by Kati Wilde
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby.” That hair, those lips, those tits—and my seed painting her skin, splashed across her ruby nipples. But I know damn well how semen itches as it dries, so I tell her, “Don’t move. I’ll get something to clean you up. You lie right there so my cum doesn’t get all over your clothes.”
Not just my cum. Faint crimson streaks paint her inner thighs and my hand. Christ. No wonder it hurt her so bad. Not just tight and unaccustomed to taking anything inside her. After twenty-two years, whatever remained of her hymen must have been strong as steel and clinging to her pussy for dear life, and I ripped right through it.
Maybe it’s better this way than with my cock, though. We’ll take it slow, give her time to heal up.
A warm washcloth in hand, I return to the bed and find she hasn’t moved much—except to tilt her head, looking back across the open floor of the loft, where a tall Douglas fir is decked out in lights and ornaments beneath the peaked roof.
She shoots me a sparkling grin that makes my heart inflate ten sizes larger within my chest. “You really did have a Christmas tree to show me.”
Yeah, I did. I lean in for a kiss, then murmur against her smiling lips, “And is it big enough for you?”
Giggling, she wraps her arms around my neck. “Apparently too big, considering that it’s rip-me-in-half big.”
“Then now is probably not the time to tell you that I’ve got two.”
And even better than Emma Williams holding me on my bed after we come our brains out is Emma Williams holding me on my bed and laughing her beautiful head off.
When her laughter begins to taper off, I go in for another kiss. “Now let me clean you up, and then I’ll show you my really big tree.”
And pray that showing her everything else I’ve got to give her doesn’t end up scaring her away.
5
Logan
Emma doesn’t have to go downstairs before getting a look at my big tree. She can see it from the loft, a fifteen-foot Douglas fir that sits in front of the big windows facing the creek, but it’s not until we’re in the great room and I plug in the lights that the full height of it hits her. Her mouth drops open and she shakes her head.
“Why one so big?”
That’s ripe for another joke, but I hold off this time and give her the truth. “The year I moved in, I had a smaller one in here—and it irritated the shit out me.”
Her brows shoot up. “Irritated you?”
I gesture toward the high ceiling, the tall windows. “The proportions were all off. So every time I looked at it was like scraping steel wool over my dick.”
“Ohhhhh,” she says slowly, her gaze slipping over my face as if seeing something new in me. “It’s an artist thing.”
I don’t know about that. To my mind, I’m a builder, not an artist. But maybe it’s the same thing in some ways. Cabinets and furniture are all about proportions, too.
And the irritation when those proportions are out of whack is probably something she understands. “Probably like when you can’t find that error throwing a checkbook register off by a few pennies.”
There’s a flash of acknowledgment in her eyes, then her lips purse and she says dryly, “Yeah, but that doesn’t feel like scraping steel wool over my dick.”
I grin, and all at once her expression changes, lips parting softly and brown eyes widening as she stares at me.
That’s a good expression, I think. A happy expression. But I’m not sure what to make of it. Gruffly I ask, “What?”
A hint of pink touches her cheeks, and her gaze flicks away like it used to when I thought she was scared of me. But this time her eyes come right back to mine again. “You haven’t smiled at me before.”
That can’t be right. “The hell I haven’t.”
“It’s true.”
“You sure?”
She nods, then her blush deepens. “At least not that I’ve seen.”
Because maybe every time I grinned at her, she was wearing that mask.
“I like it,” she adds now, quietly.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot of reasons to smile.” I catch her cheeks in my hands. “So you’ll see it often.”
“And your angry face.”
“That’s not my angry face,” I say, but the sudden gleam in her eyes tells me she knows that. It’s probably the face she saw as I was stroking my cock and splashing her tits with my cum. “But, yeah. You’ll be seeing a lot of that, too.”
She grins and I kiss that laughing smile before releasing her.
“Now look around the house if you like. I’m heading out for that pizza.”
But she doesn’t stray far from the tree in the short time I’m gone. She’s standing by the window, looking out over the snow-filled backyard that slopes down toward the woods and the creek, then follows me into the kitchen.
I turn on the oven and slide the pizza inside to reheat. “You want a beer? Wine? Or if you want something harder, I can mix it up.”
She slides onto one of the stools tucked up beneath the bar separating the kitchen and the great room. “I’ll take a glass of wine.”
“Any preferences?” Being a beer man, I don’t drink it much myself, but I keep a few bottles on hand for visitors.
“Nothing too sweet.” Her gaze alights on the tray at the end of the bar, which holds the collection of carvings I’ve been working on in my spare time. “Are those more ornaments—like the ones on your tree?”
“Yeah.”
“You carved these?” She reaches for the tray, then stops. “Can I—?”
“Go ahead.”
Her slender fingers pick out a tiny crib. “You made all of those carved ornaments on the tree, too?”
“I did. Keeps my hands busy while I’m doing other things.” Like waiting for pizza to heat, or watching a game. “But those are for Marianne—for the Secret Santa thing.”
A miniature nursery set that matches the full-sized one I’m giving her.
