by Rian Kelley
“Damn, you have an extraordinary ass,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Hmm,” he agreed. And nuzzled his lips against her temple as he stroked her, lifted her, slid his fingers along the crease and into the wet heat of her. She gasped as his fingers stroked.
“You’ve mentioned that before,” she said.
“That I like your ass?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He nudge her backwards, lifted her so he could rub her against his shaft.
“I love a shapely ass.” He let his tongue dip into her ear and whispered. “I’m going to turn you over the table, Emme. Is that okay with you?”
She nodded.
“Do you think you’d like that?”
“I’m sure I would.”
And so he did. With gentle hands on her shoulders, he turned her, moved a chair out of the way, and urged her downward, until her arms were against the wood tabletop. He used a foot to nudge her legs open.
“More, Emme,” he said, bending over her, close to her ear. “Open your legs for me.” He placed the head of his cock against her ass, rubbed the ridged helmet against her cleft. “It’s going to be so good.”
He placed a hand between her shoulder blades and urged her forward, until her belly and breasts were pressed against the table, and then he took hold of her hips and shifted her weight.
“Like this okay?”
“Yes. But now.”
“You want me, Emme?”
“Bad.”
He took hold of his cock and pressed his head against her slick lips. He stroked her like that, from her channel to her clit and back, and then he thrust inside her. She choked on a gasp and her body went tight, her hands curling into fists on the table top. And Micah stopped.
“No, don’t stop.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. Surprised. But definitely not hurt.”
She shifted and pushed backwards until she took him completely inside her and she moaned his name and her breath came sharply. She swiveled her backside and he took the hint. With one hand on her hip, the other on her cheek, he began a rhythm that pleased them both. And he watched. It wasn’t the dominance thing, it was her soft, pink flesh and his junk, glistening with her juice. It was her easy acceptance of him and her tight, clasping of his cock. It was the sculpted mounds of her ass, so damn sexy, and his straining erection buried so deeply inside her.
He reached around her and found that sensitive bud and took it between his fingers. She gasped. And when he thrust forward and her body moved against his hold, she keened with desire, her back arching, the cheeks of her ass lifting and pressing into his groin. Damn he loved this position. He felt every contraction of her muscles, every spasm that built towards completion.
Truth. And vulnerability. There was complete exposure in the position. And her trust nearly brought him to his knees.
In the week that followed, they continued with their comfortable routine. In the evenings they cooked together, sharing duties in the kitchen, followed it with sheet-searing sex, then fell asleep curled around each other. Emme loved every minute of it. She loved it so much, she sometimes had troubled leaving him to get down to work at her computer. They kept to their exercise plan, jogging every other day and adding more reps and a few challenging moves as the days and Emme’s skills progressed, extending their cardio time in pursuits of excellence. Then they parted ways, each to put some serious time into the work they loved, Emme at her kitchen table, Micah in her living room. They stopped for lunch but didn’t see each other again until dinner. It was great balance.
Emme reveled in creating scene after riveting scene in her novel. She wrote for hours. Sometimes ten hours a day. Micah was equally committed to his work. When she’d asked him what he did all day he’d told her he researched companies, did background checks of employees and competition, he created escape routes and private protection packages for top executives. More than once he’d commented on the need for him to get back to San Diego. Crista was doing all the leg-work. She visited companies, interviewed key people, met with CEOs and CFOs, carried out intricate computer work that Emme sensed got into every crevice, overturned every rock in the garden and pulled every secret out of the shadows—all while she cared for two little boys and attended to family matters. Micah was anxious to get back but when Emme asked him why he was still in the Sierras his face and words became vague, he spoke about the need to recuperate but that didn’t mesh with his performance during their runs, or during their intimate marathons. And Emme was beginning to wonder about his real reason for being in this small, out of the way town.
She hoped he was as reluctant as she was to end what they had going. He did nothing to distance himself and when she poked at the boundaries he’d laid down before they became involved, he did a whole lot of frowning but no commenting.
Or was he worried about her safety? Almost two weeks had passed since the man had played possum on her back deck. She hadn’t thought a lot about it, far more caught up in Micah and her book, but she knew he had. In addition to replacing the locks on her doors and windows, every morning he walked the perimeter of their yards, looking for disturbance. When they returned from a run, an errand, a trip to the farmer’s market, Micah took the lead in securing every room in the house. No, she hadn’t forgotten about the intruder. It just didn’t worry her much.
Emme was pretty sure she knew who the culprit was. In the moment, she’d been too distracted by fear and his face had been covered in darkness, so she hadn’t recognized him. Later, she realized the height and breadth of the man seemed familiar. She knew the shape of the head and the longish locks that had touched the collar of his jacket. But it didn’t fit with the man she knew him to be—Bruno Gardi, her former boss. That man was reasonable. Steady. He would never follow Emme into the Sierras. Ply her with calls and emails, yes, and he’d done plenty of that. Emme had ignored them all. Her decision was made and she couldn’t be happier. But find her out here, skulk around her house, break into Micah’s rental? That wasn’t Bruno. Was it?
