Page 19 of Hooked on Emerson (Hooked #2)

Before she could respond, he leaned forward, his lips finding the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

The contact sent a shiver through her, a rush of heat that contrasted with the coolness of the room.

His hands settled at her waist, warm and steady, anchoring her as his mouth traced a path along her collarbone.

"Your turn," she murmured, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He pulled back long enough to remove it, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders.

Ava's hands found him immediately, fingers tracing the contours of muscle, the slight roughness of hair, the warmth of skin that seemed to radiate even in the chill of the room.

A scar curved along his ribs, pale against his tan—an old injury, long healed but still visible.

She traced it gently, a question in her touch.

"Table saw," he explained, his voice rough. "Years ago. I was careless."

She leaned down, pressing her lips to the mark, feeling him tense beneath her touch.

When she looked up, his eyes were dark with want, all hesitation gone.

His hand came up to cradle her face, drawing her back to him for a kiss that was deeper, more urgent than before.

The careful restraint he'd shown was beginning to fray, need overcoming caution.

They moved together on the makeshift bed, hands exploring, discovering what made the other gasp or sigh.

The rain drummed steadily on the roof above them, a constant backdrop to their whispered words and quickened breaths.

Lightning flashed again, and in its brief illumination, Ava saw the raw emotion on Emerson's face as he looked down at her—desire, yes, but also tenderness, wonder.

Clothes were discarded piece by piece, each removal a question asked and answered with touches, with looks, with the growing certainty that this was right, this was needed, this was inevitable.

The fabric of her jeans clung to her damp skin, making them difficult to remove, but Emerson's hands were patient, careful as he helped her, his fingers brushing against her calves, her thighs, leaving trails of warmth in their wake.

When they were finally skin to skin, Emerson paused, his weight braced on his forearms as he looked down at her. The candles had burned lower, casting long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

"Ava," he said, her name a question.

"Yes," she answered, drawing him down to her. "Yes."

The storm outside reached its peak as they came together, thunder crashing overhead, rain drumming against the roof and windows.

A particularly bright flash of lightning illuminated the room just as Emerson's body joined with hers, the momentary brightness making everything crystal clear—the reverence in his eyes, the flush spreading across her chest, the way their bodies fit together as if designed for each other.

But inside, in the small space they'd created, there was only warmth and connection, the rhythm of their bodies moving together, the sound of their breathing, their whispered words of encouragement and need.

The scent of rain mixed with the earthier smells of the shop—flowers, wood, the clean sweat of skin on skin—creating something new and intimate, a fragrance that belonged only to this moment, to them.

Emerson moved with the same careful attention he brought to everything.

He was observing her responses, learning what drew out a gasp or a moan, adjusting to give her what she needed.

His hands were gentle but confident, his body strong against hers.

When he whispered her name against her skin, it felt like a revelation, a truth being spoken into existence.

Ava lost herself in the sensation, in the feeling of being fully present in her body, in this moment, with this man.

There was no shop, no Seattle, no decisions waiting to be made.

Only the heat building between them, the growing tension, the sense of standing at the edge of something profound and necessary.

The storm's rhythm seemed to match their own, intensifying as they moved together, the rain beating against the windows, the thunder rolling closer, then receding, then returning with renewed force.

Emerson's breathing grew more ragged, his movements more urgent, and Ava met him there, her body arching to take him deeper, her hands clutching at his back, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach.

When release came, it washed through her like a wave, intense and overwhelming.

She clung to Emerson, his name on her lips, her body arching against his.

He followed moments later, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his arms tightening around her as if she might disappear if he didn't hold on.

For a long moment, they remained tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. The candle nearest them guttered, its flame dancing wildly before steadying again. Outside, the thunder had grown more distant, the storm beginning its retreat, though the rain continued to fall steadily.

Emerson shifted, his weight lifting from her but his arms still holding her close as he moved to lie beside her.

The air was cool on her damp skin, making her shiver slightly.

He reached for one of the unused drop cloths, draping it over them like a blanket, his movements gentle and considerate even in the aftermath of passion.

Ava's head found its place on his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear a counterpoint to the now-gentler rain.

His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder, raising pleasant shivers despite the warmth of their shared body heat.

Neither spoke immediately, the silence comfortable, necessary after the intensity of what they'd shared.

The storm continued its slow retreat, the space between lightning and thunder growing longer, the rain softening from downpour to steady patter.

One candle had burned out entirely, leaving the room dimmer than before, shadows deepening in the corners.

Ava watched the play of candlelight on Emerson's chest, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, feeling more at peace than she had in months.

"Are you cold?" he asked finally, his voice low in the quiet room.

She shook her head, nestling closer against him. "No. You're warm."

His arm tightened around her, drawing her more firmly against his side. His skin smelled of rain and clean sweat, with undertones of sawdust and something distinctly him—a scent she realized she'd come to associate with safety, with being cared for.

"What are you thinking?" Ava asked, tilting her head to look at him.

Emerson's eyes met hers, something vulnerable in their depths. "That I meant what I said. At the festival."

I think I'm falling in love with you. The words hung unspoken between them, but she heard them nonetheless, felt their truth in the way he held her, in the careful attention he paid to her comfort, in the tenderness with which he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"I know," she said softly. "I believe you."

He nodded, accepting her response without pushing for more. Always giving her space, always letting her find her way in her own time. It was one of the things she'd come to cherish about him—his patience, his understanding that some things couldn't be rushed.

Outside, the storm had gentled considerably, the rain now a soft patter against the windows. The thunder had moved on, just distant rumbles that felt more like memory than threat. The shop was quiet except for the occasional drip into a bucket, a rhythmic reminder of the work still to be done.

Ava traced the line of Emerson's collarbone with her fingertip, marveling at the warmth of his skin, at how comfortable she felt lying here with him, naked and vulnerable yet somehow safer than she'd felt in months.

His hand caught hers, bringing her fingers to his lips for a soft kiss that made her heart flutter.

"We should check the buckets," she said after a while, though she made no move to get up. "Make sure nothing's overflowing."

"In a minute," he agreed, his fingers still tracing patterns on her skin.

They lay there a while longer, listening to the gentle rain, to each other's breathing, to the occasional distant rumble of thunder as the storm moved further away. The candle burned lower, its light softening as the wick began to drown in melted wax.

Ava found herself memorizing the moment—the weight of his arm around her, the texture of the drop cloths beneath them, the way the candlelight gilded his skin, turning it to warm bronze.

Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever decision she made about Seattle, about the shop, about her future, she wanted to remember this—being held by someone who saw her, truly saw her, and wanted her anyway.