by Cat Carmine
We leave the restaurant and go across the lobby and into the bar. The bar is less formal, with plenty of cozy booths and ambient lighting. We slide in and order another bottle of wine.
Emma sips from her glass quietly. I want to ask her what’s on her mind, but I’m not used to this. I’m not used to even caring what’s on a woman’s mind. It feels different with Emma. I actually want to know. And I want to fix it.
“Hey.” I reach across the table and stroke my thumb over the back of her hand. I should have slid into the booth beside her, but I’d stupidly chosen the seat across from her.
She looks up at me. Her grey eyes are thoughtful. “Can I ask you a question?” she says.
“Of course. Anything.”
She bites her lip and looks down at the table for a minute. “Do you like your job?”
Huh? That’s definitely not what I expected her to ask. I lean back against the wooden booth and consider the question. It’s not one I’ve even really given much thought to.
“I suppose,” I say. “I grew up knowing I’d probably eventually be part of the Good Grant empire. My father always made it clear that he was building this not just as a business but as a legacy. There’s never been any question that my sister Lacy or I would take over some day.”
I take a sip of my wine. Emma is looking at me intently, and she seems surprisingly interested in what I have to say.
“So, is publishing exactly the area of the company I would have chosen?” I continue musing. “Not really. I’m not really a books guy. Well, except yours. That’s definitely one of my top three desert island books.”
“Stop,” she says, but she’s laughing. “What parts of the company interest you more, then?”
“Hmm.” Again, it’s a question I actually have to pause to consider. “I guess I’m more interested in the digital side of things. All the streaming media — music, movies, radio, whatever.”
“Good Grant has a streaming service, don’t they?”
“Yeah, although I don’t know if it’s doing as well as my father’d hoped. The market is getting so divided — I think consumers are getting frustrated about having to sign up for ten different services to get the content they want. There are still opportunities there, but I’m not sure my father’s as comfortable in the digital sphere as he is with more traditional media.”
Emma nods thoughtfully. “That makes sense. You’re pretty smart, you know?”
I grin. “Well, thank you. I’m not so sure my father agrees, but I’m doing my best to prove him wrong.”
“I think you will.” She smiles again as she sips her wine. Her dark hair is shining under the dim lights of the bar, and all I can think about for a second is running my hands through it and messing up all those perfect waves. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think it’s bad that we’re … you know. Whatever we’re doing.”
Her question again catches me off guard. “Why would it be bad?”
“I mean, because you run the company and I’m one of your authors.”
I’ve considered the question before. “I don’t think it’s a problem within the company. You had your contract long before I started working there, and you don’t deal directly with me on anything. I probably won’t start flaunting it around the office — although believe me, I definitely want to flaunt it — but I think as long as we’re discreet, no one should be concerned.”
Emma snorts a little, and I grin. I guess we haven’t exactly been discreet so far. I drum my fingers on the tabletop, thinking.
“The only real problem I see is my father. I already get the feeling he thinks I’m going to fail at this, and I really want to prove him wrong. If he knew that you and I were doing … whatever we’re doing … he’d take that as a sign that I can’t be trusted.”
I pause for a sip of wine as I consider what I’ve said. I’ve never really said it out loud before, but I realize now how true it is. My father expects me to fuck this up. And what do I know, maybe I will. But for once, instead of making me want to run, the thought makes me want to stay and prove him wrong. Prove to him that I can do this, that I’m as good as Lacy and that his company would be in good hands with me.
“Your dad sounds pretty tough,” Emma observes.
I nod. “He has high expectations. But he also let me off the hook for a long time. I haven’t even had a regular full-time job in years. That’s kind of embarrassing to admit, actually. I just never needed one, thanks to my trust fund. I lived comfortably, doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I let my sister carry the burden of our father’s expectations.”
I pause long enough to take a sip of wine. Emma is leaning forward, her elbow on the table and her chin cupped thoughtfully in her hand. Under the dim light of the bar, she looks absolutely radiant, like a Vermeer painting.
Even though I don’t particularly like talking about it, I find myself telling Emma about Lacy and her whirlwind wedding and total abandonment of her position at Good Grant Media.
“I guess Dad kind of panicked. Without Lacy to take over, he had no one. Except me. So he reigned in the trust fund and basically informed me of my new job two days before I was supposed to start. It never really occurred to me to say no. It may not be my number one choice, but the business is our family’s legacy. I didn’t want to let him down.”
Emma nods. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that she’s a good listener — she does write an advice column, after all. She’s used to hearing everyone else’s woes.
“Do you miss your sister?” she asks.
I have to blink a couple of times. Again, that’s not the question I was expecting, and I have to think about how to answer.
“Yeah,” I finally admit. “I do. We were never overly close, but she’s family. And that baby is going to be my niece or nephew. I’d like to have a relationship with them, you know? At least be able to buy them toys and all the junk that my sister and her hippie husband probably won’t let them have.”
Emma grins. “You should reach out to her.”
