His silent laugh rumbles the bed. “I’m burning up, so trust me. You feel good.”
You feel good.
All I can think about is how those words would sound coming from his lips in an entirely different setting. Does Emmett Montgomery praise women when he’s in bed, or does the grumbly bossy thing seep into that part of his life too?
Why am I hoping it’s a combination of both?
And what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I haven’t been interested in anyone in years. In fact, I’ve practically sworn off men since my divorce, and suddenly the one man to snag my attention is one that’s currently on my payroll.
Real professional, Reese.
“Did you have a nice time with Miller?” I ask, because that’s a normal train of thought. Who goes from wondering how someone likes to fuck to asking whether that same someone enjoyed his time with his daughter?
I won’t be holding my breath for one of those World’s Greatest Boss mugs anytime soon.
“Yeah, it was nice,” he says softly. “I’m always stoked when I get the chance to see her while we’re on the road.”
“You two are close.”
Emmett hums this sleepy sound. “Of course we are. We practically grew up together.”
“Yeah, there’s not a big age gap, huh? You must have been young when you became a dad.”
He hesitates for a moment. “I was maybe nineteen or twenty when she was born.”
“And where’s her mom?”
Though we’re not touching other than my cheek on his arm, I sense his entire body go rigid behind me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“What?” he asks, but it’s not confusion in his tone. It’s shock.
Shock that I felt as if I had any right to know the answer to that question, I’m sure. I guess I just assumed that since I drunkenly told him all about my divorce, he’d want to soberly tell me about his.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly blurt out. “That was inappropriate of me to ask.”
“We’re sharing a bed, Reese. I don’t know that either one of us is the best judge of what’s appropriate and what’s not these days.”
His honesty acts as a reality check for me. Because if he’s saying it like it is, I can no longer lie to myself by going with his original “we’re just hugging” theory.
I go to move away, to create some distance between us, when Emmett grabs my hip to stop me. He flexes his fingertips, curling them into the softness of my belly and keeping me exactly where I am.
“Stay.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
His head drops to mine, his beard tickling the skin at the back of my neck when he breathes a laugh.
“Emmett, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Stay anyway.”
I don’t have a retort for him, but I also don’t have the willpower to move away.
Instead, Emmett scoots closer, curling his body around my own. His knee grazes the back of mine. His foot brushing against my ankle. And his hand... his hand is still firmly planted on my hip, calloused and warm and real fucking distracting.
