Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (15 page)

He smelled good, felt even better, and when he leaned down and whispered, “Wrap your legs around me, Emi,” she did as she was told, because even though he could be bossy too, she wasn’t rude enough to point it out.

He gave her a devastating kiss, thorough and slow, building the heat, and she decided she liked him bossy. Because he rose in one fluid motion with her in his arms, and when they settled he was sitting on the chair and she was straddling his lap. She slid forward, rolling her hips so his hard ridge pressed against her sensitive flesh.

“A man has to sit to feast?” she guessed, then remembered his injury. “Or is it your knee?”

He laughed. “It’s not my knee that’s the problem, trust me.” At her confused expression, he took her face in his hands and whispered, “Baby, I have to sit because with you I have a hard time finding my footing.”

The honesty in his statement shook her. So did the undertone of affection she heard in his voice. Lust, fun, passion. Those emotions she could handle. They were basic and singular in nature. That’s what she’d signed up for. Not this weird fluttering that was happening in her chest.

She opened her mouth to say something light, something flippant to get them back on the same page—the page that ended come morning—but he was kissing her again, long, intoxicating kisses that scattered every last thought from her mind. And reminded her of why she’d chosen him.

Dax was a temporary kind of guy. Perfect, since she was temporary’s newest best friend. So when he leaned to reach for the condom he’d set on the table, she took it from his hands and, acting like a girl who did this all the time, ripped the foil.

“The rule at my house is—”

“There’s a rule?”

“Oh, you’ll like this one. I promise.” She moved enough to slide the condom over him, giving a little stroke and squeeze in the process. Then she laced her arms around his neck and tightened her legs until she was pressed up against him. “No one leaves the table until everyone is finished.”

“Best rule I’ve ever heard,” he said, running his hands up each rib to caress the underside of her breasts. With a little tug the lace came down, propping them up on display. “Almost as good as this look on you.”

His arms went around her, tight and unyielding, pulling her to him as he kissed her. Hard and all-consuming, he devoured her mouth. His hands roamed her body, his tongue traced the seam of her lip, her neck, even her breast as his grip tightened around her waist and lifted her to his mouth.

He had her on the brink and shuddering in less than two seconds. She was so caught up in the feel of his stubble rasping against her flesh that she gasped when he entered her in one slick, long thrust.

Dax groaned and held still as if savoring the moment. Emerson was savoring it too. Savoring how full she felt, how free.

Then she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, and she knew what else she felt. Connected. He must have felt it too because he didn’t move for a long moment.

Eyes on her, he guided her up, then back down, setting the pace. Taking them to exactly where they both wanted to be, and her further and further away from the soul-deep exhaustion that had become her life, until her grief and responsibilities melted away and all she could do was feel.

Feel Dax and their insane sexual connection.

Wanting more, she slid her arms around his neck and they moved together, skin to skin; the friction of their bodies was what she was seeking. Even then she needed more—more connection, more contact, more Dax.

She buried her face in his neck and breathed him in.

As if he could read her body, he deepened the thrusts, one hand sliding up to cradle her head to him, the other slipping under to stroke her swollen flesh. And she was gone.

The orgasm took her over and she clenched around him, screaming out his name, blissfully floating toward heaven. With one last thrust, Dax let out a rough groan and came with her.

His cheek rested on her head and they both sat there for a moment, breathing hard and holding on tight, as though if they let go it would all be over. Things would go back to the way they were before they’d entered her house.

Except that was what they’d agreed on.

Dax’s hands slowly ran up and down her spine, making her want to snuggle in closer. But that might be mistaken for being in this for the long haul, so she gave him a nudge and pushed back. “I still have my bra on.”

“Not for long.” He reached out and, poof, her bra fell to the floor. He looked at his handiwork and smiled. “Wouldn’t want it to get ruined in the shower.”

M
onday morning, Dax slept through his alarm clock for the first time since basic training. He woke feeling relaxed, rested, and nightmare-free. Great sex seemed to be the cure his doctors had been looking for. He’d see if Kyle could write him up a prescription. Maybe it would change Emerson’s whole one-night stance. He hoped so, because it had been twenty-four hours since Emerson pointed out the sun was up and their night over, then kicked him out—and he could still taste her on his lips.

Pulling on his running shoes and a pair of sweats, he headed toward the Silverado Trail, where he was meeting Adam for a “therapeutic” jog. Last night a cold front had moved through and the early morning frost had yet to burn off, but the thick scent of harvested grapes hung in the air.