Emma cocks her brow and gives me a look. “So you’re her Secret Santa, too?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Not the same. Whose name did you get?”
“It’s supposed to be secret. So I’m not telling.” Studiously she returns her attention to the other carvings in the tray, as if completely dismissing my presence.
Or trying not to give anything away. Because I saw all the names remaining in the hat after she got hers, and there’s a fifty-fifty chance that she picked out my name. Either mine or Shawn’s. And the way she’s deliberately not looking at me, I’m thinking it isn’t Shawn.
But I’ll be patient. After fetching her a glass, I screw the cork out of a bottle of chardonnay and pour.
As I’m setting the wine in front of her, she says, “I should probably warn you that I’m a lightweight.”
Wordlessly, I take the glass back and tip in more.
She’s giggling when I put the wine in front of her again. Her giggles quiet when she takes a sip, and her expression turns pensive. Her thoughtful gaze remains on me as I pop the cap from my beer, as I take a swig. All the while I return that look, wondering what’s going on in her head.
I don’t have to wonder for long.
With a sigh, she sets down her wine. “What is this, really?”
“What’s what?”
“What are we doing here? This Secret Santa thing. And this.” She gestures from me to herself. “You could have fucked me at my apartment.”
I could have. But that’s not all I’m after. And I figure the only way to tell her is bluntly.
“You want to know what this is?” I set my beer down and grip the edge of the counter, my gaze steady on hers as I say, “This time next year, I want you sitting there with my ring on your finger.”
Her lips part on a sharp breath. Stunned, her gaze searches my face, and the naked yearning I’ve seen before in those warm brown eyes has returned.
Then disbelief replaces the longing. “Okay, what is it really?”
“That is ‘really.’”
A laugh breaks from her, but it’s an uncomfortable laugh, as if she can’t figure out what the joke is but she’s certain there must be one.
Shit. I didn’t expect her to joyfully leap up and start planning our wedding. I did expect the disbelief, but time will prove the truth of what I’m saying.
That discomfort, though—it’s as if I’ve prodded something tender and painful inside her, and hurting her was never my intention.
“It’s no joke,” I say softly.
The sad yearning filling her eyes again just rips me apart. As if she wants to believe that I’m serious…but simply can’t.
So I’ll just have to convince her.
With a heavy sigh, she shakes her head. “You don’t even know me, Logan.”
So her objection isn’t her not knowing me? As if she could picture herself wanting me that much. She’s just not picturing me wanting her. “I know enough to be certain you’re the one for me.”
“How?”
“I just know it. The same way I knew that I was meant to build. The same way I know that room needs a big tree.” With a tilt of my head, I indicate the tray of carvings. “Or the same way I can look at a hunk of wood and see what it’ll be.”
There’s a brittle edge to her smile. “So you’re going to whittle me down? Cut parts of me away until I’m what you want?”
“Shit, no. So that’s a bad analogy. I’m talking about being able to imagine how it’ll be between us.” And my mouth’s running faster than my head, trying to tell something that needs to be shown. I pick up my beer. “Bring your wine and come with me.”
After a brief hesitation, she slides off her stool and cups her palm around her glass. Holding out my free hand, I tangle my fingers through hers and start across the great room.
“I designed this house,” I tell her as we’re passing the stairs, which marks the end of the open floor plan that encompasses the great room and the kitchen. Beyond the stairs is a more traditional layout with enclosed rooms. “It’s got everything I want or could imagine wanting in a house. But half the rooms are empty. The bedrooms on the second floor, I figure eventually I’d have a wife, kids—a family to fill up those rooms. And then there’s rooms like this.”
I watch her face as I swing open the door. No need to look in—I designed the place, I know what’s there.
“I installed the shelves myself,” I say as her breath catches and her fingers tighten on mine. “Because I wanted a big fucking library, with shelves on every wall. But the thing is, the only books I have are gifts that I’ve received, because everything I want to read, I download to my phone. So I’ve got this big empty room. But it never bothered me, because a part of me knew this room was never for me, anyway.”
Her gaze flies to mine before she looks away, and there’s that yearning again as she takes in all the empty shelves.
“But you can see this room being yours, can’t you?” My voice deepens. “I think you can. You read a lot, so I think you’re good at imagining what you can’t see. You put on that mask and I bet you’re still picturing everything that’s happening.”
Her cheeks flush and she darts another glance at me. This time I’m the one to look away, but it’s so that she’ll follow my gaze.
Raising our linked hands, I point to the bay window. “I think you can see yourself curled up there in the summer. And for the winters, I think you can picture a big comfy chair over there by the fireplace, because I sure as hell can imagine me coming in to find you reading on one—and thinking you’re so damn sexy that I’m going to fuck you right there.”
A shuddering little breath escapes her. Yeah, she’s imagining that, too.
Her gaze slides around the library again, and she takes a deep gulp of her wine before abruptly looking to me.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re Beauty and the Beast-ing me.”
I don’t understand any of that. “I’m what?”
“From the Disney movie. You’re romancing me with a library.”
