At the intersection of the hallways, I collide with Emma, grabbing her shoulders, hard, unable to slow quickly enough to avoid plowing into her. I’ve lifted her and propelled her forward a yard by the time we come to a stop. My first thought: her face is a wreck.
I’ve seen her cry. I’ve witnessed her grief over memories of losing her mother, and her misery over a spat with Emily last fall—tears I’d thought were over losing Reid. But nothing did this to her. She’s lost and hollowed out.
Her eyes dart over my shoulder, where, I assume, Brooke has come up behind me.
“Did you… did you sleep with her?” Emma says, voice hoarse and breaking, tears streaming down her face.
I feel as though she’s slapped me. “No. No! Why would you think that?”
The anguish in her eyes is unbearable. “I heard her talking on the phone to someone… about it…”
“What about him? You went into his room, Emma—”
“When?” she cries.
“Just now. Ten, fifteen minutes ago—”
“After I heard her say…” She closes her eyes, unable to look at me. “I heard her say you were the best she’s ever…” Releasing one sob, her hands fly up to cover her face.
I tug her to me as everything begins to fall into place and fit, like footage of something breaking into hundreds of pieces, played in reverse. “Emma.” I pull her hands from her eyes and hold them. “You went into his room because you thought I’d betrayed you?” I feel sick. I can’t look at Brooke or even think about her proximity, because I have never and will never in my life be physically violent with a woman, but right now I want to hurt her. “Did you—ah, God, I don’t want to know—”
“Nothing happened. He told me to come ask you about… about her.”
“Son of a bitch!” Brooke says, storming around us. My eyes narrow on her as she charges around the corner and bangs on Reid’s door. And then I just don’t give a shit about her or what she’s doing.
Emma starts to tremble, biting her lip so hard to keep from crying that I’m worried she’ll split it. A door across the hall creaks open an inch. No telling how many people are glued to their peepholes. Screw this.
“Come on.” I take her under my arm and lead her to my room.
Once inside, the rest of the world locked out, I hold her close and murmur the words I could have blurted out the first time I saw her, because I fell in love with her in those few seconds, months ago. I just didn’t know it yet.
Her arms loop around my neck. “I love you, too,” she answers, her voice raw from the battle we’ve just waged, and won.
I sweep her up and we fall onto the bed, and I kiss her so hard that I know I must be bruising her mouth, but she’s responding in kind, our teeth tapping against each other, our fingers digging into flesh and scraping skin and pulling at the maddening layers of clothing between us. I’m trying to slow down, to savor her and this moment, but I need this, need her, need us, too much. I rise above her. “Look at me, Emma.”
Her eyes are full, the lids heavy. “Graham,” she breathes.
“I need you to hear me.” Cradling her head in my hands, thumbs sweeping her tears away, I stare into her eyes. “I belong to you. There is no one else. All I want is to be where you are.”
*** *** ***
Emma
“I’m right here,” I say, touching his face.
“Yes.” His voice is husky and strums some deep new chord—the kind you feel more than you hear.
“I’m right here,” I repeat, whispering into his mouth. “And I belong to you, too.”
He kisses me, restraint evident in the tremor along his arms, under my palms. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine. “I want to read this right, Emma. I don’t want you to feel pressured by the emotion of this night—”
“Graham.” I wait until his dark eyes open, his body motionless and pressing mine into the mattress with very little between us. “I know what I want. And I’m not nearly as principled as you are. Because if I have to pressure you right now, I will.” I run my hands down his back, sliding my fingertips lower, skimming under the minimal fabric remaining between us. Arching into him, I watch his resolve travel from control to something altogether opposite.
When his mouth crashes down on mine again, I know I won’t have to say another word. His decision made, he begins to slow everything down—every kiss, every movement tender and careful—but his apprehension is gone. The pace he sets is excruciating and perfect, allowing me time to realize, over and over, exactly what I want him to do seconds before he does it.
***
Sometime later, our hands are intertwined just above my head and he’s kissing me gently. At my sigh, he whispers, “Did I hurt you?” His lips are soft against my neck, and I tilt my head towards my shoulder.
Smiling, my eyes close as he ignites my desire for him all over again. “It’s supposed to hurt a little, you know,” I whisper back. “This time.”
He props himself on one elbow, releasing my hands to stroke his fingers over the side of my face. “So I’ve heard, but that doesn’t mean I can be cavalier about it. I can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”
I mimic his caress, my fingers cataloguing the contrasts between us—the short hair at his temple, the closely cropped sideburns, the faintly rough expanse of stubble across his jaw. His concern is unwarranted. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this whole. “It will never hurt again. Or so I’ve heard.”