Adam was at their meeting spot in some matching name-brand ensemble, stretching like a playboy, when Dax sprinted up.

“I thought the point to this morning was to ease into things,” Adam said, shifting back and forth on his feet. “So that you don’t blow all the hard work the surgeon did in San Diego.”

“Are we talking easing in army terms or fire department? Because I’m not doing any of that prissy shit.” Dax waved a hand in Adam’s direction.

“You mean like handing out dildos with built-in laser pointers?”

Point taken. “I’m just saying you run with empty hoses, we run with telephone poles. Just want to make sure you can keep up.”

“I would have thought you’d be nicer after Saturday. You were actually making headway with the cute cart girl.” Adam turned his ball cap backward and studied him. “Unless you didn’t get any.”

Dax ignored this and took off in a hard jog, because that wasn’t the problem. He’d gotten plenty. It was a steaming, mouthwatering, three-course affair. Only just like the first time, come daybreak it wasn’t enough.

Adam easily caught up, which meant Dax was in worse shape than he’d thought. They jogged in silence, following the same route they’d done when they were kids and he was training for the day he could enlist. Only the farther they went, the more he thought about the other night.

“You’re pouting,” Adam said, then stopped and laughed, resting his hands on his knees. And just when Dax thought he was laughing at him, Adam laughed some more. “No way, you
like
Cute Cart Girl.”

He did. He liked the crazy cart cutie. She was funny, quirky, sexy, and tough. Her entire world had been buried with her mother, yet she kept pushing forward, even carrying the added weight of her family without complaint. Never once allowing the extra baggage or unfairness of it all to take her under.

Then the other night, she’d dropped the tough-girl act and showed him her soft edges, and man, soft looked good on her. Almost as good as Emerson looked on him.

“I’m not pouting,” Dax said.

He was strategizing.

Dax was doing his daily PT in the gym off the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door. It was prickly and impatient, which meant Emerson was early. He glanced out the window but didn’t see her car.

The knock sounded again, followed by a text on his phone. He grabbed his phone, read the screen, and laughed.

I know you’re home.

He texted back.

Are you stalking me?

His phone buzzed immediately.

That would be weird. And we promised no weirdness. Remember?

Oh, he remembered. And nothing about it felt weird to him. He texted back.

Knock knock . . . You say “who’s there?”

To which she replied:

Seriously? Just open the door.

Dax found himself smiling.

It’s unlocked.

He gave a few rapid curls to make the tats stand out, then set down the weights and, ignoring his shirt, grabbed a rag off the bench to at least clean the sweat off his face when he saw the front door burst open.

Emerson stormed inside, her flame-covered Converse squeaking on the wood floors as she stalked the length of the house and right up to him. She was sporting another one of those fantasy-inspiring leather skirts, a black tank that did nothing to hide her curves, and enough anger to singe his nuts off. She also had a canvas grocery bag in hand.

“My dad just called me,” she said, her eyes sparking with fury. “Do you know why?”

He had an idea. Not that she gave him time to answer.

“It seems
someone
”—she set down the bag to throw up jabby air quotes—“from Baudouin Vineyard called him and asked him to come in for an interview tomorrow.”

“Good for him.” Dax crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, waiting for the bad part of her story. Because he knew if Roger was interested, the job would be his. He knew this because he’d called his grandpa that morning and asked him for a favor.

“It’s for a tasting room manager position,” she said dramatically. “My dad has never even gone wine tasting!”

Dax still didn’t see the problem. Most women would be thanking him, and even though he knew Emerson wasn’t most women—hell, she was unlike any woman he’d ever met—he still hadn’t anticipated this kind of response. “Well, he lucked out then, Baudouin wines are the best in the valley.”

Her eyes narrowed into two pissed-off slits. “Cut the shit, Dax. You’re that someone.” Then the strangest thing happened: her anger turned to agitation. She was nervous. “I thought there wasn’t going to be any weirdness.”

He pushed off the wall, approached her, and rested his hands on her hips. “There isn’t.”

She batted at his hands but didn’t back away. “The guy who I just saw naked is finding my dad a job. That’s weird.”

When put like that, yeah, it was. Even weirder than his asking his grandpa for a favor—something he never did.

“For the record, I saw you naked too,” he said, and she didn’t laugh as he’d hoped. “And even though it sounds weird, it’s not. You said he needed a job, I knew that my grandpa was hiring. I might have mentioned your dad’s name.”

There. Simple. Very normal. Nothing to be upset about.

But she was still upset.

