by Lauren Layne
His hands finally slid around her back, undoing the clasp of her bra with a quick flick before slowly pulling the lacy garment off her.
Emma’s eyes closed, but he used one finger to lift her chin up so her face was tilted to his, and she opened her eyes to meet his hot gaze. Then his thumbs found her nipples, pressing, as his blue gaze stayed locked on hers, watching her every reaction, as though trying to commit her every whimper and gasp to memory.
Her hands went to his waist, his skin hot and firm against her palms as she tried to drag him even closer, and when that didn’t work, her hands went to his head, pulling his lips down to hers as she used her tongue to tease his.
Then he pulled back and bent his knees, his lips finding her nipple as his palm came up to cover her mouth, stifling her startled cry.
Emma’s head tipped back, her back arching as she sat on Cassidy’s desk and his dark head moved between her breasts, laving them with attention from his hot mouth.
When he straightened, she whimpered at the loss, but only briefly because then he was pulling her off the desk and turning her around, one hand wrapped around her hip as the other palm found the spot directly between her shoulder blades and pushed so she was bending over the desk, ass in the air.
He tilted forward with his hips, and even through the fabric of his pants and her skirt she felt his hard cock press against her. It was both too much and not enough, and she made a ragged whimpering noise that could have been either a plea or a curse.
Cassidy wrapped one arm around her chest, above her breasts, pulling her upper body back just enough so that he could press his mouth to her ear.
“I lied earlier,” he said roughly, his hand moving down to palm her breast.
She shook her head slightly, indicating she didn’t follow and his fingers pinched her nipple. Hard.
“I didn’t lock the door,” he whispered.
And then his hands slid down, finding the hem of her skirt and tugging it upward over her hips, over her ass, until his thumbs brushed over the lace covering her butt cheeks.
“Anyone could walk in,” he whispered, his fingers kneading her soft flesh. “Anyone could walk in and see me doing this.”
He lowered to his knees as his hands tugged her panties down and off, using his body to steady her as he helped her step out of the tiny scrap of lace without the panties snagging on her heels.
Cassidy’s thumbs touched her ankles, the touch strangely erotic, before his hands made the slow trek back up her over her calves, up over the backs of her thighs, and then in between, urging them apart.
His finger slid smoothly inside her at the exact moment his teeth nipped her butt cheek and Emma cried out, left to stifle her moans with her own hand since his were busy.
His free hand slid around her front, his fingertips easily finding the nub of her clit as a second finger from his other hand joined the first and pumped inside her.
The sensations were too much. Between the fingers circling her, the fingers twisting inside her, and his hot breath on the back of her thighs, Emma shattered, her fingernails clawing uselessly at the hard surface of his desk as she came harder than she ever had before.
He stood slowly, his hands staying at her hips until he was certain she was steady and then he guided her around to the other side of his desk.
Her fuzzy brain couldn’t quite register why they were moving, but when he opened his desk drawer, she realized.
Condom.
“You came prepared,” she said, her voice still sounding a little panty.
He smiled at her. “Hopeful. I came hopeful.”
And then he was lifting her again, so she was sitting on the desk, and he was in his desk chair. Her skirt had fallen back down around her hips when they’d moved, and he slowly inched it back up again, sliding his chair so that his face was positioned between her thighs.
“Cassidy,” she groaned.
He grinned playfully up at her. “What’s wrong, Em? Worried someone might walk in and see you sitting on my desk, legs spread?”
Her moan was half desire, half panic. She’d never thought of herself as being the exhibitionist type, but the risk of being seen made an already erotic encounter downright carnal.
His naughty grin turned downright wicked as he pulled her even closer to his face, his hands hooked behind her ass. “Just lay back and imagine, baby.”
“Imagine what?” she said, the words coming out in raggedly.
“Imagine what we must look like with my face buried between your thighs.”
Then he dropped his face to her, his tongue flicking out to taste her wetness as she cried out. She had a flicker of terror that someone might have heard her, but then he pulled her closer, laying the flat of his tongue against her and licking in exactly the right spot, and she didn’t care about anything other than making sure he didn’t stop.
Her head fell back, her fingers tangled in his hair as she held his head to her and gave into the wicked heat of his mouth.
“Cassidy,” she gasped when she started to build again. “Stop, I can’t—”
But she could. And did. The second orgasm was every bit as explosive as the first, and he stayed with her every bit of the way.
When he stood, Emma blinked at him, her vision slightly blurry. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “I’ve gotten two, and you—”
“Are about to make good on that threat to fuck you on the desk,” he said against her ear.
He pulled her forward, and Emma thought for there was no way that her legs would hold her, but when he spun her around and pushed her back over the desk, the sound of his belt unbuckling and pants sliding down aroused her all over again.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the condom wrapper flutter to the desk beside her, and then his hands were on her, his cock was against her, and he sank into her in one smooth, hot stroke.
“Emma,” he groaned. “You’re so wet.”
“Your fault,” she managed, as he began to thrust.
Had they done it this way before? She couldn’t remember. But if they had, it had never been this intense.
