Unbroken (9 page)

“Yeah,” Lacey coos back, “But to whose home?”

I leave them laughing, and stalk back across the party to where we locked the bikes up. Emerson strolls behind me, and I do my best to keep walking in a straight line. “Stop following me!” I call over my shoulder.

“It’s a free country.” The laughing reply comes.

I grit my teeth, and haul the bike up, trying to mount it without showing off my underwear to the whole entire world. And Emerson. It takes three tries, but I finally get my leg over the saddle and feet lined up for the pedals.

“You know, I can give you a ride.” He points out. He’s leaning up against the railing, watching me wheel out to the street.

“No thanks.” I push off, and shakily start pedaling away. There! “See? I’m fine, perfectly capable of taking myself home—“

The front wheel suddenly catches on a pothole, and I go hurtling to the ground with a crash. I cry out in pain as my knee scrapes on the gravel; my ankle twisting under the metal frame as I slam against the concrete.

“Juliet!” I hear the concern in Emerson’s yell, and a moment later, he’s beside me. “Are you OK?” he demands, lifting the bike off me as if it weighs nothing. “Jesus, you really are wasted. Are you out of your fucking mind trying to ride like this? You could have hit a car or something!”

“Fine! You’re right! Happy now?” I demand, trying to hold back a sob. My knee stings like crazy, and there’s a sharp shooting pain in my ankle. But worse than that is the humiliation of looking like a total fucking mess in front of Emerson.

He softens. “Just wait here, I’ll go get my truck.”

“I’m fine!” I insist. I try to get up, but pain shoots through my foot again. I let out a yelp, and crumple back to the ground.

“Don’t move,” Emerson tells me, and then jogs away.

I sit on the side of the street, sniffling with pained tears. Where does he expect me to go? I can barely even stand, let alone run away. If I could, I’d hit the road, and not stop until I was all the way back in the city locked safely in Daniel’s arms.

Daniel. I feel a twinge of guilt, and check my phone. He’s texted twice tonight already, so I quickly tap out a reply.

All good. Lacey’s partying it up, I’m heading home 2 sleep.

Within minutes, a brand-new blue truck comes to a stop beside me. I tuck my phone away, guilty as Emerson jumps down, and throws the bike in the back. “You need me to carry you?” he asks.

“No!” I cry quickly. I manage to get upright and hobble over to the truck. It hurts like hell, but it’s better than the alternative: me, in Emerson’s arms, crushed up against that strong, chiseled chest…

I clamber up into the passenger seat. The door slams. Emerson is in the driver’s seat beside me. He looks over, then rolls his eyes. “Here,” he shoves a wad of paper towels at me. “Clean yourself up, you look pathetic.”

“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.” I snipe back

“I’m driving you home. How much more sympathy do you want?”

“None. Absolutely nothing at all.” I reach over to turn the radio up, some classic Springsteen song, and then turn to stare out of the window. Emerson gets the message, because he doesn’t speak again, not until we’ve pulled into the driveway back at the beach house, and he’s turned the engine off. “Don’t move,” he says, getting down and coming around to my side. “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand for me.

“I don’t need your help,” I inform him icily. I ignore his hand, and try to scramble down myself—without putting any weight on my ankle, which by now feels like it’s swollen to twice its normal size.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jules.” Emerson growls, then before I can resist, he puts one arm under my legs, the other around my torso, and swings me out into his arms.

“Put me down!” I yelp, shocked at the feel of his body, so close to mine. “Emerson!”

He ignores me, striding up the steps to the porch. I struggle against his body, but his arms are like steel around me. I’m helpless against the flood of sensation overwhelming me: the heat of him, the deep, masculine scent, the friction of his shirt against my bare arms. “Emerson,” I try again, desperate. “I’m warning you!”

Emerson looks down at me, his dark eyes flashing. “Do you ever shut the hell up?”

He opens the door, and takes me through the hallway to the living room, depositing me gently on the couch. I scoot back the minute he lets go of me, trying to put the maximum distance between our bodies.

“I told you I was fine.” I snap angrily.

“Yeah, well your ankle says different.” Emerson glowers down at me. “Maybe you should pay more attention to what your body’s telling you.”

He strides off into the house, leaving me weak and breathless with his last words. What my body is telling me? God, if I did that, I’d be naked and on top of him right now.

Argh!
I let out a small cry of frustration. This was exactly why I was afraid to come back here—why I tried to bail on the party tonight. It’s not that I don’t know what my body wants, it’s that I sure as hell can’t ever allow myself to have it.

Like,
ever
.

Because I know how that ends: with me alone, and heartbroken, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him in the first place.

Emerson returns from the kitchen with a damp cloth and the old tin first-aid kit. He kneels down at my feet beside the couch, and takes my injured leg in his hands.

I flinch away from his touch.

“Hold still,” he grounds out. One look from him, and I obey—his whole face is set and determined, lips pressed in a grim line. Clearly, having to take care of me is the worst thing in the world to him right now.

“Your ankle should be fine,” Emerson says, carefully rotating my bare foot in his hands. “It’s not broken or sprained. I’ll get this knee cleaned up.”

“I can do it myself,” I snap, watching him dab the wet towel to clean up the gravel and blood.

“Like you could cycle home? Or take care of yourself in the bar?” Emerson shoots back. “I’m surprised you’re not dead in a gutter if this is how you’ve been carrying on the last four years.”

Before I can reply, he takes the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then pauses. “This is going to hurt a little.”

A little?

“Motherfucker!” I let out a yell as he pours it over the open wound.

“OK, so I lied.” Emerson grins.

