Something about sleeping in the arms of the man you want puts your soul at peace and your worry to rest. For the moment, all was right in her world, and she was where she wanted to be. Maybe that would change tomorrow. Maybe with the light of day, she'd have the clarity to block the emotion taking root in her heart. Right now, in the dead of night, with his body cocooning hers, he felt like home, and sleep was as warm as the blanket he pulled over them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Make me no promises and tell me no lies.
A personal mantra that had always worked. No promises meant no expectations. No lies meant a clean getaway.
But what if the promises are implied and the lies are ones you told yourself?
Bundled in a sheepskin jacket Bailey had found in a walk-in closet off the bathroom, she stretched out on a lounge chair, a fur throw over her lap. The German countryside eked by. The yacht had to be traveling no more than six knots per hour, and that was into a stiff wind. Basically, they were going nowhere fast. Hell, she could walk faster than the boat’s current speed, which suited her fine. For the first time in what seemed like a year, she felt rested.
A crewman brought a fresh thermos of cinnamon apple cider, and she hadn’t asked for a refill. Her gaze cut to her silent companion in the chair next to her. Collar pulled up, only the top of Emmet’s head was visible. “Did you—?
“Morgan’s staff is exceptional.” His muffled words misted in the frigid air.
The staff and the boat. The yacht was a work of art. Anything they wanted was a few taps on a monitor positioned in every room on the boat. They even had a private kitchen in the improbable occasion one of them decided to skip the gourmet meals provided by a Michelin chef and wing it. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he was at their beck and call while snacks were just a tap away on the kitchen monitor. This was definitely the way to survive protective custody.
Also, this wasn’t the first time Emmet’s comments hinted at a closer than cursory knowledge of the reclusive billionaire, Julius Morgan. How did the two meet? She wondered. Was it professional or personal? None of it was her business which didn't stop her rampant speculation especially after the last three days they'd spent tooling down the river.
Emmet hadn't left her side for more than an hour. They'd slept a lot, caught up on much-needed downtime, and spent hours in the gym—some of that time she studied the sweat rolling down his chiseled body. They watched movies in the custom movie theatre and lingered over gourmet meals at each sitting. They talked about sports, politics, religion, Atlanta, favorite countries, Android versus Apple, DC versus Marvel, favorite countries, favorite holidays, outdoor or indoor, morning person or sleep in ‘til noon, and exes. She had three. He had none. He'd never stayed around long enough to have an ex, and he didn't have a current fuckbuddy.
As much as they talked, they spent an equal amount of time in silent companionship, kind of like testing the waters to see if one could spend time with someone in quiet reflection, without wanting to stab each other because they breathed too loudly, or chewed with their mouth open, or picked their noses and flicked the boogers away. Thankfully, he did none of those things. On the Richter scale of annoying, he was a comfortable three point five.
Still, she couldn't ignore what he did for a living. Plus, she'd seen him kill a man, and he had pushed her at the chalet. He apologized, and the horror on his face at his actions wasn't a lie. Regardless of what this budding thing between them was, Bailey refused to be that woman, that abused woman, whose violent lover kept promising not to beat her anymore.
“Have you ever killed a woman?” Her voice broke the comfortable silence between them.
His movements deliberate, Emmet angled his body toward her. “No.” One word, clipped.
The question was too general. “Ever beat a woman?” She pressed.
“I have never laid hands on a woman in any way she didn’t consent to and enjoy. Next question.” He sounded insulted. She didn’t care.
Bailey had one more question, a peek into his character. She met his intent gaze. “Ever cheat on a woman?”
Emmet rolled his eyes. “I’ve never been in a committed relationship where monogamy was expected. Is that what you want, monogamy?” His gruff voice raised her hackles.