“Taking a break?”
He’d startled her. Emme felt her shoulders twitch. She was sitting on the back deck, her face lifted to the sun while clouds skittered across the sky and the wind blew a chill across her skin. She was taking a break. She’d hit a particularly sticky scene in her novel, one that plumbed the depth of emotions for both characters, where the plot was coming down to a true test of their emotional commitment. The significance wasn’t lost on Emme. She felt like she was traveling the same road with Micah. Only she was probably leaps and bounds ahead of him, the man who was here for a little R&R—and that doesn’t include relationship. Not even a small part of her wished she had heeded his warning. There was no way she would ever regret even a moment with the man. Which meant that she would have to live the loss as much as she had embraced the ride.
“Yes,” she said. She turned toward him and caught his gaze. He was smiling and it was full of pleasure and not a few wicked memories. It made her stomach somersault. “You?”
“I saw you out here and hoped I might get lucky.”
She arched an eyebrow. “If lucky means I get to strip you naked, push you back against the pillows and ride you, then I’d say your wish is my command.”
Her words stopped him mid-stride. The flush of sexual awareness colored his cheeks. His hands flexed, fisted, released.
“Fuck.” The single word was as sacred as amen, in a rough, almost primitive breath.
“Yes.” She stood. “Right now.”
He pulled in a deep breath, never losing eye contact. “You know that sweet spot you were looking for? Big, bold and badass? You’re there.”
Her smile spread across her face. Yeah, she’d finally arrived. There was satisfaction in that. A deep sense of grounding, of having a solid footing even while she felt like she was cruising at twenty thousand feet. But why did her heart feel adrift? What was she hoping for? Declarations of love? Of need? Of the
never-ending variety? Yes, she thought so. And that poised her for an emotional downward spiral. She was going to crash and burn, but at least she would have the strength to pick herself up, dust herself off and dive back into life. It would hurt, but she had hurt before, she reminded herself.
She wouldn’t simply walk off into the sunset, though. No, she would use this new boldness to lay it on the line. To tell him how she felt. And she would look him in the eye when she did it and hope that she didn’t have to watch his face soften with regret.
But that wasn’t for today. She needed to work up that kind of courage. She needed at least a day or two to get there.
His next words fell on her like a bomb.
“I have to leave,” he told her. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Her breath lodged in her throat and she had to wait a count, two, before she could speak.
“You’re going to San Diego?”
“Crista needs me.”
Emme nodded and swallowed her disappointment.
“But you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Definitely.” He kept his stance, too far away, but she felt his body hum with tension. “Are you worried about being alone?”
“I’ll get by,” she said, making sure her tone held undiluted confidence. She even tacked a smile to it. She probably wouldn’t sleep without him anyway. So maybe she’ll have a writing marathon and ignore all the little squeaks and groans of the settling house.
“Keep the doors and windows locked.”
“No worries there.”
He nodded. “If I thought you were in danger I wouldn’t go.”
“I know. Is Crista OK?”
“Yeah, just overworked.”
“You need to get back,” she said.
“Walk me to my truck?”
She rubbed her palms on her jeans and closed the gap between them. “I’m going to miss you, Micah,” she told him, her head tipped back and looking boldly into his eyes.
His face softened, but into a smile, and his eyes snapped with satisfaction. No regrets. At all.
“Good,” he said and gathered her close and brought his mouth down on hers.
The kiss was thorough and heated, his lips pushing hers open, his tongue drawing hers into his mouth and into a sinuous tangle that ignited a slow burn in her body.
He ended the kiss too early, before their hands could wander or clothes could be shed, and whispered against her lips, “When I get back, you can strip me naked, push me back against the pillows, and ride me.”
She slipped her hand into his and turned them toward the house. “You can count on it,” she said. Damn, it hurt, saying good-bye. Even when it was only temporary. It made her nerves flutter and her stomach churn like the never-ceasing waves.
She pushed open the back door, walked around the kitchen table and chairs, past the cozy arrangement of sofa and chairs in the living room, and didn’t stop until she was turning the dead bolt in the front door. Her hand was still held in his and she felt him tug gently, trying to get her attention.
She didn’t want to give it to him. Didn’t understand or like the sudden need to weep pushing at her eyes, crawling up her throat, and she definitely didn’t want him to see it.
“Emme?”
When she didn’t turn around he shifted so he came between her and the door. Then he used their clasped hands to lift her chin.
“I’m coming back,” he said. “We’re not done. And I’m nothing like Alan.”
He let the words settle on her and she appreciated the firmness of his tone. It permeated the near panic that strummed through her body.
“When it’s over, you’ll tell me to my face,” she said.
“If it comes to that,” he agreed. He held her gaze and lifted their hands so that he could place a soft, lingering kiss to her fingers.
And then he stepped back, loosened their hands, and walked to the sofa where he grabbed his overnight bag and his computer case.
“Come on,” he said, and reclaimed her hand. “This is a normal good-bye. The kind where the guy needs to go to work and his girl walks him to his truck for a few extra minutes with her man.”
