Michael tossed a couple of pillows onto the floor and patted the loveseat next to him. “Sit with me, Em.”
She crossed her legs. “I think it might be better if I stay over here.”
“Why? Because you don’t trust yourself with me?”
She didn’t say anything for a while but when she did, her voice was so hushed, he barely heard her.
“Say that again. Louder this time.”
“I said it’s true. I don’t trust myself with you.”
His heart pounding, Michael stood and walked over to her.Please, God, don’t let me collapse now. Standing before her, he tipped up her chin. “You’re smart. You shouldn’t.”
He pulled her into a standing position and claimed her mouth. Velvet soft and sweet, she tasted better than any dessert he’d ever enjoyed. Cherry pie might have been dirt. Chocolate cake tasted like dust. Everything paled in comparison to Emily’s lips. Her mouth seemed made to mold against his. He moaned and dug his hands into her hair, excited to finally be able to play with the short strands. He expected Emily to push back but she surprised him, opening when he slid his tongue against her lips. When their tongues met, she sighed. It was the greatest sound he’d ever heard. Better than hearing Pink Floyd live. Better than Pink Floyd showing up at his door, begging him to jam with them.
It was the fucking best.
Michael danced his hands down her back toward her tempting ass.
Someone knocked on her unit door. As if scripted for some cheesy sitcom, they ended their kiss and stared at one another. Both he and Emily exhaled loudly at the same time.
“I’d better get that.”
“Who’d knock on your door this late?”
She stood and slid away from Michael, leaving his body in a state of bereft need. “Probably Chris. He must want his car back.”
“No offense, but do everything you can to make him go away.”
A bashful smile lit up her face. “I’ll do my best.”
Maybe this evening held some promise after all. Maybe he wouldn’t be forced to remember it solely for freaking out on stage.
The person at the door banged on it again.Jesus Christ. Talk about impatient.
Just as Michael was about to remind her to check the peephole, she swung open the door. “Couldn’t it wait until morning?”
Trent Andrews stood there, a hangdog expression decorating his mug. “Hi, Em.”
Michael stepped forward, squaring his shoulders, claiming the space and the woman who lived there.
Trent’s gaze flitted between him and Emily. “It didn’t take you long.”
Michael chose not to reply. He didn’t answer to any man, especially not that one.
Trent’s low chuckles held no amusement. “It figures. You know, Zorn, I thought you might actually have enough decency to give Emily five minutes to breathe before you wrapped your tentacles around her and dragged her under.”
Michael draped a possessive arm around her waist. He didn’t care what anyone thought anymore.
“What do you want, Trent?” asked Emily. “It’s way too late for a social call.”
“I realize that but I couldn’t sleep. Honestly, I haven’t been sleeping well for a while. I was hoping we could talk, hopefully without the handyman present.”
“His name is Michael.”
“Socializing with the help, Emily?”
“The help, huh?” Michael laughed. “No wonder you were so uncomfortable on our set. You must have been looking for theDownton Abbeyset.”