“No, not at all,” she lied, completely refocused on the snowy landscape. “I love having the freedom to choose who I’ll sleep with at any given moment. There are so many men in the world, so many choices. Why should I limit myself to one dick?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw his head drop, and he muttered something she didn’t catch, but then his head shot up. He scratched at the dusting of whiskers on his jaw. Several days’ worth of growth darkened his jawline and mouth. Didn’t make a difference, he was sexy with and sexy without. “Ready to go inside?” His tone light, as if she hadn’t mentioned her desire to screw other men.
Fine. Bailey didn’t buy it yet kept her opinion to herself. She picked up the thermos and sipped. Warmth spread throughout her chest and landed in her stomach. “Wimping out on me? It’s only been an hour.”
“Not trying to get frostbite on my dick, babe,” he grumbled, and she had to laugh, which earned her a slight lift to the corner of his mouth.
"We haven't tried the sauna or the indoor pool." His gaze stayed focused on the winter-white landscape.
Her pulse quickened. Three days they’d slept in the same bed and hadn’t shared so much as a kiss. She didn’t doubt he wanted her. The evidence was the hard length against her ass when he spooned her each night. Yet neither of them made the move to take the pleasure they’d already tasted.
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
His head cranked her way, and something sensual and mischievous entered his eyes. "You won't need one." Emmet stood and pulled the fur off her lap, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Come on."
He led the way to the second level where the pool, sauna, and gym were located. Along the way, they stripped off their outer gear. They passed a crewman. Emmet handed over their coats to the man and whispered something as she continued.
Pushing open the frosted glass doors, she paused in the doorway and let the humid air wash over her. Emmet nudged her further inside and let the door swing closed behind them. Her back to his front, his hands settled on her hips, and his head dipped to the crux of her neck. He inhaled deeply. A low growl rumbled from his throat, and his hands tightened on her hips before slipping under the edge of her sweater. "You smell wintry as if Jack Frost kissed your skin." Cool fingers stroked her waist, sending shivers across her skin while sparks ignited an inferno between her thighs. "FYI. I don't share."
“Good to know, ’cause neither do I.”
He flicked his tongue along her collarbone and left a wet trail to her earlobe while his hands coasted up her abdomen to knead her breasts, still encased in her bra. She moaned and leaned against him, rubbed her ass into the hard-on trapped in his jeans, and angled her head for more. He groaned and mumbled something unintelligible, then yanked the cups of her bra down and folded the material under. The results freed her rigid nipples and propped up her small breasts for his complete access.
His calloused palms brushed over the peaks. She cried out and reached between them to unzip his jeans and—
The door to the pool swung open. Simultaneously, Bailey yanked away and fixed her clothes. Embarrassed, she couldn’t even look at the man, even as he offered an apology for interrupting.
“Not your fault,” Emmet said, and she listened as the glass door swooshed open and closed with a soft thud.
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed they were alone again with an open bottle of Ace of Spades waiting in a silver bucket of ice.
“My fault,” he murmured behind her once again. “I thought I’d have you naked, and in the sauna before he returned with the champagne.” His hands settled on her waist again.
Bailey moved out of his embrace and faced him. Arms folded across her chest, body on lockdown
and not liking it one bit, she snapped, “What do you think you’re doing?”
One side of his lip curled, and he gave her a look that made her panties go up in flames. “If I have to explain then I’m doing something wrong.”
Oh, he wasn't doing anything wrong, at least not according to the moisture pooling below. "We've slept in the same bed three nights in a row, and there was none of…this." She waved at him because she couldn't find the words after he'd pulled off his sweater and Henley in one hard tug.
“I had to make sure.” He bent to unlace his boots.
She fought the mesmerizing pull of his of muscles rippling as he stripped down to his birthday suit, and said, “Make sure of what?”
Free of his boots and socks, he unzipped his pants. “Make sure I liked you.”
That got her head cocked to the side, and her brow knit tighter than a wool sweater. "What?"
He sighed and shot her a droll look. “It’s easy to feel lust for someone. To want to be inside them and stay there. That works for a while until it doesn’t. Lust burns away, and if you don’t have something more all it leaves is ashes. But if you like a person, like having them around, talking to them, listening to their voice and if you care about what they have to say, when the lust burns away, you have something that will endure.”
