Page 38 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“Come on into the house. I’ll give you the grand tour if you like.” I tell her.
“I passed Geoffrey on the way here. It’s why I’m a few minutes late. He waved me down and I pulled over. He said dinner was ready, and if we let that grouper sit a minute past seven o’ clock, he’ll have our heads.” Emerson lets me steer her up the wide, stone steps. My hand rides low on her back, and I hear her quick inhale of breath before she says with a bright smile, “It’d be a shame to waste such a beautiful piece of fish and his hard work.”
Emerson has lived here almost her entire life, and it’s logical that she knows The Shayla’s head chef. Geoffrey is only a year or two older than I am. He’s good-looking. Personable. Obviously talented. Apparently friendly enough to be on a first name basis with her.
I swallow down the frisson of jealousy crackling in my veins. “You’re right. Let’s save it for after dinner. Besides, I want to show you my studio. That will definitely take longer than a few minutes.”
“I’d love that.” She precedes me into the house, taking a moment to admire the grandness of the foyer.
Gleaming white marble makes up the floors, the walls painted a pale hint of blue with the ceiling soaring to the second story. A crystal chandelier, almost as tall as Emerson herself, lights the space. From there, a wide hallway opens up into a huge family room where a gourmet kitchen flows out to the terrace and pool. An enormous, floating staircase of the same marble dominates one end of the room, leading to eight upstairs bedrooms on one side of the house and a theater room on the other. A secondary staircase behind the kitchen leads to an additional wing one floor below. That’s where a wine cellar, my recording studio, a gym, sauna, and the laundry are located. The third story of Lullaby Tides holds the master suite, master bath, and a private terrace.
“This is such a beautiful house. I remember when it went on the market a year ago. Everyone was crazy for it.” Emerson trails her fingers over the white marble of the kitchen island, shooting me a grin. “When I heard the new owner was tearing out all the black granite, I’m almost ashamed at how happy it made me.”
“Why is that?”
Her blush is pretty and makes her eyes sparkle. “Oh, it’s silly. You’ll think it’s silly.”
“Tell me anyway,” I cajole, ravenously curious to know what makes her happy. What makes her sad or angry? What interests her, excites her? Makes her mouth soften and her body wet? I haven’t learned everything about her over the past two months. It’s driving me crazy.
For fuck’s sake! If I don’t stop thinking like this, I’m gonna put a permanent tent in these damn dress pants.
Yes, dress pants. Dark tan, made of linen, they match the Ralph Lauren, white, button-up shirt I purchased just yesterday at Seaside Cool. Classic, stylish, and far outside my comfort zone of black jeans and torn t-shirts.Thank God they are almost roomy enough to hide what’s going on below the waistline.
“Black just doesn’t belong in a beach house,” Emerson explains, completely unaware of my aroused state. “Everything should be light and airy. Because, you know, the beach should make you happy. It should calm you. Balance you. You come here for enjoyment, and black is just so… heavy, I suppose. Heavy and serious. Sad.”
My eyebrows lift. “Confession, sweetheart. Black silk sheets on the master bed. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Greyson Finch. How very wicked of you,” she teases back, her eyes sparkling. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Rockstar. I do have a reputation to uphold, you know.” I shrug. “Besides, everyone knows you gotta have some black somewhere. It’s part of the unwritten code in this business. Did you think my sheets would be pink? Or something ridiculous with flowers printed all over it?”
“It’s called ‘floral’ and, honestly, I’ve not thought about your sheets at all,” she fires back with another grin. This one is so wide and genuine, my heart stutters to a stop.
Either the earth is tilting on its axis, pushing us toward one another, or I’ve taken a step closer to her. Regardless, my sudden proximity has the smile fading from her lips. Her eyes connect with mine before darting to my mouth. She stares and I wonder if, like me, she imagines our mouths melting together, my tongue sliding alongside hers until they tangle up in knots.
Thoughts of how she will taste consume me. How soft will her lips feel? How demanding will her kisses become as I take possession of her? Will she lie passive and timid beneath me, or fight for her pleasure?
Need swells inside me, overwhelming and irrational. I’veneverdanced so much around the issue of sex as I have with her. From the time I was fifteen, I’ve taken what I wanted, boldly and confidently, and women love it. Why do I hesitate now? Why don’t I just go after what I want? The consequences of my actions will work themselves out. They always do and, besides, we both feel this mutual attraction.
Maybe she’s waiting on me to make the first move. Maybe she wants me to take control of this, something I will gladly do. Control and everything associated with it comes as second nature to me. The guys in the band complain about my obsessive need for it often enough, groaning whenever I insist on fifteen takes of the same song before declaring it perfect.
I make a quick decision. To hell with the grouper. We’ll have grilled cheese sandwiches for our dinner then wash it down with that expensive wine. Right after I seduce her.
“Emerson…” I murmur, pressing forward until she is trapped between me and the kitchen island. “You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now.”
A spark of panic lights her indigo blue eyes. It’s gone so quickly, I wonder if I truly saw it. The heat coming off her, the fire that leaps to a blazing intensity every time we are within each other’s orbit, makes it obvious she wants me, too.
So, why is she frightened of me? So damned skittish? Does she believe I would hurt her?
“There is something about you, Feather…” I purposefully keep my voice low and even.
“Don’t you think these need to be placed in water?” Emerson interrupts, wiggling sideways so my body is no longer pressing hers. “Lilies can be so temperamental, you know.”
She’s held the bouquet in her hand this entire time. Lifting them to her nose, she blocks me with a shield of flowers. Watching her inhale the blossoms’ fragrance, I don’t think she realizes she’s gripping the stems of the bouquet pretty tight.
“I’d hate if they wilted before we’ve even had dinner.” Rubbing pollen off the end of her nose, she continues in a bright tone. “We need a vase. And you must open the gift I brought you. Unless you’d rather wait until after dessert.”
I sigh, stepping aside so she can slide past. A distance emerges between us that apparently makes her comfortable. She visibly relaxes, and my hope that she’ll serve as my dessert remains unspoken.