She felt his fingers dig into the skin at her hips, heard his groan, and knew that he was close. Instinctively knowing what he needed, Emma flattered her palms on the desk, arched her back, and turned her head just enough so he could see her profile.
When she flicked her eyes to his, knowing he’d recognize the heat and want in her gaze, Cassidy growled her name, plunging inside her hard enough to drive her into the desk before he wrapped an arm around her and came with a hoarse cry.
Slowly, Emma lowered to her elbows on the desk, and he followed, not heavily, but enough so that his chin rested on her shoulder, his breath still coming in harsh pants in her hair.
When he pulled back, they exchanged a secret smile before beginning the awkward process of reclaiming their scattered clothing items.
He smiled his thanks when she handed him his belt, and then reached out a hand to smooth a section of her hair.
Emma smoothed her skirt and stepped back. “How obvious do I look?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said huskily. “I can still taste you. So to me, you look properly fucked.”
Emma huffed. Then blushed. “Do you have a mirror in here?”
He gave her a look.
“Fine,” she muttered doing her best to flatten her hair, and doing a quick under eye swipe with her fingers to catch any mascara that might have gotten out of place.
He watched her with an unreadable expression, and Emma bit her lip. “I should probably go. Riley and Grace are likely wondering—”
He smiled at that. “Yeah, I don’t think they’re wondering at all.”
She pursed her lips. “Good point. But I do have work to do. That story I turned in is complete, but I need to work with the graphics team figure out if they want to do any visuals with my story.”
“Visuals?” he asked. “What, like pictures of the guys?”
“No,” she s
aid with a wave of her hand. “Just like . . . they put girly cartoonlike figures up there sometimes. Never mind. We’ll figure it out.”
He shook his head. “Camille cannot come back fast enough.”
Emma had been on her way to the door, but she paused at that. “Did you mean what you said? About not reading the article?”
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pocket. “I don’t want to read it as your boss, Emma. I’ll let Camille take care of it.”
“Okay,” she said, forcing a smile.
Then she turned back again. “You said you didn’t want to read it as my boss. Will you read it as my friend? When it’s out on the shelves, I mean.”
His jaw shifted. “I do want to be your friend, Emma. I do. But reading about your ex-boyfriends . . . twelve of them? Don’t ask that of me.”
She smiled, strangely elated by his answer. “I won’t. But you only have yourself to blame. Your idea and all that.”
He rolled his eyes. “Trust me. I know. It’s going on my list of life regrets.”
“Huh. And this,” she said, gesturing between them and then at the desk. “Will that be one of your life regrets?”
He gave her a hooded look. “What do you think?”
Emma turned away, not wanting him to see what she was pretty sure was a goofy happy smile.
Her hand reached for the doorknob and twisted.
Nothing happened.
She tried again. Nothing.
Then her fingers found the lock. Flicked it.
It had been locked the whole damn time.
This time, the door opened, and she gave him an accusing look over her shoulder.
He winked.
And Emma knew then. Knew that she was devastatingly close to falling in love with him all over again.
Chapter 26
Two weeks later, the Tuesday before the Thanksgiving holiday, Emma hosted a “Fakesgiving” housewarming party at her place.
As in her actual place. Not Camille’s.
Emma had found a new apartment. It was just four blocks north of where she’d lived at Camille’s place, but instead of a fancy high-rise apartment, it was a spacious one-bedroom on a third-floor walk-up.
It wasn’t fancy and new, but it had a fabulous brick wall with a defunct fireplace, and had been recently renovated with brand-new hardwoods, granite countertops, and fancy appliances.
Best of all, it was all Emma’s. Her name on the lease, her dishes in the cupboards, her sheets on the bed.
A bed that Cassidy had been spending an awful lot of time in. What had supposed to turn into one night of sex had turned into a weekend of sex . . . which had continued to the Monday after when they’d defiled his Oxford desk.
And then it had just kept going.
But it hadn’t just been sex. There’d also been quiet moments and shared meals, and him talking too much about the ins and outs of wine when all she really wanted was to drink it.
Last night they’d crossed into a whole new territory altogether: Cassidy had stayed the night.
And, yet, they hadn’t talked about it. Not any of it. And certainly not their past.
She’d asked the girls whether she should bring it up, and the verdict had been split. Julie and Grace thought she and Cassidy should go with the flow and see where it took them. Julie had insisted that forcing a conversation that wasn’t ready wouldn’t be good for anyone.
And while Riley had agreed that trying to put a label on what they had before their hearts knew the answer would be disastrous, she had also cautioned that going too long without having the hard conversation might do more damage in the end.
And seeing as Riley and Sam had avoided just such a conversation for ten damn years, Emma knew she should listen.
But every time she wanted to go there—to ask what the hell they were doing—she chickened out. She was too afraid he’d tell her exactly what she’d told him. That it was just sex.
Tonight, however . . . tonight, Emma hadn’t let herself think about any of that. It had been about turkey and too much wine and delicious carbs and pie. Definitely pie.
It was the usual bunch: Julie and Mitchell, newly back from Maui; Grace and Jake; Sam and Riley. Camille had shown up for appetizers and to inform Emma that her second bedroom was still available and that her “real” building had an elevator.