A giddy bubble of light expanded in her chest and she struggled to contain it. “Like a diamond?” she whispered.
He took her face in his hands and brought her in. His gaze roamed her face and that light she struggled to contain entered his eyes. In that instant, she knew. He didn’t have to say, not yet, if he didn’t want to, because it was there written all over his face. “Yeah. Like a diamond.”
She bit her lip to keep the light from exploding. “Didn’t know you were romantic.”
He shrugged. “I’m not. I’m just speaking the truth.”
“So, you like me?”
He snorted. “I more than like you, Bailey. I more than like you a lot.”
He slanted his lips over hers before she could tell him she more than liked him too. But it didn't matter, not at that moment when his fingers stroked her cheeks, and he had that look in his eyes. That dangerously sexy twinkle meant she was in trouble, the very best kind of trouble. The kind of trouble that happened when two bodies came together in the heat of blistering passion. She pulled back to get the sweater out of the way. He helped, roughly yanking it off, and tossing it aside.
She reached behind her, unsnapped her bra and let the straps slide down her arms. His breath hitched and then his hands were on her body, and his mouth was on her flesh. He laved one nipple with long strokes of his tongue while working the other between his thumb and forefinger.
“Off.” He tugged at her pants. “Naked. Get naked.”
She tugged at his pants. “You. Get naked.”
He worked fast and got her pants and panties down to her knees before she got any further than his zipper. Dropping to his haunches, he unlaced her boots and tugged them off her feet followed by her clothing. Without pause, he licked up the center of her body. Her pleasured moan at the sensation of his tongue gliding over her changed to a gasp when he swept her off her feet to carry her and the champagne into the sauna.
Standing on a wooden bench, steam swirling around their bodies, Emmet pushed her against the wall. He lifted one leg and rubbed his whiskers against the tender flesh of her inner thigh. She giggled and squirmed to get away. A nip to the same area and a soothing lick caused a different reaction. She needed him to lick a little to the right.
Emmet grabbed the champagne and took a swig. Then, he hooked her leg over his shoulder. As if he’d read her mind, he locked eyes with her, right before his cool, liquor-laced tongue split her wet folds. She shuddered hard, the pleasure was sharp enough to wrest a deep groan from her throat. She grabbed onto a fistful of his hair, anchoring him to the spot.
He palmed her ass, dug his fingers into her flesh and feasted. His tongue, now warm, circled her clit and lapped at her opening, then returned to suck on the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. No rush to his torture. He latched onto her core and sucked her into him as he brought his nose up to nudge her clit.
“Emmet,” she cried, trying to stave off the inevitable, but her limbs already trembled.
“Come,” he commanded, his voice guttural and tight, as he rubbed his stubble against her sensitive flesh.
Bailey tumbled into an abyss filled with stars. Boneless, she slid into a heap on the bench hypnotized by the swipe of Emmet’s tongue licking his lips clean. God, she’d never tire of looking at him.
Corded muscles defined his tall frame. Naturally tanned skin was marred by a faded scar across his left pec and another along his left flank. Not the first time she’d seen them and not the first time she wondered who’d slipped beneath his guard.
“How did that happen?” She pointed to the longer of the two scars on the front of his body.
He touched his flank and traced a finger over the raised flesh. “An Algerian in Morocco. Accused me of improper thoughts after helping a woman who’d fallen in the street. She happened to be in a burqa.”
She was aghast for him and the poor woman while he shrugged. “I was young and ignorant of the region’s customs. My fault.”
“And the other?” She wanted to know.
He glanced at the faded scar on his chest. “Hank,” he said and laughed at her expression. “Training exercise when I was sixteen.”
