Page 12 of Higher Ground
When she nudged the handle back into place, her shoulders relaxed. From deep inside the room, she heard the rustle of blankets, Clayton wriggling, no doubt. Emory held her breath, but a deep, breathy snore from the young boy told her he was still sleeping soundly.
“Will he stay asleep?”
Emory jumped a little at his grumbly voice. She’d truly thought Byron had escaped to his room for the night, or somewhere else in the giant house.
Shaking off her surprise and attempting to act natural, Emory turned to face Byron. Any mediocre ounce of coolness she had somehow managed to brush over her disappeared. Standing before her, Byron was … well, he was a sight. Emory gulped, then squeezed her eyes shut. She shook her head involuntarily.
He’d gotten changed. Now dressed in a pair of low-hanging grey sweats and a tight black tee, Byron leaned against the wall with one leg propped up behind him. With his arms folded across his chest, his biceps threatened to bust out of the arms of his tee.
What Emory wouldn’t give to just reach out and touch them. To run her fingers along the veins that protruded from the muscles. To feel her way down to his large hands and wrap his arms around her. She let out a shaky breath. Because fuck, Byron looked good no matter what he wore, but this? This was on another level. She equally hoped that he wore this around the houseall the timeand never again.
She let her eyes creep open and figured his feet were the safest place to look.
Byron cleared his throat.
“Emory?”
She blew air through the tiny gap between her lips and ran her hands over her face. Slowly—because now that she was looking, she simply couldn’t help butlook—Emory ran her gaze up Byron’s body. Over his thick legs, and where his sweats clung to the bulge between them. Past the abs she could make out through the tight tee and across his arms again. Until finally, with a deep throbbing in her core, she found his face.
Beneath his beard, the corner of Byron’s mouth was tilted up, and a deep crease was set between his brows. But his eyes were molten. She didn’t know what colour they usually were, beyond the way they reflected the gold in the sun when they wereoutdoors. Now, they were black as night, but somehow sparkled. She was drawn to them, she got lost in them. Heat spread from her core, up her chest and over her cheeks. Her breaths turned heavy, and her mouth dropped open, just a fraction.
Byron grumbled. No, he downright growled, from a place deep in his chest, and Emory couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel against her skin. His hot breath vibrating against all her most sensitive spots. Behind her ear, between her breasts, at the apex of her thighs.
She cleared her throat, squeezing her eyes back shut and shaking her head. Again. As though she could just forget any of it had happened. This was bad. Very bad. She should not, under any circumstances, be thinking these things. About Byron. Her ex’s dad. Her son’s grandfather. Nope. Not happening.Please.
“I’m going to bed,” she squeaked out.
Pivoting on her heel, she turned back and forth, not knowing where Byron had put all her stuff. He’d said it was next to Clayton’s room, but there were doors in both directions. She chose one blindly and hoped for the best.
“Other way,” Byron laughed.
Standing a little taller, Emory switched direction. She looked straight ahead, not daring to be caught checking him out again.
“On the left, next to?—”
She didn’t stop to let him finish, rushing into the room and hastily pulling the door closed behind her. It was going to be a long night after all.
The room was quaint, similar in layout to the one next door where Clayton was now sleeping, but with a large king-size bed in place of his toddler one. It took up most of the room, but Emory didn’t mind. She didn’t need anything else anyway. All she wanted to do was curl up under the covers and pretend the past five minutes never happened.
Hell, she wanted to pretend the past hour never happened. From the moment she found the candle, everything went downhill. Except for her pulse. That was still racing. With embarrassment and anticipation and need. It throbbed in her temples, and under her chin, and deep in her belly.
Her back still resting against the door she’d swiftly shut behind her, Emory let out a long puff of air. How the hell was she supposed to last here? Outside, the rain was finally pouring, never-ending sheets of water thrashed against the window so ferociously she couldn’t see the paddock that extended beyond the back of the house. She bet against herself that it wouldn’t stop for weeks now that it had started, and wondered just how long she’d end up stuck here with Byron.
There were worse people she could end up stuck with, she supposed, but she doubted she could ever look Byron in the eye again after tonight. The image of him, looking all smug and downright fucking sexy was ingrained behind her eyes. And her back still tingled at the memory of Byron’s dick, pressed up against her. He could have done anything, could have let her fall, could have held her at arm’s length when he set her back on her feet, could have turned away instead of stepping closer. It was almost as if hewantedher to feel his reaction to her accidental touch.
Had he?
It was ridiculous to think, surely, but Emory’s imagination got the better of her. Lava pooled out from her galloping heart, spreading across her skin. She groaned, wishing she could do something to ease all the built-up tension and craving that flowed through her veins. She couldn’t, though. She wouldn’t. Not here.
Except, over the persistent patter of rain against the window, she heard a noise from the room next to her. Not Clayton’s, the one to the other side. A shower clicked on, the clanking assomeone—Byron, clearly—stepped through the glass screen. If Byron was in the shower … could she?
It was that final thought that tipped her over the edge. Byron, naked, under the stream from the shower. She pictured rivulets of water coasting their way across his shoulders, down his front and over his abs. And even though she tried not to, she imagined what his cock might be like. Large, at least that’s what she assumed from the feel she accidentally took and the bulge she couldn’t help but notice in his sweats.
Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, Emory gave in. She collapsed onto the bed and dipped her hand beneath the waistband of her leggings. Her pussy was hot and needy, moisture pooling in her panties. Dipping a finger between her folds, she used her other hand to push her pants down, taking her wet underwear with them.
A gasp escaped her, then a moan as she pinched her clit and sunk two fingers deep inside her. She rode her own hand, imagining it was Byron’s, wishing it was him. Hooking her fingers against her walls, she stroked her orgasm free. And as she toppled off the cliff, she forgot where she was and who was on the other side of the wall. She was so caught up, she never noticed the shower turn off. She never heard his heavy breathing on the other side of the wall.
“Byron,” she moaned as she spiralled down from her peak.
