And then there was the moment I couldn’t hold back any longer. I told myself that one small kiss would be okay. I reasoned that it was just for show. But her eager lips, the little gasp of sound she made when our tongues touched, the way her hand came to grasp my shoulder and pull me closer—all that made everything else disappear. There was nothing fake about the kiss. Or the way I feel about this woman before me.
I look down at her ring finger to see the diamond flash. Arranging for a special viewing of the best, rarest, and most valuable gems on such quick notice wasn’t something Matt could manage. It took every contact I had, every bit of cachet andpower at my disposal, to gather that collection at the small, boutique jewelry shop, with favors called in, promises made. Several armed guards were set up around the store, though thankfully, Emma didn’t notice.
I’m no good at taking things slow. Emma’s the cautious one. But over the years, she’s shown me the wisdom of looking before leaping when the stakes are high. And for this, the stakes are the highest of my life.
So I remind myself to chill the fuck out and not mess this up by rushing her.
Em’s gaze shifts back to the bed and then returns to me. She clears her throat. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she says softly. She walks over to the antique dresser and pulls a neat pile of folded items out of a drawer, because of course she unpacked. Avoiding my gaze as if feeling shy, she walks to the bathroom.
A short while later, I hear the shower start and then stop. When the door to the marble bathroom opens, she steps out, the back light framing her curves.
I lie stretched out on the bed. I drop the script I’ve been distracting myself with and gulp. Her expression is somehow both shy and defiant. I’d had a variety of sleepwear sent over earlier today. Matching sets of tailored pajamas. And little wisps of lace and satin.
Instead, she’s wearing one of the concert T-shirts I packed for her. It’s black, with the band name emblazoned across her chest. It falls to mid-thigh and looks soft, as if it’s been washed a dozen times. There are a few holes in the neckline.
Her face is bare, with no trace of makeup, and her hair is down, falling silkily over her shoulders. Her toes are painted the color of midnight.
“You’re perfect.” The words pop out of my mouth of their own volition.
More than at any other time I’ve seen her. More than the overachieving professional I’ve worked with daily. Even more than that hot-as-hell badass in red with her hair down and flowing over her back from earlier tonight. She’s never looked more herself than now.
And I fucking can’t get enough of this stripped-down version. It’s almost as if I can see behind the mask.
I’ll forever think of her just like this. In this room. In this light.
She laughs. “Hardly. This is my favorite sleep shirt,” she admits on a breath. “It’s falling apart, but it’s so soft. I’m surprised you packed it.” I’m not sure I understand why, but there’s vulnerability in her gaze, as if admitting that she loves the threadbare cotton is shameful, some dirty little secret.
“It was at the top of the drawer,” I say lamely, my mouth dry. I very much want to drag her to the bed. To show her just how much I like her shirt. And the bare skin beneath.
Slow down, I remind myself for the billionth time. I need to find out if she still wants or needs her boundaries. She says I’ve spent the last seven years crashing through them all. And more than anything, I want to be a better version of myself. For her.
She stands there, looking uncertain, watching me with a question in her gaze. She clears her throat and looks around the room. “There don’t seem to be any extra pillows.”
At first, I don’t understand her words, and then it hits me. The first time we slept together, she used pillows to create a barrier between us. But there are no extra pillows now.
We have one bed and no separation.
Fuck. Yes.
Don’t rush it. Don’t be an asshat.“I can find somewhere else to sleep,” I offer. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I can crash in the bathroom. Or make an excuse for why I need to leave tonight and come back in the morning.”
We’ve slept the past few nights together, but it feels different now. Then, she was just out of the hospital and recovering. I knew nothing was going to happen.
But tonight… Her face is alive. Her crystalline eyes shining. A vision flashes through my imagination. Her wearing the sapphire necklace and nothing else.
“No, it’s okay. We’ve shared a bed before. We’re two adults,” she says huskily. “You’re—you’re not my boss anymore.”
That should hurt, as if I’ve lost something at her words. Instead, there’s a dizzying flash of lightness. A dozen chains that have been holding me down suddenly released.
She crawls into bed and shivers.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admits, sounding shy. “It’s surprisingly chilly. And this blanket, while beautiful, isn’t very warm.”
“I’m always hot. You can use me.”
She giggles. It’s uncharacteristically girlish. I tuck it into my memory. I’m not sure when the habit started but lately—longer—I’ve been collecting her laughs like I’d collect lucky pebbles. Each is similar, but different. Mundane miracles to be turned over, analyzed; a fragment of memory to be marveled at, to be tucked away in some corner of my brain to savor for later.