I grit my teeth and wait it out. It stings like hell, but to my surprise, that’s a good thing: the more I can focus on the pain, the less time there is to feel his hand gently gripping my bare leg, or watch how his head is bent over me, focused completely on the task.

On fixing me.

Emerson wipes the alcohol away, and then presses a Band-aid over the wound. There’s a pause, he glances up to catch my eyes. Then, to my shock, he slowly leans down and softly kisses my knee. “All better,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.

My heart stops.

Slowly, Emerson rises from his knees. Holding my gaze in a magnetic stare, he steps his feet on either side of mine, bending over to rest his hands on the couch cushions on either side of my head. His face is just inches away from mine. His body looms over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from every muscle. The look in his eyes is deadly determined.

I close my eyes. It’s all too much.

“Emerson…” I whisper. Even in the dark of my mind, I can see him perfectly. His presence fills every one of my senses, a wave of pure longing. I can hear the ragged sound of his breath, uneven; feel every shift and motion of his body through the thin air between us.

Then he touches me. His finger brushes against my cheek, tracing down my jaw, my throat, along my collarbone. I let out a gasp, my skin burning to his touch.

Every cell in my body crackles with electricity. Everything I have cries out for more.

I bite my lip. My eyes are still pressed shut, and I’m caught up in the darkness, and this wildfire racing through my body. I should stop him, I should push away, but the only thing that matters to me is that slow trail of his fingertip tracing so gently down the centre of my chest.

He reaches the neckline of my flimsy tank, gently teases along the lacey edge.

Oh God.

It takes everything I have not to moan in pleasure. One touch, that’s all this is. One slow fingertip, and my body is screaming for him. I’m aching and wet, more turned on than I’ve been in years.

Since the last time with him.

“Open your eyes.” Emerson’s growl is sharp.

My eyes fly open—staring straight into his. My breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. It’s burning, fierce, like it’s taking everything he has not to tear my clothes off this very second.

“Say ‘no’.” Emerson’s whisper is thick with desire.

I blink, my mind foggy and confused.

“Tell me ‘no’, and I’ll stop.” His lips dip to my neck and press softly, kissing tiny fresh shivers through my body. His finger slides lower beneath the edge of my tank, slipping under the lace of my bra. His breathing quickens, he stifles a groan against my neck, but I don’t stop him. I can’t. My world is nothing but his lips, and tongue, and the glorious path of his hand against my breast. His fingers find my nipple and slowly, lazily circle it as his tongue plays havoc along my neck. I shudder for breath, strung out and gasping, not even knowing the release I crave until he finally closes his thumb and fingertip around the hard nub of my nipple and squeezes in a firm pinch.

This time, I can’t help but moan.

The sound is my undoing.

In a second, Emerson’s lips slam down against mine in a searing kiss. His mouth is hot and hungry, devouring me as his hands grab at my body, pushing my tank up around my chest, his touch burning across my skin.

Holy fuck.
It’s like an explosion, the burst of desire that shatters through me, blocking out every last thought with the need for more, closer,
now
. I arch up against him, mindless from his kisses, tangling my fingers in his hair as I pull him down hard against me.

Emerson slips his hands underneath my butt and lifts, scooping me against the length of his body as he slams me down beneath him on the couch with a groan. I let out an answering moan, wrapping my legs around his waist and thrusting up against him, greedily running my hands down the length of his back, feeling every ridge of muscle flex and rise. I claw his T-shirt up, hungry for the sensation of his skin under my hands. It’s a discovery and a homecoming all in one, our tongues tangling with desire as I nip and lick at his mouth, drowning in the taste of him.

Mine.

Emerson grinds his hips down against me, and the delicious weight of him sends a fresh thrill of pleasure ricocheting through my body. I buck against him, reckless, and tear my lips away from his mouth to taste my way along his jaw and along to his ear. My mind is gone, the world is a blur, there’s nothing but the sound of my gasps and the feel of his body bearing down on mine. Solid, strong,
overwhelming me
. I tease against his earlobe with my tongue, and Emerson lets out an animal groan of pleasure. He grabs my wrists, yanking them up above my head. I gasp, struggling against his grip, but he traps them in place with one hand while the other roves across my chest, plucking and teasing at my nipples until I can’t help but cry out with pleasure.

Emerson lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are wild with desire, but there’s something more in them too, some dark determination that makes my breath catch in my throat. His hand goes to the waistband of my skirt; he yanks my button fly open, breathing heavily. Then, he crawls slowly down my body, blazing a trail of kisses down my bare skin. Lower, lower…

Oh my God…!

His tongue traces a teasing circle around my belly-button, dipping to lap in the hollow. I’m trapped in anticipation, strung out on the gorgeous scrape of his stubble against my skin and the heat that’s rolling through me, a fire building with every lick and touch to one aching, agonizing point between my thighs. All I want is there, so close, but just as he slips both hands beneath my waistband and prepares to yank it down, one tiny shard of conscience pierces through the haze of desire fogging my mind.

Daniel.

Daniel.

Fuck!

I sit up with a jolt. “I have a boyfriend!” My voice cries out, ragged in the quiet house as I gasp for air.

Emerson freezes. We stare at each other, breathing heavily. I feel my blood course through me, still electric from his touch. He’s gripping my hips, poised above me, not moving.

“I’m sorry,” I babble. “I should have said… But… I’m sorry.”

A strange, shuttered look drops over Emerson’s face. I gulp, suddenly fearful. What does he think of me now? I didn’t invite this, but I sure as hell didn’t put up a fight either.

Slowly, deliberately, Emerson releases me. He climbs off the couch, pulling his shirt back down, and adjusting his jeans.

“You hate me,” I whisper. Regret mingles with desire in my bloodstream, sobering me.