Page 73 of The Emerson Effect
I don’t know why I’m nervous. Hell, I wasn’t this jittery when I drove to Vegas to meet him for the first time.
“You made it,” I call out with a plastered-on smile as he climbs out of his car.
“It was a nice drive,” he replies as he grabs a suitcase and a duffel bag from the trunk. “Traffic was unusually light for a Monday morning, and once I left L.A., it was wide open all the way to the seventy-eight.”
“That’s good,” I say as he approaches, ignoring the way my stomach flops at his nearness. Spinning around, I offer him a wave, adding, “Come on in.”
I give him the tour, and he’s suitably impressed by the house and my backyard oasis. Pride gushes through me because I gotthis place all on my own, and Emerson doesn’t shy away from expressing how amazing that is. Like he’s in awe. Or maybe like he’s proud of me, too.
When we go upstairs, my nerves return in full force. There are four bedrooms up here, including mine, and I’m torn as to whether I should show him to it or put him in one of the guest rooms. My first instinct is the latter, but the thought of him sleeping somewhere other than in my bed leaves me feeling a bit depressed.
He is my husband, however short-term the status may be. And it’s not like we haven’t…done things.
I realize we’re still standing in the upstairs hallway in complete silence when Emerson’s hand curls around mine. I startle, then meet his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I can sleep wherever you want me, Twila. There’s no pressure. I just want you to be comfortable.”
He punctuates the words with a soft squeeze of my hand. I stare at him, in awe of his intuitiveness, as well as his kindness. And I have to admit, I didn’t sleep well last night. Not only because I was nervous about his arrival this morning, but because my bed felt lonely without him. Sure, we were both passed-out-drunk the one night we slept together in the same bed, but somehow, I felt his absence last night.
And I didn’t like it.
Making the decision, I tug the hand that’s still holding mine toward my bedroom. He doesn’t budge, and when I look back, he gives me an apologetic look before pulling his hand free of mine so he can grab the handle of his suitcase. Right. He needs both hands to carry his stuff inside.
I lead the way, heading straight for the his-and-hers walk-in closets.
“This one is full of my stuff,” I say, pointing to the left. I head right, adding, “I only have a few things in here, so there shouldbe enough space to hang your clothes. Plus, all of those built-in drawers are empty.”
“Thank you. This is perfect,” he says, shooting me a grin.
His smile makes me feel hot all over. This is what he really wants. He wants to be in this room. With me.
I bite the corner of my lip as my thoughts wander back to our time in Las Vegas. The things we did in bed. And in the shower. The things we wanted to do, but couldn’t because of a definitive lack of preparedness.
I glance toward my nightstand. I’m definitely prepared, now. Raven ordered an economy-sized pack of condoms and three different kinds of lube through her grocery delivery service to be delivered to me this morning. It was a gag gift. Sort of.
I look back at Emerson, who’s started to unpack. Making the decision, I leave the closet and wander toward my bed. I look over my shoulder, and he’s still got his back to me, placing a stack of folded garments into one of the drawers.
I take a deep breath and steel my spine. Gripping the hem of my t-shirt, I whip it over my head and drop it to the floor. Then, I undo my shorts and wiggle my hips until they, too, drop. Stepping out of them, I climb onto the bed. Laying my head on the mountain of pillows, I lift one arm up and let it curl around my skull as I bend one knee. I read somewhere years ago that this was the position that makes a woman look the sexiest.
Am I being a bit brazen? Sure. But Ireallywant to fuck my husband. Right now.
And the science of my position must be right, because when Emerson calls my name and turns around to find me, whatever he’d been about to say dies on his lips as his jaw unhinges and drops open. His eyes heat just before he morphs into a tornado, spinning and hopping as he jerkily sheds his own clothes. I laugh at his effort, and he stops to take a calming breath when he’s finally wearing nothing but his boxer briefs.
He climbs onto the bed with a wide smile, stretching over me and nestling his hips between my thighs. His face hovers over mine, perfectly still, as we grin at each other for a few short beats.
“Hi,” he whispers, finally.
“Hi,” I repeat back to him.
He dips his head and kisses me, and it’s the gentlest, sweetest, most reverent kiss I’ve ever received. He pulls back for a scant second, then dives in again. This time, his kiss is all-consuming and filled with demand, like he’s been starved for it.
“God, I missed you,” he murmurs as his lips trail down my neck and across my collarbone.
I’d make some kind of joke about how it’s only been a day since he saw me last, but my brain melts when he rolls his hips, showing me exactly how much he’s missed me. The ridge of his hard cock presses against my clit, making me gasp, so he does it again.
I’m already soaked and ready, so I tug on his hair to get his attention. When he looks up, I point at my nightstand.
“Top drawer. Condom. Now. Please.”