She followed him, out the door and across their yards. He stowed his luggage in the back seat then turned and engulfed her in a big hug.
“Twenty-four hours,” he said.
“I’ll try not to count them off on the clock.”
He smiled. “The way you lose time when you’re writing, it’ll be like the blink of an eye. You won’t miss me at all.”
She watched him climb into his truck, fasten his seat belt, and turn the engine. Through the open window he said, “Go inside now, Emme, and lock the door.”
And she did, wondering as she crossed the yard, and climbed the steps, why, if he didn’t think she was in danger, he wanted her behind locked doors.
Chapter Sixteen
Emme stood on her front porch and watched the orange tea lights in the tree across the street twinkle on and off. Micah wouldn’t like that she was outside, especially after the sun had set and the stars had come out. But she had started feeling claustrophobic. Jack o’ lanterns were lit and the wind howled through the glass bottles dangling from the eaves on a house down the street. Halloween was tomorrow. This morning she’d driven into town and purchased sacks of bite-sized Snickers and Blow-Pops to pass out. She’d never liked Halloween. There was just too much darkness about it, gore and the wrong message—just this one night a year children were allowed to accept candy from strangers.
Next door, the house was dark. Micah was late.
Was Bruno no longer a threat? Or had he gone in search of the man, determined to put an end to the dangerous shenanigans?
Emme didn’t know.
Micah had called her once, in the early afternoon, and explained that he was running behind. He would be back that night, he assured her, and Emme had told him what any woman of confidence would have said. “No worries. Take your time.” And she knew now what she hadn’t wanted to know all along—Micah was right. She wasn’t a no emotion elocation kind of woman.
She’d wanted the sex. Hot and intense. And she’d gotten it. But she’d also gotten a world of heartache, too, because she’d fallen in love with Micah, even though he’d warned her not to. Even though she’d known from the very beginning that he wanted nothing to do with happily ever after.
Emme wrapped her arms around her middle and huddled into her jacket for warmth. She didn’t want to go inside yet. It had gotten stifling in there. Yesterday, after he’d left, she sat down at her computer and struggled, for hours, with her writing. This morning she had faced the truth and it had set her free. She had hammered through the block and put down some good pages. It helped that she had written according to her mood. She had written from a place of fear, knowing all the while that the emotion was genuine—her fear of losing Micah and her heart. And as the day progressed and his drive way continued to stand empty, his windows dark, she had come to accept that perhaps their passion had done its build up, its flare of glory, and, on Micah’s part, faded out.
He’d left her with the promise of something more. But back in his own environment, surrounded by familiar comforts and demands, picking up his usual routine, maybe next to all of that their relationship didn’t seem like much.
She had the consolation that he would, at least, return to tell her.
She sat down on the front steps, gathered her knees close to her chest, and rested her chin in her hands. So maybe this was it. The end. Her stomach tilted dangerously with the thought. Her throat burned with words or tears unshed. And she quickly grew impatient with herself. She no longer dwelt in self-pity. And it wasn’t like it took her by surprise. She’d been waiting for it.
She would not be this pathetic when Micah returned. She had her new-found daring and do. It was real. She’d earned it. Now she would rely on it.
She was still in the process of convincing herself of it when a long shadow fell over her, blocking out the blink
ing orange lights and the shimmering flames inside the pumpkins across the street and starting a chill over her skin. Even before she looked up, she knew it wasn’t Micah. When he was near she felt it on an elemental level and her body responded with shallow breath and heightened awareness.
No, she felt the heaviness in this shadow and when she looked up it was into a face that was disturbing for all its ordinariness. Pale face, square jaw and a mouth curved in a smile that reflected the coldness in his eyes. Blue eyes, squinted like chips of ice. His hair was pulled back in a short pony tail and that dagger of hair below his lip stood out like an arrowhead.
She’d looked at that face nearly every day for four years. Bruno Gardi. Her old boss. So, yes, he would follow her to the Sierras.
She had been his golden coin. Bankable. Predictable. The cash cow of Cyclical. He’d been baffled but also angry when she’d turned down every one of his offers, packed up her desk, and left.
“Bruno,” she said, rising from the porch step. She tried to ignore the chill he gave her and called up all that bravado she’d been working on. “This is a surprise.” Her voice was strong and steady. She liked that. Then, in order to put some space between them, because the man was way too close, Emme pushed her hands into her jeans’ pockets while taking a small step backwards.
“Surely not,” he returned. “You must have known I would come.”
No. She’d known she was too valuable to let loose in the world. Her well of creativity not fully tapped. But he had backed off and she had hoped he’d finally taken no for an answer.
“It felt a little too easy,” she agreed.
“I offered you everything,” he said.
“Except ownership.”
But he shook his head. “That’s not done. Ever.”
And she knew that was true. “I’m done with writing software,” she said. “It’s not fun for me. Not anymore.”
“Grow up,” he said and she could hear the tightness in his voice and watched his shoulders crawl toward his ears as his body hummed with tension. “You’re a career woman and you made a very bad decision, Emme. You would have been the highest paid gamer in the business if you’d said yes.”
