The Trouble With Love (22 page)

No preliminaries, no hesitation—he just stepped closer and dipped his head down to hers, stamping her mouth as though it were his to take.

Seven years.

It had been seven
years
since she’d kissed this man, but her lips hadn’t forgotten him. The moment she responded, he lifted his hands to her hips, tentatively. And when her hands settled against his chest, his grew bolder, sliding around to her back, pulling her closer until they were touching, chest to chest, hip to hip.

His lips nudged hers open, and Emma responded by reaching for his tongue with hers.

Cassidy groaned and deepened the kiss.

It shouldn’t have felt this good. Not after what they’d been through. But somehow it was better than she remembered. They’d never been lacking for passion, but back then there had been sort of a wide-eyed sense of discovery to their sex life.

Back then, it had been a boy kissing a girl.

This was a man who wanted a woman.

The difference was unmistakably erotic.

He lifted his head when they needed to breathe, brushing a soft kiss against her lips as he pulled back.

“Stay.”

She could only nod.

His hands slid more firmly around Emma’s waist. “For a second there I thought you’d walk into your apartment, and me into mine. I didn’t care for the feeling.”

She smiled and toyed with a button on his shirt. “Such enthusiastic words, Cassidy.”

He dipped his head again, snagging her lower lip between his teeth, scraping it lightly before releasing her. “I’ll show you my enthusiasm in other ways.”

Emma all but purred at the implications behind that.

But first things first. She set her palms on his shoulders and pushed. “I wasn’t kidding about my shoes.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up, and he nodded his head in the direction of the living room. She followed him in, sitting on a chair to free her feet from their stiletto confines as he continued into the kitchen.

“Anything to drink?”

“Water?”

He poured them two glasses from a filtered pitcher in the fridge, and by the time he approached her and handed her a glass, her shoes were discarded.

She wiggled her toes as she raised the glass to her lips, her eyes watching his as she took a sip. He held his own glass of water but didn’t drink. He watched her.

The moment shouldn’t have been sexy. It was
water
.

And yet they both set their glasses on the table at the same time, his spilling slightly as he yanked her out of her chair toward him.

This time she was ready for his mouth, and the kiss quickly escalated from passionate to carnal. Her fingers made quick work of his bow tie, tugging out the knot and tossing it aside so her fingers could get to the buttons of his shirt.

His hands slid over her back down her hips to her outer thighs, before sliding back up again. He pulled back slightly as she undid the first button.

“Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?” he said roughly. “It’s all I could think about. I—”

Emma cut off whatever else he was going to say with another kiss. She didn’t want to talk. There were too many things they could say to each other that would ruin this.

But doubt managed to trickle in anyway, and this time it was Emma who pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard as she looked up at him.

“This is just about tonight, right?” she asked. “The proverbial getting laid after the wedding?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but then he nodded. “Just tonight.”

They both looked away then, both knowing that each other’s eyes held truths they weren’t ready to face.

And then Cassidy was kissing her neck, and she was unbuttoning his shirt, and she forgot about everything but how good it felt to have his hands on her. How
right
this was.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress, pulling it down until the dress fell to her hips. Emma did a little wiggle to let it drop, and then she was standing in front of him in only a strapless bra and thong.

He shook his head, half-dazed as he looked at her.

“Emma.”

Her fingers undid the last of his buttons before sliding the shirt over his sculpted shoulders, revealing the fit, lean perfection that was Cassidy. As a college soccer star, his body had been phenomenal, and it was obvious that he’d held himself to the same high standard of perfection even after his game days were over.

“You know real men aren’t
actually
supposed to have a six-pack, right?” she said with a smile, running her fingernails lightly over his abs. “It’s supposed to be an unattainable fantasy.”

He kissed her, smiling against her mouth. “Go ahead. You can use me.”

“Oh, I plan to,” she said in a wicked tone. Her fingers found the button and zipper of his pants, her hand dipping inside to slide under his briefs to find the silky steel that was Cassidy.

He gave a harsh breath as she wrapped him in her palm, stroking him as best she could within the confines of his pants and briefs. He let her explore for several moments, his eyes hot on hers, before he roughly wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from him.

He didn’t release her wrist until they got to the bedroom. Emma pulled back the charcoal bedspread as he removed his socks and pants. Then she sat on the bed, leaning back on her hands in only her bra and panties. He turned, his hungry eyes roaming over her, and Emma felt a surge of pure want so intense it took her breath away.

She’d forgotten that sex could be like this. Was
supposed
to be like this.

He leaned down, his palms flat on the bed on either side of her hips as he kissed her, his tongue hot and possessive, his mouth hot and demanding.

When his fingers moved inward, brushing her hip bones before hooking into the thin fabric of her panties, Emma leaned back just enough to lift her hips, giving him access to slide them down and off.

He tossed the thong aside, as his hand came between her legs, pausing before touching her. His eyes locked on hers before he gave her what she wanted, his hand pressing between her legs.

Emma cried out, but he showed her no mercy, his thumb rotating in perfect relentless pressure. His hand never stopped as he jerked his chin in the direction of her breasts. “Bra. Off.”

Emma reached behind her, unfastening the bra as instructed and tossing it aside. Had he been this bossy before? Had she liked it so much?

His eyes lowered to her breasts. He put one knee on the bed and she scooted back just enough to make room for him, as his mouth descended on her breast and his fingers continued their slow torture between her legs.

Emma gasped when he lashed her nipple with his tongue before drawing it into his mouth and sucking it. She watched as his cheeks hollowed and his eyes closed as he licked and sucked her, his hand bringing her closer to the edge of sanity.

And then his other hand found her other breast, his fingers rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she gasped.

He slid a finger inside her, hands and mouth never ceasing, and then Emma was
there,
her body rocketing into orgasmic bliss that she hadn’t felt since . . . Cassidy.

