Okay, now I’m irritated. “Marcus—”
“And I don’t want you going back to your place tomorrow night.” His gaze burning into me, he captures my hands. “Stay here, kitten. Permanently. Starting with tonight.”
24
Marcus
Emma’s expression turns stormy, her small hands tensing in my hold, and I know I’ve gone too far. Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I knew I was making a strategic mistake, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I need Emma locked down, tied to me, and I need it now.
The thought that she might get her cats and leave tomorrow, that she might walk away from me, even if only for one night, is exacerbating the seething cauldron in my chest. I feel like I’m on the verge of losing it and doing something totally insane—like handcuffing her to me and hopping on my plane to take her to some remote location. Say, an underground bunker in the Himalayas or an island in the middle of the Pacific. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it would be just the two of us and she wouldn’t be able to escape.
And yes, I know how fucked-up and criminal that sounds.
With the right person, she said, implying it’s not me. Up to that point, I’d been debating if I should tell her how I feel, risk the pain of rejection to find out if we’re on the same page. Yes, I’ve had to chase her pretty hard throughout our short relationship, but I could swear there’s a certain softness in the way she looks at me, a glimmer of the same addiction in the way she melts each time I touch her.
Even the fact that she agreed to come home with me tonight despite the complex logistics of bringing her pets along told me that I’m not alone in this obsession, that she doesn’t want to be apart from me any more than I wish to be away from her.
But I’d obviously misread her feelings. She’s nowhere near the same place I am. She thinks we’re still playing around, casually dating, whereas I’m picturing her as the mother of my future children—all three of them. As a kid, I hated being an only child and desperately wished for siblings.
She has three fur babies, so she shouldn’t mind three of the furless variety, right?
In my BE—Before Emma—plan, I was going to wait on the children part until I was sure that my marriage was built on a solid foundation, that my carefully chosen wife and I were compatible over the long term. A few years of marriage seemed like a solid trial run. I figured we could try for our first child shortly after I turned forty, and then we’d have all three in rapid succession, to ensure they’d be close enough in age to be playmates.
It was a good plan, a logical one, and I have no doubt it would’ve worked if I hadn’t met a certain little redhead. The second I laid eyes on Emma, my world went topsy-turvy, my rational brain hijacked by instincts so primitive I might as well move into a cave and start wearing furs.
No wonder I keep forgetting condoms. My subconscious has known all along what I’ve just now realized.
I want Emma and not just for a few weeks or months.
I want her for a lifetime.
I want her for my wife.
It’s a relief to admit that to myself, to face the truth that had been gnawing at the back of my mind from the moment I realized I can’t stay away from Emma for a full week of detox—that I can’t stay away from her, period. All the things I thought I wanted in a life partner—elegance, high class, old-money connections—would’ve been more of what I already had. That perfect trophy wife I’d envisioned would’ve been the human equivalent of my art collection, another symbol of my achievement rather than a person who can give me what I truly need.
Only my Emma can do that—and she’s not on the same page.
“I’m not moving in with you,” she says, glaring up at me. “I told you that a million times already. This is only for—”
“Fine.” It takes all of my self-control to rein in my hurt and anger and release her hands. The knowledge that I love her and she doesn’t share my feelings is like a honey badger on a rampage in my chest, but I can’t force her to love me, can’t bully her into marrying me, no matter how appealing the idea is.
I have to approach this the same way I’d approach any other challenge: with cool logic and intellect. In other words, I have to back the fuck off and let her think she’s winning, retreat an inch now so I can gain a mile down the road.
I soften my voice. “You’re not moving in with me, I understand. I’ll stop asking you—if you do one thing for me.”
“What thing?” she asks suspiciously. Her fiery curls are extra wild from the vigorous sex we just had, her rosebud lips pink and swollen from my kisses, and all I want is to grab her and carry her back to bed, where I can imprint my claim on her all over again.
Maybe come inside her without a condom one more time.
Fuck. My entire body tenses, my cock stiffening with a surge of lust so intense it makes me dizzy. There’s no way I’m waiting until I’m forty to have kids with her. I want them now. Today. Yesterday. The mental image of Emma soft and round with my baby is hotter than any porn I’ve seen—and pregnant women have never been my kink. It’s only her; she makes me regress to this atavistic creature.
Forget wearing furs. I might as well throw back my head and start baying at the moon.
With effort, I wrench my thoughts back to the discussion at hand. “It’s two things, actually,” I say, and the suspicion in