And Cassidy was there.
Cassidy had been there all day. Prepping the turkey. Arguing with her about the best way to mash potatoes.
He was everywhere, all the time.
And she liked it.
“I ate too much,” Riley said, clearing a salad bowl from the table and setting it by the sink with an exhausted thunk.
“Riley McKenna. I can honestly say I never thought I’d hear those words coming out of your mouth,” Julie said, licking vanilla ice cream off her thumb before putting the scoop in the dishwasher.
“It was Emma’s fault,” Riley groaned. “What the heck did you put in that stuffing, lard? It was the most horrifyingly glorious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Horrifying only because you had six helpings,” Mitchell called from the table, where the guys were sampling Sam’s latest whiskey.
Riley pointed a finger at Julie. “Jules, tell your ball and chain to shut his trap.”
“I’ve tried,” Julie said. “It never works.”
“Yeah, because I’m the chatterbox of the family,” Mitchell muttered.
Emma tried to squeeze one last glass into the dishwasher, then gave up, because the damned thing was stuffed to max capacity. She added detergent and started it, before reaching for another bowl to wash.
“No. Sit,” Grace said, batting her hand. “Put your skinny ass on that bar stool and drink your drink. We’ll clean.”
“Actually,” Emma said, wiping her hand on a towel. “Let’s all sit. The cleaning can wait until tomorrow.”
“You hear that, boys?” Julie called. “You can stop your mad dash to help with the dishes.”
The men didn’t pause in their debate over whether the whiskey had elements of leather in its flavor profile.
Emma picked up her glass of wine and started to follow the women into her tiny living room, and then paused, looking around and taking in the scene in front of her. It was a cheesy thought, but she actually felt her heart swelling.
Which didn’t make sense, because the tableau was a familiar one: couples playfully bickering, Riley eating too much, Sam’s wonderful whiskey, free-flowing wine, nonstop laughter . . .
Maybe tonight felt different because it was almost the holidays.
But in the back of her mind, Emma knew she was lying to herself. Something was different tonight, sure, but it wasn’t the proximity to Thanksgiving.
Her eyes sought and found Cassidy’s.
It was him. No, them.
They’d been at the same dinner party before, but never like this. Never as a couple.
Were they a couple?
It didn’t seem like it. It was so different from how things had been with her previous boyfriends. Heck, for that matter, it was different than it had been with Cassidy all those years ago.
It was startlingly comfortable. There was no trying the other person on for size, no trying to adjust to their quirks and habits. No trying not to get annoyed at the other person’s chewing, no painful getting-to-know-you chats in which you scrambled to remember whether Jackson referred to his second-grade best friend or his childhood dog.
They simply were. They simply fit.
He lifted an eyebrow, as though to ask if she was okay, and she smiled and gave a little shake of her head.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Because talking about it might jinx it.
And therein lay the real problem . . . the downside of everything feeling so perfect.
It couldn’t last. It never lasted.
“Yo, Emma. Grab that bottle and get over here,” Riley said.
She complied, topping off everyone’s glasses as she sett
led onto her new gray love seat next to Julie.
Julie poked her arm the second she sat down. “Okay, I swear this is the last time I’ll bug you about this, but I need to ask just one more time to clear my conscience. Are you sure you don’t want to come to Connecticut with us on Thursday? Mitchell’s mom makes a mean turkey.”
“Or Brooklyn with us,” Riley added.
“Or Wisconsin with us, although our flight leaves tomorrow, so you’d better make that decision, like, yesterday,” Grace chimed in.
Emma glanced down at her wine, feeling a bittersweet pang as she realized that every one of them had just used the word us. Come with us to Connecticut. Come with us to Brooklyn. With us to Wisconsin.
Emma wasn’t part of an us.
Because no matter how good things were between her and Cassidy in bed, no matter how compatible they were outside of it, there were some things they couldn’t overcome. It was like their sexual chemistry had set off some sort of adrenaline kick that prevented them from feeling the pain.
And once that adrenaline wore off . . .
Emma knew what that heartbreak felt like.
“Ems?” Julie asked, touching her arm, softer this time. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good. And thank you for the invitations, truly. But I’m actually headed to North Carolina for the holiday.”
Her friends exchanged puzzled looks. “Since when? I could have sworn we just talked last week about our plans—”
“Since Saturday. My dad’s been bugging me about it for weeks and I’ve been saying no, but . . . he wore me down.”
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. Her father had gone ahead and bought her a plane ticket without her consent. Something Emma could have ignored if not for . . . Daisy.
Her twin still responded to Emma’s texts, but she never initiated them anymore. And whenever Emma called, it went straight to voice mail. Emma wanted to see her sister in person to dig beneath the surface.
Even if it meant sitting around the table and playing nice with her father while he prattled on about Sinclair Media and the fact that he had no successor for the company since neither daughter was interested, and Daisy had gone and gotten herself a “damned divorce,” and Emma . . . well, Emma up and left the table whenever her father dared to mention Cassidy.