I take a swallow of my beer and consider that. Finally I nod. “I suppose I am. And I like that you’re the kind of girl who can be romanced by a library. But I’ll tempt you with anything I have, if I need to.”
Her gaze searches mine again. “But I don’t understand what’s tempting you.”
Well, that’s easy enough to explain.
“You mean, aside from you being a fighter who’s still standing after all you’ve been through in your life? Aside from how you can be independent and say a balance sheet is less complicated than relationships, but still be so friendly and open at the same time? Aside from how sweet your mouth and your pussy taste? Aside from how you don’t want to owe anybody anything, but you’ll donate your time without any expectation of receiving something in return?” My fingers tightening on hers, I tug her closer. “Or maybe it’s just because I’m about to take that pizza out of the oven and head to the couch, and I think you’ll come with me. And I don’t imagine either one of us will be doing anything much different from what we usually do on Sunday evenings, but somehow it’ll be a hell of a lot better than it usually is, simply because we’re here doing it together.”
“That last part sounds really nice.” Her eyes are soft and shining, her voice thick. “So what will we be doing on that couch?”
“Watching a movie, maybe.” It doesn’t matter, as long as she’s with me. “Have you seen the one based on that Martian book you were reading yesterday?”
“Not yet.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Because although I haven’t erased her doubts, she’s not running away—and when I bend my head, she rises to meet my kiss. Good enough for now.
Back in the kitchen, I’m not surprised to find my mutt standing in front of the oven. Emma’s eyes widen and a pretty smile lights up her face.
“Who’s this?”
“Lucy,” I say, nudging the dog out of the way so I can open the oven door.
“Can I pet her?”
“Sure.”
Setting her wine aside, Emma sinks onto her heels and starts scratching behind Lucy’s ears. I don’t stop her because this is another time when showing is better than telling.
Lucy looks up at Emma, who’s telling her what a pretty girl she is, before walking away in the middle of the petting as if the human doesn’t even exist.
“She’s more like a cat than a dog,” I say, sliding the pizza back into the cardboard box. “One day she showed up at my door, so I started feeding her. Now she’s got a doggie door and a blanket on the far end of my couch, but I might as well be a nail in the wall for all the interest she shows in me. Whenever there’s food available, she’s right there, but otherwise she doesn’t have any time for our human bullshit. Will you grab me another beer? Might as well bring that bottle of wine, too. You want a plate or are you all set with a napkin?”
“Napkin’s good,” she says and follows me to the big sectional sofa facing the flat screen. “Did you design all your own furniture, too?”
“This couch? Nah.” I drop the pizza box onto the coffee table. “Some of the stuff in the house is out of the Crenshaw catalog, but this couch is from IKEA.”
She chokes on her wine.
Grinning, I take the extra bottles out of her hand and set them next to the pizza box. “The way I see it, if I’m going to be spending time making furniture, I might as well make the company some money while I’m at it. That won’t happen if I’m only building pieces to furnish my own house.”
“Practical,” she says, eyeing the couch as if trying to decide where she’s supposed to sit.
“Yeah, it is.” So are all the pockets for the remote and the cupholders that the IKEA shit comes with. “Why don’t you take the chaise. I’ll park my ass on the cushion next to it and put my feet up on the table here.”
Gingerly she sits and scoots back against the cushy arm, legs curled up and those striped socks folded beneath her. Since she’s not using the long end
of the chaise, I move the pizza box there, where it’ll be within easier reach for both of us.
And this is the fucking life. A sexy girl on my sofa, her wine in one hand and a pizza slice in the other. I’ve got my beer, a remote, and I couldn’t ask for a damn thing more. I pull up the movie rentals onscreen.
As I’m flipping through the categories, Emma says, “I thought you watched football on Sundays?”
“Usually. But I’d rather do this with you.” Though honesty forces me to add, “You won’t be offended if I check the scores on my phone while we’re watching, will you?”
“I won’t be offended. But you should just put on football, instead.”
I glance at her. She’s got a bite of pizza between her teeth and is fighting with a long string of melted cheese that won’t let go of her slice. “You like football?”
Mouth full, her initial answer is a shrug, then she finally wins the war with the cheese and swallows her bite before she tells me, “I like the exciting parts.”
“The exciting parts?”
“Yep.” She picks off a pepperoni and pops it into her mouth. “When you start yelling at the TV, that’s my cue to start watching.”
Chuckling, I reach past her for my second slice. “Sounds like you’ve done that before.”
“I’ve lived with my share of families who had sports fans. And it was always the same—I’d be reading, and look up when someone started yelling, and I’d get to see the best parts of the game without having to slog through the boring parts.”
“So you plan to read while I watch the game?”
“Unless you’d feel ignored.”
“With you snuggled up against me? Hell no.”
“All right. Although since your library shelves are practically empty, you’ll have to let me use your phone.” Her eyes take on a mischievous gleam. “You have books downloaded, right? I bet I can find something to read in there.”
Hopefully. I hand over the device and ask, “I’m about to be judged, aren’t I?”
She grins at me. “Oh yes.”
