Page 92 of Deceit

Rising from my chair that’s padded with blue cushions, I make my way to her like I’ve been baited so many times before.

Her honeyed eyes find me immediately, which does nothing from the inner battle that permanently resides within me when it comes to Emmy.

I’m at constant war with myself to remind her who I am and what I’ve already done to her. The other half of me, the rational side, tells me that we dodged a lifetime of fancy parties and gatherings that I have no impulse to attend.

Except, Emmy would be there. What else would I really require at that point?

“Can I get you something to drink, Em?” I ask, my question coming out like a carnal growl of appreciation and definitely need.

Undoubtedly need.

“Uhh…” I threw her off, and I love when I can. It doesn’t happen often, but when Em can lose her words, it’s victorious. “Yeah, sure.”

“You wanna show me where you keep the liquor?” I’m fully aware of where it is. Beckett gave Marty and I a full breakdown of how old their whiskey, wine, and bourbon were. Like Marty and I check the bottles before we buy.

Mills lets go of her arm then finds the company we’ve been keeping.

His lips curl into a sinister smile.

He loves fucking around with people, and I definitely let him because I’d rather not speak to anyone besides the woman in front of me.

I sometimes wonder if the other guys see it.

If they can read me as much as I can them when it comes to the little blonde that we all want to protect in some capacity.

Blue is a different breed of woman, I’d always conserve her life like I would anyone else that belongs to B723, but she handles herself like the boys. She prefers not to be coddled and breathed upon.

Granted, Emmy doesn’t either, but she doesn’t seem to mind it as much as she bitches about.

Shit, we can’t be half as bad as the Beckett asshole who still sits behind me.

Emmy pivots on her heels and starts for the inside of the house that smells like clean laundry. Candles are lit on every single surface of the family room, giving it a homey feel even though the high ceilings and enormous amount of space are anything but to me.

Off the space is a small bar-like area, tucked away for whatever reason. I would call this a closet, but it’s the size of a modest bedroom with a bartop, liquor bottles on the shelves behind it, a fireplace, and some leather chairs that offset the white throughout the whole house.

“Did you see your room yet?” Emmy asks me as she rounds the bar, plucking up a glass and turning to see what her options are.

I nestle up at her side, chest pressed into her clothed bicep as I take the glass out of her hand, feeling the subtle shudder of her body.

“I told you that I’d get you a drink,” I impart, peering down at her and inhaling the smell of peaches radiating off of her.

I’m practically frothing at the mouth to taste her.

It must be the delicious and expensive whiskey, but the urge to plop her ass on this bartop and stand between her legs is on my wishlist right now.

Ever since she showed up in Pittsburgh with my dog, it’s been harder to get her out of my head. Before, I kept myself busy with B723 shit. I could partly keep myself away from her and my mind from wandering to inevitable things.

Earlier, when I told Em I was a selfish prick, and I meant it. She has no reason to be married to me, and I have every one to let her go.

Except I love her.

And Emmy hauls me out of being the strong one between us. The individual that doesn’t care or need anyone. It’s all untrue when all I want is a life with her—as ordinary or unconventional as she claims we are and will be.

“I’m the hostess,” she quips, still keeping her concentration on the various bottles of overpriced booze. “I should be handling—”

“It’s your birthday—“ I stand in front of her blocking her view of shit I don’t need, and press her into the bartop. ”—and I should be handling this ass in my hands and trailing a wet path down your neck with my tongue.”

Emmy blushes and—fuck me—those brown eyes hit my cock’s response to what I was just talking about.

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