“You think so?”
She nods emphatically. “It can’t hurt. Maybe she’s feeling so shocked at her own behavior that she’s embarrassed to reach out to you and your parents. It’s hard, you know, when you suddenly realize you might be someone different than who you thought you were.”
Emma’s voice is soft, and she sips her wine without looking at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with following your heart,” I say. I have to clear my throat as the moment stretches out between us. “That’s what I’d tell my sister, at least.”
She smiles. “That’s what you should tell her, then. It might help.”
“Thanks. Did anyone ever tell you you’re good at this whole advice thing?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.”
There’s a long moment of silence. I’ve finished off the rest of my wine, and even though it’s good wine, I crave the taste of Emma more than I crave the taste of these fermented grapes.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask.
Emma blinks, but her mouth turns up into a tentative smile. “Are you inviting me home this time?” she teases.
“I’m inviting you anywhere you want to go.”
Her smile grows bigger. It lights up her face, making her grey eyes sparkle. I want to kick myself again for putting her in a cab the other night. The least I can do now is make it up to her.
“Come with me.”
I stand and offer her my hand, which she takes. We abandon the half-drunk bottle of wine, and I lead her into the lobby. It’s not as busy at the club now, and most of the dinner crowd has gone home. The lobby area is nearly deserted.
Emma’s hand in mine is soft and warm, and I’m reluctant to let it go. The drive back into Manhattan is over an hour, and that seems like way too long to not be able to kiss her, to touch her.
I make a split second decision.
�
��Do you still trust me?”
She eyes me cautiously. “Last time you asked me that, I ended up with my tits out in the middle of a restaurant.”
I grin. “So … that’s a yes?”
Emma giggles. “Strangely, yes. I’m probably going to regret it, but right now … yes, I trust you.”
“Good.” I grin. I squeeze her hand and lead her towards the back of the lobby. There’s a door back there, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I find it unlocked.
I push it open, and Emma looks around.
“What is this place?” The room has a low counter, and behind that are a half dozen empty coat racks.
“It’s the coat check. At least, in the winter it is. In the summer, it’s just miscellaneous storage.” My buddy Logan had tipped me off about this place a couple of years ago. Funnily enough, he’s the same person who’d recommended Darkly to me. I’m going to have to send the guy a thank-you card.
I let the door swing closed behind us. There’s a single window off to one side, and it lets in enough moonlight that I can see Emma’s face illuminated. I push her hair back behind her ear and tilt her chin up.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” I tell her, before I cover her mouth with mine. Cue the fireworks.
She responds to my kiss, leaning her head back and opening to me. I swirl my tongue against hers, trying to memorize every inch of her, every breath. My hands wind up through her hair, and she whimpers softly when I tug gently on her locks.
“God, Emma, everything about you is so sweet.” I manage, when I finally come up for air. “Do you even know how sweet you are?”
“I don’t feel sweet when I’m around you,” she whispers. Her fingers trace over my jaw. I want to feel those fingers everywhere.
“No? How do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Spicy.” She giggles. It’s cute as hell.
“Good. I like you spicy and sweet.”
I wrap my hands around her waist and lift her up. She squeals, but quietly, and I plop her down on the counter where the coat check girl normally sits.
I nudge her knees apart and stand in between them, pulling her in for another kiss. It’s as good as the last one. Better, maybe, because this time Emma locks her legs behind me and pulls me in close to her. My cock is almost, almost, touching her, and the way it’s straining forward right now, it seems damn determined to get there.
I pull her even closer and wind my hands through her hair again as our kiss gets even more heated. But I want to taste so much more than her lips.
I push her skirt up, running my hands along her smooth, creamy thighs. She leans into it, until I reach her hips and find the edges of the panties she’s wearing.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, as if she’s afraid someone might overhear us.
“I don’t think you need these.”
Her cheeks flush. “Really?”
“Yes, Emma. Really.” I kiss her lightly on the nose. “Now lift your ass.”
She hesitates for only a second, then lifts her hips long enough for me to strip the fabric from her body. I shove the panties into my pocket.
I go back to kissing her, letting her get used to the fact that she’s not wearing any underwear. I run my tongue along the smooth space beneath her ear, along the edge of her neck.
“Do you want my tongue on your pussy, Emma?”
She makes a noise that sounds like a kitten mewling, and I chuckle.
“Is that a yes?”
She nods.
“Tell me yes, Emma.”
“Yes.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, and the desire in her eyes is unmistakable. I love watching her lose control like this, pushing her beyond the edge of her comfort zone. Turning my sweet Emma into the spicy one.
I push her dress up again and lean over. I can already smell the sweet, ripe wetness of her pussy. Knowing she wants this as much as I do is the ultimate turn-on. Part of me wants to skip the oral lesson and jump straight to the full-meal deal, but the thought of making her come all over my tongue is too tempting to resist.
I lick my lips and then slowly, softly, kiss her throbbing clit. She jumps and giggles nervously, but as I swirl my tongue around her swollen bud, her laughter melts into soft moans.
