He thinks he’s the only one making a sacrifice here. He acts like denying this attraction is only costing him, but what about me? He thinks he can just push me off on his son, like it’s just that easy.
Doesn’t what I want count? Isn’t he the one who taught me to go after what I want?
The more I think about it, the more I fume. Heading onto the freeway, I find myself skipping the exit to my house and taking the one after it. I might be crazy, but there’s no way I’m going home when I have so much on my mind that I’m dying to tell him.
RULE #23: IF ALL ELSE FAILS, ASK NICELY.
Charlotte
I’m trembling. It’s after dark and I’m standing on Emerson’s front porch about to rant at him, and I’m still not one hundred percent sure what I’m going to say. I feel the feelings, but I just don’t have the words to go with them. All I know is I’m tired of not having what I want—and I want him.
The light in the foyer comes on just before he opens the door. I hold my head up high and scramble to think of what to say.
“Charlotte?” he asks when he sees me. “Where’s Beau?”
“I drove him home.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want him anymore.”
“Don’t say that,” he snaps.
“Did you read the form? I filled it out. Did you read it?”
A small wrinkle forms between his brows, clearly confused by my rambling. Before he can shut me out, I storm through his front door, directly to his office. I hear his footsteps on my heels, and when I spin to face him, I catch the way he’s still wearing his work clothes from a couple hours ago, but the white shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his chest and the patch of hair peeking through. God, I want to touch it, run my fingers through it. Am I into chest hair now?
He reaches up to rub his forehead, looking exhausted as he says, “Charlotte, we really can’t be doing this. The form, the submission, any of it. We can’t.”
“Why not?” I snap back. If there was any semblance of me guarding my feelings, it’s gone now.
“You are my son’s girlfriend!” There’s so much desperation in his tone and turmoil in his expression.
“Ex!” I yell back.
“Does it really matter? Does it make me any less of a piece of shit if he’s your current or ex-boyfriend?”
“What about what I want? Why am I being denied?” I cry out.
“I never should have hired you. This was all a mistake.” He pulls at his hair, staring at the floor, and I’m left speechless. Too sad to be angry and too angry to be sad.
“Why would you say that?”
Suddenly, his body is pressed against me, one hand around my lower back and the other cupping my jaw. His face is only inches from mine as he whispers, “Because I didn’t expect you to be so perfect. I had no idea keeping my hands off you would be this hard. And then I walked in that day and found you on your knees…” He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against mine. “Jesus Christ, Charlotte. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Yes, I do. Because I love the way I feel when I’m with you. I see the way you want me, how much you adore me. How many people really get to feel that with someone? Why would I ever deny myself something like that?”
“We could never let anyone find out,” he replies, his gaze falling to my lips. “It could never be real. You deserve better than being someone’s dirty secret.”
I know he’s right and somewhere down the line, I’ll hate myself for this impulsive decision. But at this moment, I don’t care.
“I want whatever I can get,” I reply. “I want you.” I barely get the words out before his mouth comes crashing against mine. It happens so fast we are lost in the nuclear current of lips and tongues and teeth, starving for each other. His mouth tastes like bourbon and he kisses me with long, powerful strokes of his tongue that send butterflies straight to my stomach.
I’m practically levitating, trying to keep up with the ravenous movement of his mouth against mine. And when he growls with my bottom lip between his teeth, I hum softly in return. I need him like oxygen, gasping for air with every swipe of our tongues as our hands grasp and touch each other as much as we possibly can.
As suspected, the firm muscles of his body feel like heaven against my fingers. I cascade my hands up and down his back, reveling in how delicious he feels beneath this tight cotton shirt. There’s nothing in this moment that portrays Emerson as a man twenty years older than me. And I don’t feel like I don’t deserve him because he’s out of my league. It just feels like us, a moment months in the making and worth every torturous second of yearning.