Page 97 of Things I Overshared
“Good night,” I say with a smile, turning to grab my dress, but he quickly grabs my waist.
“Stay with me.” He commands it, but his chin rests on my stomach and he peers up at me, as if completely at my mercy. My face breaks out into a huge, goofy smile that I did not authorize. My giddiness at those three words is obvious.Way to havezerochill, Sam.I nod, and he grins back at me, standing and scooping me into his arms and then onto the bed in one fluid motion.
He removes his jacket, which I can’t believe was on this entire time, and unbuttons his shirt. I watch every move of his fingers like it’s a Broadway show, just for me. He throws his button-up on the chair and then pulls his shirt off, and my mouth waters. This man must work out with a trainer every single day.
He takes off his pants and crosses the room in just his gray boxer briefs. As he stands at the dresser, I get a good look at his ass with the thin fabric stretched over him and wish he was naked. He gets out a plain gray T-shirt and hands it to me before climbing into bed. I sit up and slip it on before doing my ninja bra-removal maneuver out through the shirt sleeve. I toss it by my dress and lie down on my side.
Emerson is already lying on his side, staring. I like that he still hasn’t seen me completely naked, or even felt my chest yet. The anticipation of all that we have yet to do sends a stream of warmth down to my center.
“And now we’re just supposed to sleep? With you there, looking like that?” I motion to him.
“Mhm.” He turns onto his back and tucks me into his side. Suddenly my hand has free access to his skin, his defined abs and perfect chest with a smattering of trimmed chest hair. I start to trace around each individual muscle my fingers find.
“Yeahhhh, I cannot promise to behave,” I say as my top leg crosses over his.
“I can,” he says without opening his eyes. There’s a hint of a grin on his face as he stills my hand and links our fingers together over his sternum. He runs his other hand absently through my hair, a gesture that feels more intimate that anything else we’ve done tonight. “Sleep, Samantha.” He kisses the top of my head.
Eventually, miraculously, I do.
Chapter 30
“Samantha.” I hear my name a couple times, vaguely in the back of my consciousness. Then I feel fingers in my hair, on my cheek. I open my eyes to take in a fresh-faced, drop-dead gorgeous Emerson Clark, leaning over me with a small smile. He’s in navy today, no vest or jacket yet, just the crisp white shirt pulled across his muscles to perfection.
“You have clothes on?” I mumble as my brain tries to process my surroundings. “Unacceptable.”
He chuckles under his breath. “You have to pack before we catch the train.”
“This is all wrong. You are not in bed, you are not naked, and you’re talking about packing?!”
“I made coffee—come.”
“How long have you been up?” I grumble as I roll out of the soft sheets and pad into the kitchen behind him.
“Awhile. Sit.”
“If you insist.” I plop onto the seat at the small table, not anywhere near fully awake. He grabs a mug and pours me some coffee. “I like it with—” He stops me by holding up the whole milk I ordered, since Brits don’t believe in half-and-half. He somehow puts in the perfect amount. I guess we have been living together for weeks, but still, I’m surprised.
My shock continues when he places down a plate with two of my egg quiche bites, fresh out of the mini oven, not the microwave. He sits down with his buttered wheat toast. We eat in silence for a while, staring each other down, him with a grin, me with, well, a million emotions.
“You realize I don’t have any pants on.” He nods. “No bra, little lace panties, your T-shirt, just lying there ready to be ravaged, and you just . . . got up and made breakfast?”
“Ravaged, hm?” His expression makes me squirm as he
says it.
“I mean, I don’t know, maybe now that offer is off the table.” He raises an eyebrow at me while he chews. “Or maybe I need to do a better job of getting you properly . . . motivated.”
“No.”
“I think yes,” I say, then stand to take off his shirt, but he stands with lightning speed and wraps his arms around me, tight.
“This morning was . . . difficult,” he says, his breaths hard in his chest that’s pressed up against mine. My nipples harden at the low silkiness of his voice rattling our rib cages. “I want to be able . . .” One of his hands slides down to the thin fabric of my white thong and then cups my exposed cheek. “. . . to take my time.”
He squeezes, and I moan. He grabs my moan in his mouth, kissing me furiously. Both of his hands go to my ass, and I melt into him. I put my hands in his hair and beg him with my mouth, for more, longer, harder. He pulls back but keeps his hands in place. “Let me get you to Paris first, okay?” he grunts out, his voice hoarse.
“O-O-Okay,” I manage to say. I stumble to my room and get myself going. We have to pack luggage for the two weeks in Paris, and then pack everything else to remain here at the Rosewood. He was right to wake me up; in fact, maybe he should have earlier. I smile as I sort through my clothes.
Me: Any outfit requests?