I taste every part of her. Every fold. Every crevice. Every sweet and spicy inch of her. I grip her thighs to hold her in place, but she still manages to wriggle her hips, easing her pussy even closer to my lips, begging me to devour her.
I oblige. In this moment, I can’t imagine ever doing anything but exactly what I’m doing right now. Going down on Emma Holloway feels like exactly what I was born to do, and I bring every ounce of skill and passion that I can muster.
And Emma responds. Her body arches and bucks, and under my hands, her thighs flex. She’s got strong muscles under her creamy white skin, but I hold her tight. I love feeling her squirm.
I can tell she’s getting close. I let go of her thighs with one hand and use that to bring her pleasure to the next level. Two fingers in her pussy, fucking her until I can feel her starting to spasm around me. I swirl my tongue around her clit.
“Come for me, Emma,” I tell her.
And she does. Her body explodes, her whole being rocking on the counter in front of me.
And that’s when the door behind us opens.
Two club employees stumble into the room laughing. Emma moves to tug her skirt down, but her body is still half in spasms, and instead she snaps her knees closed around my head.
The laughter behind us comes to an abrupt stop. Emma groans as she releases me, and I stand up and turn around.
It’s two kids I recognize from the restaurant. Bus boys. They’ve got a bottle of Jack and what looks like a stubby little joint. Thankfully, they’re more embarrassed than we are. Or maybe just terrified that I’ll have them fired.
I clear my throat, grabbing Emma’s hand and helping her slide off the counter.
“Gentlemen,” I say nodding at them as we go. “Appreciate your discretion.”
I can still feel their wide eyes following us as we leave the room. I laugh silently to myself when one of them gives me the thumbs-up.
Sixteen
What the ever loving hell is wrong with me?
That’s the thought that runs through my mind over and over that night, as I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling and not sleeping.
Every time I see Tyler, I do the dumbest things. I mean, it’s really getting ridiculous. It’s like he’s a drug, and my judgement suddenly becomes impaired when I’m around him. What’s the legal limit for a dose of Tyler? I’m starting to think that, for me, it’s zero. Any amount of Tyler is too much Tyler. I might need an anonymous support group.
Getting caught at the country club last night is just another in a long string of very inappropriate things we’ve done. I don’t know how I can keep up with this. Or why I’m even still going along with it. I feel like an elastic band that’s been stretched almost to breaking. It’s time to snap back into place.
I’ve finally managed to start drifting back to sleep when my phone rings. I grope for the nightstand and knock the phone onto the floor.
“Fuck.” I reach down for it, but I lean over too far and roll right out of the bed. “Ow. Ow ow ow fuck.” I’m still swearing as I hit the answer button on my phone. “Hello?”
“Emma? Are you okay?”
Shit. It’s Solange, my publicist.
“Hi Solange. Sorry. I was sleeping.”
“At nine-thirty?” she laughs. “Haven’t you already been to the gym and, I don’t know, scrubbed your entire apartment by this time?”
I try to laugh. “Usually, yeah. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.” I obviously don’t mention the reason I haven’t been sleeping well is that I’ve indulged in a mind-altering dose of her boss. That probably wouldn’t go over so well.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I have some news that I think is going to put you in a good mood.”
“Oh ye
ah? What’s that?”
“You’ve been invited to appear on Wake Up New York!”
“The television show?”
“Yes, silly! Isn’t that exciting? Charlotte Cross wants to do a live interview with you on the morning show.”
The Channel Nine morning show is the most popular in the state. Hell, even my parents watch it religiously, and they live in Connecticut. I get why Solange is excited — it’ll bring a whole new audience to my book — but the thought of doing a live interview is already making my stomach churn. The reading was bad enough, and that was only a couple hundred people. Now we’re talking about a whole state’s worth.
“You don’t sound excited,” Solange prods.
“I am.” I force a smile into my voice. I’m still sitting on the floor beside my bed, and I stretch my legs out in front of me. “I’m just … overwhelmed. I’m not sure I’m ready for television.”
“Are you kidding? You’re the perfect person for this. You’re always so poised, you could do this interview in your sleep.”
Except for the fact that I don’t sleep anymore.
“I don’t know. What if I mess it up?”
“You won’t,” Solange assures me. I wish I had her confidence. Maybe she should do the interview on my behalf.
“Can I think about it?”
“Oh. Sure. Yes, of course.” I can tell she’s disappointed, and if there’s one thing in life I hate, it’s disappointing people. But I can’t bring myself to say yes to this yet. Maybe it’s everything that’s been going on lately, or hell, maybe it’s just the fact that I’m overtired.
“Okay. I’ll let you know by Monday,” I promise her.
I get off the phone and toss it on my bed, then put my head in my hands. I really need to get my shit together. The fact that I even have to think about doing this interview is proof that I’m not myself right now. This book was my dream for so long — you’d think I’d want to do everything in my power to promote it.