He pulled his pants off his muscular legs, ending the conversation. From its bulbous head, slick with pre-cum, to its thick shaft, his cock was a thing of beauty. He took himself in his hand, stroking his length. From a pocket of his discarded pants, he freed a condom. “We’re running low,” he grumbled, sheathing his cock in latex.
“Shouldn’t be difficult to park the boat at the next CVS.” Her eyes still locked on his cock.
He cracked a smile, which broke into a chuckle and he picked up the champagne.
She dragged her gaze away from her new obsession to watch him take a long pull on the Ace of Spades. He leaned over her, caged her with his body and merged their lips. Champagne trickled from his mouth into hers. In little sips, she drank quickly, until it was just his tongue in her mouth, licking, sucking, driving her mad.
He broke away to grab the bottle for another mouthful. This time, he covered a nipple. Cold bubbly and a hot mouth, both on her overly sensitive flesh had her arching into the sensation. She grabbed at him, desperate to make contact with all that hard muscle.
Finally, he gave in and stretched out on top of her. Their bodies touching, his stubble teased her cheek when he came in close to wrap one arm behind her back, the other around her hips. Her legs came up to his waist, opening herself for him, yet all he did was tease her by sliding his length between her wet folds, riding her clit. She arched her pelvis in a mission to get him inside her. He pulled away in a cat-and-mouse game she couldn’t win with him controlling her movements.
He kissed her, his tongue gliding in and out of her mouth, his need as raw as hers.
“Gimme,” she pleaded when the wait became too much. He slid home in a single thrust. Arching at the abrupt intrusion, her muscles clenched around his shaft and cried out in relief. The wounded emptiness was gone.
“Fuck.” His strokes languid, effortless as if they’d done this for years. He eased in and out with a rhythm designed to drive her insane. “Being inside you is…” His sentence died on a strangled growl as he ground into her. She bucked and tightened her legs around his waist.
What? She wanted to ask but that slip of clarity unraveled at the sparks firing her bloodstream. “Emmet.” She wailed. “Don’t stop.”
“Not going to.” He cupped her breasts, kneading the peaks and brought her in for another kiss, unhurried, like the hands on her breasts and the cock buried inside her depths.
“Please.” She reared up to suck on his nipple, earning a strangled, garbled sound from him.
He shifte
d and split her legs further apart; he went at her hard with deep, powerful strokes. Each stroke an affirmation of who she belonged to. She whimpered. He swallowed the sound down and suddenly pulled back. His cold eyes blazing from an internal heat she got lost in. Lips peeled back in a half grimace, half smile, nostrils flaring, he watched their bodies merge.
In a move she didn’t see coming, he flipped her on top of him and lowered to the step below the bench. Each movement brought him deeper inside her until she could scarcely breathe. He clasped her hips and murmured, “Ride me.”
Using the bench as leverage, Bailey planted her feet on the wooden surface and her hands on his shoulders. She rose, her inner muscles gripping him tightly, as if afraid to lose him, and slid back down. She repeated the motion until his eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth fell open. He gasped, the most erotic sound, the most erotic sight she’d ever seen.
“Fuck me, Bailey,” he commanded and met her down stroke with his upstroke. Grunting, snarling, sweaty bodies slapping together, the sounds they made heightened the pleasure.
“Now you come. You come for me,” she ordered.
Emmet took over. He gripped her hips and slammed into her over and over again. Caught in a net of desire, pleasure so intense it paralyzed her, Bailey leaned back. Legs raised and braced on the edge of the bench, she came apart. Her orgasm blinded her to anything except Emmet climaxing beneath her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sated in more ways than he could count, Emmet ran a lazy hand down Bailey’s sleek back. Naked and absolutely loving how she used him as a pillow, he ignored whatever movie she’d chosen on the seventy-inch flat screen that popped up out of the cabinet at the foot of the bed, and checked his emails on his iPad. The only one of importance came from Whiskey. Hank had gone his own way. Two whole days ago. His choice. After Switzerland and the explosion, after losing Rogers again, he took to the road and cut contact with everyone.
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 15
