Her eyes widen at the mention of the jet, but then her eyebrows snap together. “That was before we broke up. If they knew—”
“But they don’t, do they? And you don’t seem in a big rush to tell them.” I cock my head. “Why is that? Could it be you’re not as certain about your decision as you seem?”
“I am certain.” Her small fists tighten further, even as she takes an involuntary step back. “I told you, I don’t want to see you again.”
There it is, the contradictory body language I’ve been looking for. Stepping after her, I ask in a deceptively soft tone, “Why?”
She blinks up at me. “What do you mean, why?”
“It’s a simple question.” Raising my hand, I tuck a bouncy curl behind her ear. “Why don’t you want to see me again?”
“Well, because—because I don’t, okay?” She moves to step out of my reach, but I catch her hands in mine.
“Why?” I repeat, rubbing my thumbs over the insides of her wrists. Sure enough, underneath the silky skin, her pulse is racing. She’s not indifferent to me, far from it—which is why this decision of hers makes zero sense.
I’d never chase after a woman who doesn’t want me, but Emma does.
I’ve tasted her desire for me, felt it drip all over my lips and tongue.
“Why? Because we’re not compatible!” Yanking her hands out of my grip, she steps back, her chest heaving with visible agitation. “This isn’t going anywhere, so there’s no point in—”
“Not going anywhere?” Anger, hot and potent, rises in me, mingling with the lust pounding through my veins. I can see the outline of her bra underneath the thin material of her T-shirt, and my cock throbs in my pants, demanding to be buried in her tight, sweet body. “What the fuck are you talking about? I asked you to move in.”
“Because you don’t want to deal with bridges and tunnels!” she all but shouts, stepping up and rising on tiptoes to get into my face. It’s a laughable attempt—she barely comes up to my chin—but the wind blows her curls to tickle my neck, and instead of amusement, I feel a hot stab of desire, a need so powerful it obliterates the remnants of my self-control.
Without a thought for the neighbors, I catch her face between my palms and bend down to kiss her—or more precisely, to devour her alive. I eat her mouth as if it were her pussy, sucking and licking every inch of her soft pink lips, sliding my tongue over her teeth, caressing the roof of her mouth, tasting and exploring every corner. There’s only a hint of bubblegum remaining on her breath—she must’ve chewed it right before I kissed her at the airport—but underneath is her own honeyed flavor, a taste and scent so addictive I know I’ll never get enough.
And if I convince her to move in, I won’t have to.
She’ll be mine to devour as I please.
At first, she’s stiff and passive, not resisting but not participating either, but then her hands slide into my hair, her nails digging into my skull as her tongue angrily pushes against mine. She kisses me with the same violent hunger that pulses through my veins, her body smashing against mine and her small teeth sinking into my bottom lip. The tiny jab of pain impossibly heightens my arousal, and with a low growl in my throat, I slide one hand down her back to cup her—
“And what do the two of you think you’re doing?”
The reedy voice is like a shotgun going off next to us. Startled, we spring apart and face the intruder—a tiny woman standing on the lawn in front of us who looks old enough to have been born during the Civil War. Dressed in a flowery robe that covers her frail body from neck to toe, she’s leaning on a walker and glaring at us, the few wisps that remain of her hair waving in the breeze around her deeply wrinkled face.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Potts,” Emma says breathlessly, pushing her curls off her face with an unsteady hand. It’s hard to tell in this light, but I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”
The old woman squints at her. “Emma? Is that you, sweetheart? And who is this?” Angling her walker toward me, she peers up at me. “Is this the young man your grandmother was telling us about?”
“Oh, um… yes. This is Marcus. Marcus Carelli. He’s—he’s visiting. From New York, where he lives, you know.” Emma is babbling, clearly off-balance, and despite the painful pressure in my balls, I can’t help but enjoy her discomfort.
It’s the least she deserves for putting me through the wringer.
Finally, I decide to take pity on her. Stepping toward her, I drape a proprietary arm around her waist and smile at the older woman. “I’m Emma’s boyfriend, here for Thanksgiving. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Potts. I apologize if we have bothered you in any way.”
She snorts and waves a gnarled hand. “Oh, it’s no bother. I thought it was the teenagers from down the street, up to no good as usual. You two go on now, do your thing. Just use condoms, okay?”
Turning, she shuffles toward her house, and I choke down a shocked laugh. When I glance down at Emma, however, she’s glaring up at me with renewed fury, no trace of amusement on her face.
“Boyfriend?” she hisses, pushing me away as soon as Mrs. Potts is out of earshot. “You are not my boyfriend.”
My own amusement vanishes. “That’s not what your grandparents think. In fact, your grandmother was ecstatic to learn you’re moving in with me. She worries about you living in the city by yourself, did you know that? Almost as much as she worries about the fact that you haven’t dated anyone since college.