“That wasn’t your place.” She poked him in the chest. Hard. “It was supposed to be one night, no strings, and now you’ve just gone and . . . well, you’ve . . .” she sputtered, made a few exasperated huffs, then poked him again. Right in the pec. “You tied us together.”

“I made a call.”

She turned and paced, and he could see her mind processing the information. Emerson was independent, liked to stand on her own two feet. He got that. He wasn’t called Wolf for nothing. But Dax knew when he needed backup. And Emerson needed some in a bad way.

“What if my dad gets the job?” She spun around. “Or what if he gets the job and they fire him because he isn’t qualified? Then he’ll be unemployed and a failure.”

“It’s talking about wine,” he said. “I doubt that a guy who’s worked with grapes for thirty-five years can’t talk about wine to some customers.”

She blew out a breath. “Why did you recommend him?”

This time he paced the room, until he was standing back in front of her. “Because your dad needed a job, my grandpa had one, and that’s what friends do. You’re helping me out with rehab. What’s the difference?”

“I’m cooking for you because you’re paying me, and because you’re helping out with my sister’s Lovelies.”
Yeah, it was still a pussy title.
“We were even. This makes it . . .” She took another breath, and when she looked up at him, all he saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion that rubbed him the wrong way. “It’s just easier to manage expectations when I handle everything myself.”

He wanted to argue that she couldn’t balance the load she’d been carrying forever. At some point she was going to break, and he didn’t want to see that happen. Then again, he wouldn’t be around when it finally did.

“You, Emerson Blake”—he poked her shoulder—“have a God complex.”

And he meant that in the best possible way. Not in the same way as his, staring down the scope, deciding who lived and who died. Emerson was a nurturer, feeding and caring for everyone in her life, doing whatever it took to make their lives better.

Fuller.

“Takes one to know one,” she finally said, gifting him a small smile. She was still frustrated, that much was clear, but most of her defensiveness had faded. “No more weirdness. You are my client, I am your Lovely co-leader. That’s it. Got it?”

He gave her a slow, thorough study until her face was as red as the flames on her shoes. “Something we can talk about tonight, over dinner.”

“Oh no.” Hands out, she took a big step back. “I will cook you dinner, then leave.”

“That’s not the deal.”

“The deal was a meal a week. Over three weeks would equal three meals. We had three meals Saturday.” She held up three fingers to demonstrate.

“I had three.” And because he loved to see her squirm, he took her other hand, which was jabbed into her hip, and pushed up four more fingers. “You had seven.”

She snatched her hands back and picked up the grocery bag. “No one likes a bragger, Dax. No one.”

A few days later, Emerson stood in front of the post office on Main Street, her jacket pulled around her ears. The office was clearly closed, and according to the sign, it wouldn’t open for another two hours. Two hours was a long time to wait.

She could go for a run, eat an entire pan of bread pudding, pick the lint off her couch.

“I should come back,” she said to no one in particular.

Or you could drop it in the mailbox.
Because she knew if she walked away, come tomorrow that envelope would still be in her backpack, and then it would be too late.

She pulled out the envelope and looked at it in her hand, then at the mailbox, even touching the little handle to see how easy it was. Open, insert, and snap, it would be mailed.

Then she would be one of the fifty official contestants in Street Eats, and all she’d need was a truck. Which, if everything went perfectly between now and next week, she’d have. It wouldn’t be the fancy one she’d imagined, but it would be enough to get started.

If
everything went perfectly. She wanted to laugh because lately her luck had been fairly crappy. Perfect had become such a foreign concept, wishing for it made her palms sweat.

Last night she’d made up her mind: she was going to go for it. She even set her alarm for the crack of dawn and came down in her Converse and yesterday’s makeup. But now, standing here in her pj’s hidden under her coat, knowing that if she mailed this letter and something went wrong and she
didn’t
get the food truck . . .

Wouldn’t that be a mess?

She would miss out on her only chance. By nature, golden opportunities came around once in a lifetime, and the rule was you had to take them. She knew the committee would be unlikely to choose her again if she never responded or wasted their time by applying, then saying no thanks. But if she sent it in and then was a no-show?

Emerson closed her eyes and took a slow breath, trying to get a handle on every possibility. When that didn’t work, she changed tactics and tried to think of what her mom would want her to do.

If ever in doubt, eat the whole tray.

Lillianna Petridis-Blake would rather risk a tummy ache than settle for a nibble of crumbs any day. Kissing the envelope, Emerson reached for the handle, and her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her coat pocket and read the screen.