Page 76 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

MIDNIGHT MEETINGS

Nolan

The next morning, Emerson rounds up the crew once again with a group text to TJ, Easton, and me.

We’re bringing Jo cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and we’re going to help her pack. Be there at nine or give up your friend card forever.

Seconds later, our group thread is full of obvs and I’ll be there responses. An hour later, Jo’s apartment is full of the lot of us bearing mini cinnamon rolls, hugs, and promises we’ll stay in touch while she’s across the pond.

When Emerson pops open the purple box she brought, Jo rubs her palms together. “Oh, look. It’s Emerson’s booty.”

I give my co-host’s ass a leer. I know how it feels in my hands and against my palm when I smack it. Know, too, how much she likes a swat or three or four. It’s a bit of a miracle that I can say drily, “It is a nice one.”

Jo bonks me on the shoulder. “Booty as in plunder. Food plunder. Baked goods.”

“Prizes, riches, loot,” TJ puts in, then adds, “At least, that’s how I sometimes use the word.”

The five of us joke some more, down coffee, eat sweets. Jo’s a touch cheerier than she was last night, but not much. “I’m going to miss you all so much.”

Emerson frowns then pulls Jo in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you too.”

Is it even harder for Emerson, because of her sister, when someone leaves? It must be.

After we help Jo pack, the rest of us fan out. TJ heads to a coffee shop to work on his book—or, as he says, attempt to drain words from his beleaguered brain —and Easton departs to his office for work. Emerson and I make our way to an afternoon shoot.

On the way there, I venture, “It’s hard for you because of Callie, right?”

Her brow furrows. “Jo leaving?”

“Yeah. Is that part of why it’s hitting you so hard?” I ask as we walk.

She hums as if considering the idea. “You’re probably right. I don’t think I realized that. Which is, maybe, silly of me.”

“No, it’s not.” But maybe I shouldn’t have tried to psychoanalyze this moment. “I didn’t mean to bring up something hard,” I say.

She grabs my arm. “I’m glad you did. I think you’re right.

It probably is harder. Also, I was truly looking forward to spending time with Jo while we were here in New York—going to shows, getting a drink, and just hanging out.

And now we can’t do that. I don’t like it when people leave,” she says, then smiles like you’ve figured me out .

“I think that’s reasonable,” I say.

I want to promise I won’t leave her.

More than anything, I want to promise her that.

Maybe someday I can.

The next night, after an evening shoot at a swank new supper club, Emerson and I are signing T-shirts and taking pics with fans, when from the end of the line, a redhead shouts, “ Foodgasm!”

The woman squeals when she meets Emerson. “I have been watching your show forever. Back when you did it with your sister,” she gushes.

Emerson’s green eyes twinkle. “You’re a longtime fan, then,” she says, kind of in awe.

“I am. And I did not think I would like it with someone else. Took me a while to warm up to him.” She points to me.

Emerson loops her arm around my shoulders. “I get that. He’s a tough one to like,” she says with a wink.

I curl my arm around her waist and squeeze her hard. “Same for her.”

The redhead smiles. “But I’m glad you guys started the show again. It’s just so fun. I look forward to every new episode alert.”

“And we love doing it,” Emerson says.

That right there reminds me why a promise not to leave Emerson is hard, if not impossible, to make. We are so wrapped up in each other—how can I make a promise when the stakes are so high?

But when we’re finished and we board the subway toward the hotel, Emerson leans her head on my shoulder and whispers, “Would you knock on my door at midnight?”

I give her a questioning look. Lately, I just go over whenever. “Sure. Why?”

“I just want that.”

And I want to give her what she wants. I’ll deal with promises another time.

As the clock ticks the last minutes of that day, I knock on her door. She swings it open wearing only red lace panties. Nothing else.

I groan savagely at the sight.

She presses her finger to her lips, then grabs the waistband of my jeans. She tugs me into the room, over to the wall, and pushes me against it.

“Shh,” she whispers.

I don’t plan on saying a word. My dick’s already reporting for duty, ready for whatever plan Emerson has in store.

She reveals her intentions as she unzips my jeans then sinks to her knees. After urging my pants down my thighs, she stops, pressing her face to the fabric of my boxer briefs and rubbing her cheek against my straining hard-on.

And the panda design on them. “Nice pandas,” she says.

“They look even better off,” I say.

With a wicked gaze, she looks up at me. Her eyes are eager. She pulls my boxer briefs down, freeing my cock. Her breath comes in a rush as she stares at my dick. Then she dips her face. Swirls her tongue. Laps me up.

“Oh fuck,” I grunt.

This isn’t the first time she’s taken me in her mouth. But it’s the first time she’s done it like this—me against the wall, her in control. She grabs my right hand, guides it to the back of her neck, and curls it around. My muscles shake. My dick hardens even more.

A zap of pleasure singes my spine as she licks me again then whispers, “Don’t move.”

I will do anything she asks. “I won’t,” I murmur, so damn curious what she’s got in mind.

She shows me, opening her mouth and drawing me in, first an inch, then another. When I’m halfway in, I can feel her throat working. Saliva pools around my cock, and she breathes in, trying to relax her throat. Then she guides her mouth onto my cock farther, farther.

Holy fuck.

My skin sizzles.

Emerson’s lips stretch wide and wonderfully around my dick, her mouth closing in on the base.

I am there, all the way in, and this is the best midnight treat ever. My hand tightens around her neck. She nods in encouragement, telling me to grip her harder. I do, curling my fingers roughly around her skin. Her shoulders rise, give a sexy little shudder.

Then she slides her hands around me, grabbing my ass and tugging.

A signal.

“Honey,” I murmur. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes say please.

“You want me to fuck your face?”

A moan against my shaft. A glossy look in her green irises.

And I oblige, giving her what we both want. A thrust, then I ease out. She gasps, I push back in. She squeezes my ass, her fingernails digging in. I grip her neck harder, pressing against her flesh.

“You good?”

She nods wildly.

And I fuck her mouth like that—as a slick of saliva slides down her chin, as she gags but refuses to let go, urging me deeper with her hands. As I pump, pleasure accelerates with every thrust.

I warn her when I’m about to blast off. She digs her nails into my ass one more time, and my world spirals into filthy bliss as I come down her throat.

It’s insane and wild and intimate, beautiful in its own dirty way.

Then, it gets even better when she grabs my hand, pushes me onto the bed, and crawls up my chest. “Can I fuck your face?”

“You fucking better,” I tell her as she sheds her panties.

When she rides my face as wildly as I fucked hers, I’m sure I want to find a way to keep her.

And it’s not for the sex—this deeply intimate, amazingly passionate sex.

What I want might also be the way to get it—its own solution if I can just work out the puzzle.