I fight the urge to make the sign of the cross.
“I know,” she mutters as she comes back in. She eyes the doll as warily as I am. “It’s awful. But I couldn’t leave it.”
“Why not?” I follow her directions as she nudges me over to the couch and presses a frozen bag of vegetables wrapped in cloth onto my knuckles. “I’ve seen horror movies about those things, you know.”
She’s blushing again as she settles beside me, her eyes on my hand. “That’s sort of the point. Nobody else would have wanted her, and I didn’t have the heart to leave her there.”
My heart flips again. “You collect broken things.”
“Not broken,” she murmurs. Emmy pokes at my knuckles, making me hiss. “Maybe… lonely. I don’t know. It’s stupid, really. I don’t think your hand is broken.”
I flex, absentmindedly testing. “My hand is fine.”
She collects lonely things, and here I am.
I’m not paying any attention to my hand. My whole focus is pinned on her. Emmy startles when she looks up, and I watch as a delicious swell of color rises on her cheeks. She lifts a hand to push back her hair, but it’s clipped away from her face tonight. “Um. You want a drink?”
She inhales when I reach for her hair, my movement slow enough to be a question.
When Emmy nods, my fingers find the tortoiseshell clasp holding her hair in place, and I gently tug it loose. Strands of wavy caramel fall around her heart-shaped face, and she bites on her plump lower lip again. “Ben.”
“Emmy.” I try for teasing, but my voice is too deep to pull it off. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” she breathes. My fingers are tangled in her hair now, playing with it, drawing it through my fingers in fascination.
Every part of this woman fascinates me.
“Yes,” I murmur. “I want a drink.”
Emmy Marsters looks like a tall glass of water in the middle of the damn desert. And as I wrap my hand around her head and draw her lips to mine, it feels like coming home.
She sighs against my lips, soft and sweet. Her leg swings over to straddle my lap as I lift her, settling her on top of me. Her skirt rides up, thighs covered with black tights.
She’s still wearing her damn boots as she moans into my mouth.
My hands tremble like a teenager as I lift them to her shirt. Waiting for permission.
But her fingers are already there, flicking the buttons open before she drags her nails down my chest and my eyes glaze over.
“Off.”
Her voice – low and husky and demanding – goes straight to my cock as she tugs off my shirt and I wrestle with hers, untilher breasts are pressed against my chest and our lips are fused together again.
The warm weight of her in my arms… is perfect.
Dangerous.
Emmy Marsters is dangerous.
Because I’m not going to be able to let her go.
I’m free-falling, and the only thing I want to hold onto is her.
She shudders in my arms as I thrust up, rubbing against her. “Yes. More, Ben.”
I’ll give her more.
I’ll give her everything, as I stand with her wrapped around me.
