"Oh my God, Adrian."
"That's it, Emmy. Let go. I want to feel you. Come for me. You're so close. I can feel it. Perfect.You'reperfect."
She tenses, her back arches, as she comes. The sensation of her clenching around me rhythmically is beautiful, overwhelming. Three more thrusts and I follow. I collapse onto her back and bury my face in her neck, groaning her name as I come harder than ever.
Slowly, carefully, I run my fingertips and nails lightly over her bare back. She reaches for me as I withdraw, and I catch her hand, steadying her. We stay still, our breathing still ragged, books and bedclothes scattered around us.
We stay like that, both breathing hard. She falls face down onto her bed. We don't speak for a while. I lie beside her. We just hold each other in this moment. I kiss her neck and cheek. Tenderly. Time frozen.
I have no words. Nothing in my experience compares. The analytical part of my brain is offline, reduced to basic function: breathe, feel, exist.
Everything has changed. I know it in my core.
I've built my entire life on control, on logic, on careful planning and risk assessment. I've calculated every variable. Prepared for every contingency. Every eventuality.
But I didn't prepare for Emmy Blake.
Didn't prepare for how she'd look at me after I defended her to her mother. Didn't prepare for how she'd feel in my arms. Didn't prepare for the words that spilled from me while I was inside her—praise I didn't know I was capable of giving. And I definitely didn't prepare for this: the certainty that a couple of days more with her won't be enough. The terrifying possibility that nothing will be enough. Even if we're staying at the estate overnight tomorrow. It won't ever be enough. I'm falling for her. Actually falling, not pretending, not faking for Violet's clause or Judith's concerns or anyone else.
Falling for the woman I'm supposed to walk away from, without complications.
I've made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Because I thought I could control this. Thought I could keep it professional, maintain boundaries, stick to the plan. But tonight proved what I've been trying not to admit to myself for weeks.
When it comes to Emmy, I have no control at all.
===
5
EMMY
The estate looks different in the fading light—romantic, almost Gothic. Adrian carries both our bags from the car, though I could easily handle my own. I don't argue. There's something nice about being taken care of, even in small ways.
The realization of how alone we are here hits as the front door closes behind us. No staff, no visitors. Just us in this sprawling mansion filled with dappled light, dust motes, books, and memories.
"Hungry?" I ask, already heading toward the kitchen.
"Starving."
Violet's kitchen is huge, with its professional range and center island. I pull ingredients from the bag—we stopped for groceries on the way—and set them on the counter.
"Let's make pasta from scratch," I tell him.
Adrian raises an eyebrow. "From scratch?"
"Don't tell me the great Adrian Hale is intimidated by a little flour and eggs."
He rolls up his sleeves in response, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of his forearms. When did forearms become sexy?
We work side by side, making pasta dough, rolling it out, and cutting it into fettuccine. Flour dusts the countertop, my hands, even my face, apparently, because Adrian reaches over, and his thumb gently wipes flour from my nose.
"Missed a spot," he reaches out, his touch lingers on my cheek.
I lean into his touch for a moment before turning back to the pasta, my heart racing.
Later, wine glasses in hand, we sit at the kitchen island, pasta devoured, conversation flowing easily. I've never seen Adrian this relaxed, this unguarded. He laughs at my story about Marcus getting us caught sneaking out as teenagers. The Adrian from a few weeks ago wouldn't have laughed if I fell flat on my face. On second thought, maybe he would have.
