Page 48 of Kellan & Emmett
That plea shattered whatever restraint I had left. I tugged his sweats down, slow enough to give him the chance to balk. He didn’t. He shoved at my jeans in return, hands shaking, breath catching like every touch was a revelation.
Then it was skin on skin, heat to heat, both of us groaning at the shock of it. He gasped first, a sound so raw it nearly undid me. I wrapped my hand around him at the same time his fingers closed clumsy and desperate around me.
We moved together, finding a rhythm that wasn’t graceful but was ours. His strokes were too fast at first, frantic, and I covered his hand, slowed him down, coaxed him into something steady. “There,” I breathed, hips stuttering, “just like that.”
His answering groan vibrated against my throat. Every sound from him—every ragged breath, every whispered “Emmy”—seared into me, into the part of me that had waited twenty years to hear it.
The heat built sharp and fast. His grip tightened, movements jerky, until he was shuddering hard, muffling his groan against my shoulder as he came, spilling hot between us. The tremor of it dragged me right with him—I pressed closer, chest to chest, pumping into his fist until release tore through me, messy and overwhelming.
For a long moment, the only sound was our breathing—harsh, uneven, like the whole room had tilted with us.
He slumped against me, sweaty and spent, his hand still tangled in my shirt. Shame flickered in his eyes when he finally looked up, but before he could tuck it away, I cupped his face, brushing my thumb over his cheek.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I whispered, voice rough. “Not one damn thing.”
He sucked in a shaky breath, and I felt it—the moment raw relief cracked through his fear.[10]
We stayed pressed together, catching our breath, the mess between us already cooling tacky against our stomachs. His body was heavy like he wasn’t ready to move. Truth was, I wasn’t either.
But eventually, he let out a rough laugh—half a groan, really. “Christ, Emmy… we’re a disaster.”
I chuckled, brushing damp hair off his temple. “Messy, yeah. Disaster? No. I’ve had worse first times.”
He lifted his head at that, brow furrowing. “This isn’t my first—”
“With a man,” I cut in, smirking soft enough to take the sting. “Trust me, Kelly. You did just fine.”
A flush crept up his throat, and he tried to scowl, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
I reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand—God bless the inn for always needing them—and dragged a handful across his stomach first, then mine. He muttered something under his breath about “romance,” but the way his shoulders eased told me it mattered, the small, ordinary gesture of being cared for.
When I tossed the crumpled wad into the bin, he was still staring at me, quiet. Like he was trying to figure out if this was real.
I kissed his temple, light this time, just a brush. “Guess we’ll need a load of laundry after this,” I teased, nodding at the damp tangle of sheets. “House rules.”
That finally earned me a grin—crooked, tired, but real.
And beneath it, the relief was still there. He wasn’t running. Neither of us was.[11]
Kellan flopped backward onto the mattress, one arm flung over his eyes. His chest still rose and fell hard, but the edge of panic I’d braced for never came. Only the ragged breathing of a man wrung out in more ways than one.
I stretched out beside him, propped on an elbow at first, just watching. Sweat shone at his temples now, dampening the edge of his hair. His mouth was red, lips swollen, and God help me, I wanted to kiss him again already.
Instead, I eased down onto my back, close enough that our arms brushed.
He shifted, dropping his arm away from his face, and turned his head. The look he gave me wasn’t polished or guarded—just wide-open, like he didn’t know how to hide anymore.
“Emmy,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse. Nothing more than my name, but it slid through me like a vow.
I reached over, fingers brushing his, testing. When he didn’t pull away, I laced them together. His grip tightened.
For a long stretch, we just breathed, his thumb stroking against mine.
Twenty years of silence, of pretending, and now we were lying here—messy, undone, but closer than we’d ever been.
“Not running this time,” I murmured, almost to myself.
He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes still on mine. “Not this time.”
