Stepbrother Billionaire(53)

It’s a small, simple space with high ceilings and a huge king bed front and center. A sleek dresser and wide window round out the space, and a few well-placed keepsakes make it feel like a sacred space. I trail my fingers along the dresser, setting down my drained glass of wine. I’m just on the far edge of tipsy, and my cares are swirling away by the second.

There are a few framed pictures on the dresser, and my stomach turns to see an old wedding photo. It isn’t of our parents’ ridiculous ceremony, of course, but I do recognize a much-younger Deb. This must be from her first wedding to Emerson’s father, a man who looks remarkably like the one standing next to me now. Deb looks so happy. Healthy, even. It breaks my heart to think of what her life has become.

I tear my eyes away from the old picture and notice that a second frame holds not a photograph, but a drawing. It only takes a split second for me to recognize it, and as soon as I do, I feel my hand fly to my lips. There, on Emerson’s dresser, is the sketch of him I drew when we were kids, the one I gave to him on his eighteenth birthday. The drawing features him in half-profile, looking serious and sure. I worked on this piece for hours—days, even—before giving it to him in that seaside motel room. It’s been preserved perfectly, lovingly, and for a spell I’m too moved to speak.

Two strong arms wrap around my waist from behind as I stare at the picture of teenage Emerson, drawn by my very own hand. I clasp his hands where they rest against my body, letting my head lean back against his chest.

“You kept it,” I whisper, turning my face toward his.

“Of course,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of my head. “That picture has traveled the world with me. I’ve kept it in every home I’ve ever lived in, from my little apartment in Philly to my flat in London. Every time I get to thinking that I don’t deserve my success, that I’m just some punk kid who’s pulling one over on the rest of the world, I just look at this picture. It’s always reminded me that there’s someone in the world who thinks I’m strong, and worthy. Someone who loved me, once.”

“Loves you,” I whisper, turning to face him, “Not loved. Loves. Present tense.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the teacher this week,” he murmurs, running his hands down the sides of my body. “What are you doing giving me a grammar lesson?”

“Oh, I think we both still have plenty to teach each other, Emerson,” I say, taking his scruffy, sculpted face in my hands.

“You mean it, then?” he asks, grabbing hold of my slender hips. “You...you still...?”

“I love you, Emerson,” I whisper, letting those blue eyes swallow me whole. “I always have. I always will.”

“Thank god,” he grins, pulling me to him, “‘Unrequited’ isn’t a good shade on me.”

“You mean...” I breathe.

“I love you too, Abby,” he says, “But right now, I need you too much to waste another second talking about it.”

“Fine by me,” I murmur.

I throw my arms around Emerson’s shoulders as he brings his lips to mine. He scoops me up into his arms as his powerful jaw works my mouth wide open. I clasp my ankles around his tapered waist, and he bears my weight as if it were nothing. His tongue glides against mine, caressing it, as he spins me around in the air, laying me out flat across his king bed. He lowers his staggering body to mine, encompassing me, subsuming me. I can feel his every muscle ripple as we move together, a tangle of limbs and lust. I bury my fingers in his hair, letting my tongue sweep against his as his hands roam down the length of my body.

He tastes exactly the same, beneath the fine red wine. But while our bodies find the same easy syncopation we’ve always known, there’s more sureness and grace in our motion. Emerson was all raw power at eighteen, but now? He’s totally comfortable in his body, assured and knowledgeable. His every muscle is a tightly coiled spring of power and finesse. I’ve been craving his touch for eight years, but I never could have guessed how good it could possibly feel to have it again.

There’s no preciousness in our desire, now. No need for things to be right or perfect. We just need each other, in the rawest, most carnal way. We tear at each other’s clothing, ripping off layers and tossing them across the room. I rake my nails across the firm planes of his body—his rippling back, his impossibly cut torso—as he grabs hold of whatever part of me he can. In a matter of minutes, our naked bodies are pressed together on his king bed, our skin flushed with want, our mouths insatiable.

“I almost forgot this,” I whisper, tracing the outline of his sparrow tattoo as he kneels above me. His cock is rock hard, throbbing at its full, massive best. I bring my hands eagerly to that pulsating length, shivering with delight as I wrap my fingers around his shaft. His eyes close as I work my hands along the full stretch of him, my thumbs tracing along the ridge of his swollen head. “Almost forgot this, too,” I grin.

“Yeah?” he growls, catching my wrists and pinning them over my head, “Well, let me remind you of a few other things, while we’re at it.”

His eyes rake down along the length of my naked body. My back arches as if his very gaze is caressing me. I let my knees fall open as he brings his lips to the hollow of my throat, leaving searing kisses all along my skin. He lowers himself to me as he moves his mouth over my body, letting me feel the tip of him brush against my wet slit.