Page 38 of Wrong Number, Right Player
“I’m only interested in one person’s attention,” he says, kissing my temple.
“Good answer,” Derek snorts. “McKenna looks like she could take her.”
“I absolutely could,” I confirm, making Emmitt laugh.
We stay until closing, and when we spill into the parking lot, Derek declares, “McKenna, you’re officially required to attend all future team-bonding activities. As a girlfriend, not a nutritionist.”
“She’ll be there,” Emmitt says confidently, draping an arm around my shoulder. “Right where she belongs.”
“Glad you two finally figured that out,” Conner says, with a knowing smile.
In the car, as the rideshare driver turns out of the parking lot, Emmitt’s hand rests high on my bare thigh, his thumb stroking small circles. The beers have made me bold and reckless.
“You know,” I say, my words slightly slurred as I study his profile, “watching you get all territorial in there was kind of hot.”
His hand tightens on my thigh, his own speech a little loose.
“McKenna,” he warns quietly, with a glance toward the driver.
“What? The way you pulled me closer when that waitress was flirting…” I trail my fingers up his arm then let my hand drift to his lap, palming him through his jeans. The alcohol has killed my inhibitions completely. “The way you marked your territory.”
He’s already half-hard, and I feel him twitch under my touch. His jaw clenches as he fights to stay quiet, but his breathing is heavier, less controlled.
“I love knowing I’m yours,” I whisper against his ear, my voice barely audible but thick with want. “Love that everyone can see it now.”
“Keep that up, and we might not make it to the bedroom once we get home,” he breathes, his voice strained and rougher than usual.
I continue stroking him slowly through the denim, my movements less precise but more urgent.
“Who says I need a bed?” I whisper then giggle softly as the driver glances in the rearview mirror.
Emmitt’s eyes darken at my suggestion, but he keeps his voice low and gravelly. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I soften my touch but don’t pull away completely, swaying slightly as I lean into his solid warmth. “But seriously, thank you.”
“For what?” His voice is still tight with want, words coming slower.
“For keeping your promise. For bringing me tonight. For making me yours.”
“You’ve always been mine,” he says, his free hand covering mine.
A few minutes later, the car takes a left instead of the right turn toward Emmitt’s place, and I blink slowly, trying to focus as we head toward my complex.
“The driver’s going the wrong way,” I murmur.
“He’s going exactly where I asked him to,” Emmitt says, his eyes soft in the passing streetlights, pupils dilated.
Sure enough, a glance at the phone on the dash confirms the destination is my condo, though it takes me a second to process.
“My place? But we haven’t been there in weeks,” I say, confused.
“I have a surprise for you.”
When we pull up to my front door, my breath catches, and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing clearly. On the porch, there’s a neat stack of pristine moving boxes.
I climb out slowly, moving with the careful precision of someone who knows they’re drunk. I stare at the boxes, swaying slightly as I try to focus on the same corner where that trash bag was dumped months ago. The night I sent those voice memos.
“Emmitt,” I say softly, turning to face him. “What is this?”
