Page 62 of Emmett

“Hold. It.”

“I can’t.” I practically choke on the words. My body aches under his touch, every nerve ending on fire.

“You can,” he tells me.

My hand on his shaft falters. Nash moves his body closer to mine until his cock is pressed against my own, and he wraps his hands around both, working them together. My hips give involuntary thrusts in response, forcing more friction against both of us.

With a loud moan, Nash presses his forehead against mine again, the tips of our noses touching. His cock pulses against mine as his heavy breaths dance across my face andcum spills out of him. Knowing that my own relief is close only serves to make the need more intense.

“You can come for me now, pretty boy,” he tells me, kissing the tip of my nose as he catches his breath.

“Oh Christ,” I whine, “thank you.”

I finally let go, giving myself over to the orgasm I’ve been fighting away. A white, blinding release overtakes every sense, sending the air from my lungs for too long while I come, and the two of us collapse next to each other on top of the bedding.

“Did you justthankme for letting you come?” Nash laughs.

One of my hands rests on my chest while I try to catch my breath, the other I use to shove his face away from me. “Fuck off.”

“Most guys just come. Maybe throw in a ‘yes, Sir’ if they’re feeling playful,” he continues, a chuckle turning into a deep belly laugh that has him pressing a hand to his diaphragm. “But I’ve never beenthanked.”

My hand flies out to smack into his chest. “Then you fuck guys with no manners,” I laugh. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

I should go home. Staying at his house is practically begging for us to be caught, I know this. Park at the neighbor’s house. Leave before morning. Don’t fall asleep. Three very simple rules that we’ve set for ourselves, and yet as we wind down, I find myself wrapping my body around his, and I hold him tightly to my chest, letting the warmth of his body and his steady breathing soothe me until we’re both asleep.

Shit.

TWENTY-FIVE

Nash

My kitchen is a mess. Shredded cheese is littered over the top of the counter, chunks of diced tomato have fallen to the floor, and there are bowls of ingredients laid out sporadically in the most inconvenient of places. Emmett looks between the screen of his phone and the task in front of him as he adds a dash of hot sauce to the pan warming on the stove.

“I have staff for this,” I tell him.

“And I have a perfectly functional pair of hands,” he responds with an arch of his brow.

I chuckle as he reaches across the counter for a bowl of cilantro, which I don’t have the heart to tell him tastes like soap to me, and he spills the contents into the pan, giving it a quick stir as the ingredients inside hiss. Much like when he made french toast, he moves through the kitchen like a baby giraffe, double checking the instructions on his phone between each step before moving forward.

More ingredients join the others until the pan is filled with a brightly-colored blend which he scoops onto large tortillas, carefully tucking the mixture into them before dropping them back into the pan to crisp.

I like this; watching him cook for me, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I like that he’s learninghowto cook for me. Even my ex-husband never bothered with that. Hewas more than happy to use every accommodation that the staff in our home were expected to offer him.

This is strangely refreshing.

“I think we might have some poison-free breakfast burritos,” Emmett announces, carrying each of them on plates with an incline of his head toward the dining room. “Come on.”

My eyes trail over his toned back and the curve of his ass as I follow him, walking through my house as if he owns it, until we reach the dining room. He’s the only person that I’ve had proper meals with since my divorce, and it almost makes me uncomfortable because it feels so nice.

Watching him sit so comfortably in my home, eating food that he made in my kitchen, I could almost be convinced that whatever this thing is between us is normal. I could almost be tricked into believing that this isn’t some torrid affair with the son of a man that I hate.

I enjoy having him here.

As the two of us finish our meals, Emmett uses a napkin to wipe his mouth before shoving his chair away from the table with a satisfied sigh.

“Where do you keep your cleaning stuff?” Pulling his lips into a tight line, he sighs and answers his own question. “You don’t know.”