the fly of his jeans.
Her first thought was, That has to hurt, doesn't it?
And then she wanted to touch it, to run her hands over it through the fabric of his jeans and then with nothing between them. She wanted to be pressed up against the wall again with him rubbing his hard body sensuously against her and then he could fill her with himself again.
Her. Emma. The good girl.
What would that be like?
"Emma, I swear to God..." He stood there, no doubt ready to growl some more, but before he could, the doorbell rang.
At first, they both froze.
"Oh, no. Not again." She scrambled to the front window to look out.
"Is it him?" Rye asked, following her.
She looked across the street, where Mark's car had been parked the day before. It wasn't there. She looked in the driveway, wondering if it was a neighbor or a relative. Which would be worse?
Both would be bad, she thought, until she saw the sheriff's car there.
"Oh, hell," Rye muttered behind her. "I really don't need this."
"It's just Joe. He's a friend of Sam's. He probably heard about the shouting match on the porch yesterday." He could have had better timing. She wasn't crazy about explaining this to anyone, but as choices went, the sheriff wasn't a bad one. She reminded Rye, "You wanted him to know what was going on."
"That's not why he's here, Emma." The doorbell rang again, and then Joe rapped on the door, calling Emma's name. "Go on. Let him in. You'll see."
"I'm telling you, Joe's a friend."
"Well, he's going to love this." Rye looked from her to the makeshift bed on the floor by the fire. "He's going to be on the phone to Sam so fast—"
