Reaching First (9 page)

He made her powerful. He gave her confidence. He lent her the courage to do all the things she’d ever dreamed of doing with a man, all the things her parents and Minnie would have called dirty and dangerous and wrong.

Tyler Brock was different, with his devil-may-care attitude and his laughing contempt for the rules. He was a bad boy, and he made her want to be a bad girl, in the best of all possible ways.

She took him deep. The old Emily would have been frightened by the length of him. But the Emily he had awakened knew she could handle him, knew she was made to match him in every way that mattered. Her fingers tightened on his hips, setting the rhythm, capturing the wild strength of him, and staying completely in control.

* * *

Tyler’s thighs trembled with the shockwaves vibrating off his cock. Emily was incredible.
 

When he’d met her, she’d seemed like such a proper girl, like some gunslinger’s straight-laced schoolmarm. Now, though, the moonlight streamed through the sheer curtains, turning her into something daring, something dangerous. His belt circled the soft white flesh of her throat, a shocking reminder that she was nothing like she’d first appeared. Each time she sank her lips to the base of his cock, the leather shifted, slipping around her neck until he could almost imagine that she was pulling the strap tight beneath his balls.

That
image nearly pushed him over the edge. He was so close, barely balanced on the edge of sanity. But he didn’t want to come, not like that. He needed to feel his cock inside her, to drown in the sweet folds still covered—barely—by those scraps of lacy cloth.

His fingers closed around her shoulders, stilling her. He felt her confusion, her momentary uncertainty. Before she could translate anything into words, he slipped his cock out of her mouth—that incredible mouth—and he edged beside her on the bed, pulling her down beside him.

His fingers were drawn to her heat. He stripped away her panties, tugging them past her knees and over her ankles with all the impatience of a man who couldn’t last much longer. He stroked her once with two fingers, as slowly as he could manage, counting out the raging pulse in his cock.
 

She was slick. Ready. Burning as hot as he was, even hotter.
 

“Emily,” he breathed. He had to scramble for his wallet, find a rubber. He needed to hold steady for one more minute. One more torture, as he imagined her fingers skimming the condom over his throbbing dick. He caught her lips and plunged his tongue deep, transferring from one raging need to another.

 
Vodka. Bitter tonic. Lime, tangy on the corners of her lips.

She tasted like a desperate high-school student, a girl who’d raided her parents’ liquor cabinet and drunk everything in sight because she might never get the chance again. Stunned, he pulled back, letting her head fall back against the crook of his arm.

She gasped a protest, twisting in the sheets and trying to pull him closer. He smelled the liquor on her breath then, so sharp and heavy that he couldn’t believe he’d missed it before.

He eased back, putting his weight on one elbow as he slipped further from the magnetic heat of her thighs. She turned her face to him, looking at him through hooded eyes. “Tyler,” she whispered.

She no longer sounded like the vixen who’d greeted him at the door. This Emily was confused, suddenly unsure of herself. She reached for his dick, but he snared her fingers before she could discover his hard-on was gone.

“Tyler,” she said again, and this time she sounded scared. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I make you feel good?”

Now that he was lying beside her, he could hear the alcohol in every word.
 

God knows, he wasn’t a saint. He’d shared plenty of beds with girls who’d been partying—alcohol, sure, and sometimes more. But those girls weren’t
Emily
. They’d been games. Distractions.

And those girls had been absolutely certain about the decisions they were making. He wanted to say the same of the woman lying beside him. He wanted to believe that the animal attraction between them was real.

But he couldn’t say that for sure. He couldn’t be certain this was what Emily
really
wanted. Not when she’d said no before. Not when she’d been so certain. Because if she woke up in the morning and regretted having let him into her life, her home, her
body
, something inside him would snap.

She was still looking at him. Still waiting for his answer. But now her eyes were shiny with tears.

Shit. He was totally screwing this up.
 