Orgasms just hadn’t been this good since the last time she was with this man.

Damn
that was annoying.

He let her recover, kissing her shoulder as he shifted toward his nightstand and pulled a condom out of the drawer.

He tore the wrapper, rolling it on as he leaned down to kiss her.

“Ordinarily I’d take my time, this being the first time and all, except—”

“Except it’s not the first time,” she said, her fingers touching his cheek. “And it’s been seven
years
.”

His eyes burned into hers. “My thoughts exactly.”

And then he was rolling on top of her, sliding into her in one firm possessive stroke that had her back arching and her nails digging into his shoulders.

“Christ, Emma . . . there’s nobody . . .”

Her fingers found his lips, stifling words she knew he didn’t really want to say. He nipped her fingers before his hands slid down her sides, over her butt, and down her legs to hook behind her knees, pulling her legs up so they could wrap around his waist.

Emma complied, locking her ankles around his ass, letting him move her arms above her head. His palms were hot against her arms, pinning her to the bed.

He’d always been a fierce lover, and she’d relished every moment, but there was even more intensity now, as he plunged into her again and again, withdrawing occasionally to tease her with the tip of his cock before thrusting into her again.

Their bodies slammed together in perfect rhythm, and then he released her arms, his hands sliding down her body once more to find her knees, pressing them higher so she was spread open wide, using his lower body to rub against her, creating hot, circular friction.

Her eyes flew open.
That
was a new trick.

It was . . .

And then she was coming again, with quiet cries. She felt herself clench against him, and he pumped once more before he gave a harsh breath and shuddered against her, his fingertips digging into her knees as he came.

When the shuddering stopped, his hands moved up on either side of her head, lifting only slightly to look down at her face before his head dropped, nestling in the hollow between her shoulder and neck.

His breath was hot and damp against her skin, and she trailed her fingers over the hard ridges of his back as she caught her breath.

When his own breathing slowed, Cassidy shifted to the side, his body still half-covering her as he ran a hand down his face.

“What did we just do?”

Emma turned her head to look at him. “I don’t know. It was probably a mistake.”

He turned his head. Met her eyes. “Probably.”

Emma’s heart sank, but then he smiled, boyishly.

“Want to make the same mistake again?”

She smiled back. “Absolutely.”

Chapter 22

She’d left him.

They’d made love until three a.m. At least.

But when Alex had awoken at seven a.m., there was no sign of her, save for the faint smell of her floral perfume and a satiated feeling his body hadn’t felt in way too long.

Sex with Emma was the best sex he’d had in a long while.

Maybe ever.

And yet . . . she’d left. Snuck out as though she were merely some sort of late-night bootie call.

A thought hit Alex as he grumpily scooped coffee into his French press and he froze. What if
he’d
been the bootie call?

Emma hadn’t been drunk, but she’d been plenty plied with champagne. Enough to make her mellow enough to dance with him.

Enough to make her come home with him? Was that why she’d slept with him?

No. That didn’t feel right. She’d been a little buzzy earlier in the evening; they all had. But he’d gone to college with Emma. He knew what drunk Emma looked like, and last night wasn’t it.

But it still didn’t explain why she’d left.

Alex changed into his running gear while waiting for the coffee to steep, only to belatedly realize that this wouldn’t be his usual Sunday morning routine. Typically he and Mitchell met every Sunday at Columbus Circle to do a long run around the park; they would occasionally be joined by Julie, who’d do a “short run,” aka, a “hot dog vendor” run.

But neither Mitchell nor Julie would be showing up for a run the day after their wedding. Obviously.

Alex tied his shoes, before standing and rolling his shoulders.

No big deal. He’d run alone. He’d done so plenty of times before. He didn’t need Mitchell. Or Julie.

He certainly didn’t need Emma and her hoity-toity, sneak-out-in-the-middle-of-the-night—

Hell.

Alex was in deep shit if he was resenting a woman for not wanting to stick around for the awkward morning after. Especially a woman with whom he had a rather disastrous history.

Of course she didn’t want to stick around and do pancakes and coffee.

Alex couldn’t blame her.

And yet . . .

He wished she were here.

She
should
be here.

Maybe it was the result of too many fantasies made by his twenty-something-year-old self, back when he thought he’d have a lifetime of breakfasts with Emma, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were supposed to be spending Sunday morning together.

Alex swore as he poured coffee into his mug, took a sip while it was still too hot, burned his mouth, and starting swearing all over again.

He set the glass back down with a clank, bracing his arms on the counter as he hung his head and tried to figure out what the hell had crawled up his ass and pissed him off.

He tried to tell himself it was lack of sleep.

And oversleeping—he was normally an early riser. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d forgotten his Sunday morning run would be out of whack for the next month or so while Mitchell was in honeymoon phase.

Then Alex tried to blame it on the fact that the day before had been a long one spent running interference with Mitchell’s uptight relatives, wearing a penguin suit, and watching as a half dozen guys that were not him dance with Emma.

His head snapped up.

And there it was. Emma.

He rapped a fist against his forehead. It had been a mistake to request that song. A mistake to ask her to dance.

But, hell, the mistake had started long before that. It had started when he’d had to watch her walk down the aisle, knowing that she wasn’t walking toward
him
.

And the pain had only grown sharper when, through some mix of a blessing and a curse, the groomsmen had gotten out of order and he’d had to walk her back down the aisle, the same way they would have seven years ago had things not gone to hell.

And then he’d had to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening watching her flirt with other guys and dance with her girlfriends, and just all around ignore him.

So yeah. He’d asked her to dance.

And the dance had turned into something more.

Which had led to damn fine sex, which had led to . . .

Her sneaking out at the crack of dawn?