He brushed her hair off her face, careful to use the palm of his hand because even now he didn’t fully trust his fingers to follow his commands, to refrain from doing everything he truly wanted to do. “You were wonderful,” he finally said. “You
are
wonderful. But you’re also very, very drunk.”

“I had one drink before you got here!” she protested. But even as she looked indignant, she avoided his eyes. “Okay,” she said into his skeptical silence. “A couple. A few.”

With each admission, his heart sank lower. If she needed to get tanked just to screw around with him… He must have misunderstood everything that was going on between them. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling the sheets across his lap.

Her hands were tentative on his shoulders, fumbling awkwardly as she fought to remove his T-shirt. The woman who had greeted him at the front door had completely disappeared—the sexy woman, the one who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go for it. The girl who was left behind was nervous, afraid, but she said defiantly, “I can do what I want to, you know. I can make my own decisions.”

He half-turned and caught her hands between his. “You can,” he agreed. “But I don’t trust your decisions when you’ve had this much to drink. I don’t want you to hate me in the morning.”

“I’d never—” But she stopped herself.
 

She wasn’t an angry drunk, thank God for that. But God, she was a sad one. Or maybe she was just embarrassed. Tears squeezed past her lashes, and he felt like the world’s biggest dick.

“Come on,” he said. And then he reached for his belt, gently slipping the leather free from her throat. She started to cry for real then, tears rolling down her cheeks, little sobs catching in her throat. “Come on,” he said again. “Don’t do that.”

When she heard the belt hit the floor, she actually whimpered. He was such a shit. It took him a moment to find his boxers, to pull them on, along with his pants. He stood and worked the top button. That left him facing the bathroom door.
 

He could see a glass in there, beside her toothbrush. He rummaged in the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Advil. He shook out a couple and brought them to her, along with water. “Swallow these,” he said to her back.

She shook her head.

“You’ll feel better in the morning. Take it from me. I know.”

She turned just enough to take the water and the pills.
 

“There you go,” he said as she swallowed. He refilled the water when it was empty. “Drink that, too.”

Now, she gulped like a little girl, holding the cup with both hands. Her eyes were huge. Vulnerable.
 

He took the cup and set it on her nightstand. “Okay,” he said. “Lie down now. You need to get some sleep.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—”

“You
can
,” he said. And to reinforce the words, he put his palms on her collarbones. She flinched, but he didn’t relent until she turned toward her pillow. She put her back to him and curled up on her side.

Something twisted inside his chest. He reached for the sheet and the white cotton blanket, pulling them both over her bare legs. She stiffened at first, but he persisted until he tucked the edges in under her chin.

She whispered something, so soft he couldn’t make out the words. “What?” he asked, keeping his own voice as low as the flickering candlelight.

“I’m sorry,” she said. And even softer: “I’m an idiot.”

“Hush,” he said, and he tucked the blanket in a little tighter. He moved to the dresser then, carefully blowing out the candles. The ones on the side table, between the heavy chairs. The ones on the far nightstand. The one closest to her.

Her breathing was still uneven, like she was fighting not to sob. He lay down beside her, careful not to pull the blanket free from her shoulders.
 

“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “Everything will be fine in the morning.” But she didn’t stop crying until he eased his chest against the curve of her back. With the blanket between them like a wall a mile thick, he folded his arm across her belly and pulled her back against him.
 

It took a long time for her to fall asleep. Longer still, before he was able to doze off himself. Even then, he woke up a dozen times during what was left of the night.

Someone was drilling into the center of Emily’s skull. When she opened her eyes to identify the perpetrator, she immediately realized what a foolish mistake she’d made. Sunshine streamed through the sheers, lancing straight through her eyes to the center of her brain. She swallowed hard, only to discover that her mouth had turned to sand.
 

And then all the pieces came together.

She scrunched her eyes closed and pulled the sheets over her head. She’d made an idiot out of herself. A drunken, slobbering idiot.
 

And more than that, she’d finally confirmed that Caden Holloway was right. She
was
Bluebell. She was a heartless tease who had lured Tyler upstairs with the promise of something she’d actually been unprepared to give him.

Except that wasn’t really the truth. She’d been ready to give it. Ready to get rid of the burden she’d been carrying around for years, the virginity that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of mocking her.

Tyler had rejected her.

Oh my God. Had she really answered the door wearing
that
? And had she really put her mouth
there
? And had she really played with his belt, worn it that way, turned herself into some flesh-and-blood version of a giant rubber doll?

She eased her eyes open the narrowest of slits. She was still wearing her camisole. She looked a little more. Her camisole, with watermarks across the front, left behind by Tyler’s hungry mouth. Mortified, she slipped her hands down the front of the garment, regrettably confirming that her panties weren’t there. He’d ripped them off of her; she remembered that now. He’d torn them away when he thought he was going to—

She moaned against the throbbing in her head, but she forced herself to sit up.

There was a full glass of water on her nightstand. Next to it stood a bottle of Advil, the child-safe top conveniently removed. She downed two, washing them over her furry tongue with the water.

As she swallowed, she remembered Tyler dosing her the night before. She remembered his pulling the covers up to her shoulders, spooning behind her and pulling her to his chest. His arm across her belly had been the only thing that stopped the room from spinning. The warmth of his body through the sheets had anchored her, steadied her, had made it possible for her to sleep.

She stayed in bed until the painkillers worked their magic, sanding away the roughest edges of her headache. Setting her jaw, she stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the shower and setting the temperature one degree short of lobster-boil. As the water heated up, she tugged the camisole over her head and bunched it into a pitifully small beige wad. She dropped it into the trashcan. She’d never consider wearing the thing again.

The shower scorched away the worst of her hangover, forcing the fug of vodka and embarrassment from her pores. She shampooed her hair twice before working in her best conditioner. She only rinsed her hair clean when the hot water started to run out.

Tucking a towel around herself, she faced the bedroom once again. The burned out candles stared at her, their curling wicks like black eyes. She forced herself to walk to the far side of the bed, to collect her delicate panties, to crumple them and toss them in the same wastebasket that held her cami.

Craving comfort, she pulled on her heaviest pair of sweatpants. It might be the middle of summer, but she wanted something soft, something bulky, something that would deny any shape of her body. She found a Rockets sweatshirt on the top shelf of her closet and tugged it over her wet hair.

She paused with her hand on the bedroom doorknob. Will Martins had to be downstairs. He was supposed to be sanding the floors, an all-day affair certain to fill the air with noise and dust. The last thing she wanted to do was listen to that.
 

No, the last thing she wanted to do was chat with the jovial handyman. She winced, just imagining how loud his voice would be as he boomed his usual greeting, as he gave her the third degree about how she’d spent her weekend.

But hiding up here wasn’t going to make anything better.

She gritted her teeth and slinked down the stairs. How was it possible to make a walk of shame in the privacy of her own home?
 

Of Aunt Minnie’s home, anyway. The house wasn’t hers. Not yet.
 

And judging from the lack of a handyman in the dining room, it wasn’t going to be hers anytime soon. Emily shook her head at the silent house. She’d dreaded seeing Will, but she needed him to be there. Time was of the essence, if she was going to open Minerva House by her aunt’s deadline.

Transforming some of her self-loathing into frustration with the tradesman, she stalked into the kitchen. The nearly-empty bottle of vodka sat on the counter, glinting with condemnation. A dried out sliver of lime gaped from the cutting board. A crushed bottle of tonic water lay on its side.

Had she really left everything sitting out like that? Great. She was regressing to her college days. No. She’d never gotten
that
drunk in college.

She glanced at the clock and was astonished to see it was five minutes to noon. She’d lost an entire morning. Fine. She’d make herself lunch then get back on track.