The Crush (65)

I wanted to tell him I was falling in love with him. That it was so much bigger, scarier, than the first time all those years ago.

Because now I knew what I’d be missing.

When I returned the favor and soaped him, he watched through heavy-lidded eyes as I trailed my hands over his chest and arms and stomach, then slid that hand down between his legs.

“You’re very thorough,” he murmured, with heavy panting breaths as I moved my hand. His fingers dug into my hips.

“Don’t want to miss a spot.” I nipped at his chin.

Somehow, I kept my tone light, even though something sad and desperate threatened to crack open inside my chest. It would be so messy, so complicated if I let it spill out now.

I was leaving soon. And with the start of his season looming over us like a giant six-month shadow, complications were the very last thing either of us needed.

I pushed up on my tiptoes and kissed him, relishing the hot, wet press of his body against mine as he turned us toward the tile bench at the back of the shower. If Emmett felt the edge of desperation in my kiss, he didn’t show it.

Why couldn’t this just be easy?

I couldn’t handle being under his scrutiny like this while some unnamed monster of a feeling prowled under the surface of my skin. But I wanted him.

I’d never not want him, no matter how much I couldn’t allow myself to have him. And if he saw that on my face, we’d have to have a bigger conversation than I was ready for. Even if he didn’t know, Emmett wasn’t ready for it either.

So I turned in his arms, arching my back against his chest while his hands coasted along my front and sides. He sucked at my neck and told me I was beautiful, that he wanted me, that he missed me while we were apart.

I settled my hands against the tile and glanced at him over my shoulder while I braced a knee on the tile bench.

He slid his hands over my hips, up my back, and down again. “Perfect,” he murmured. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

I wasn’t, though. I laid my head against one of my arms, sighing long and slow when he steadied my hips and pushed into me.

I was greedy for taking this time with him. It was the most self-indulgent thing I’d ever done.

I was stupid for thinking—again—that I could handle it.

And I had a feeling that I’d break my own heart again before the weekend was over.

The tile room echoed with the sounds of our bodies, the way he grunted my name, the soft whimpering that he pulled from me with the drive of his hips.

It wasn’t just sex. Maybe no one would believe me, given this pattern we’d created.

The sex was a symptom, something we could indulge in without all the other pieces of a normal relationship that we couldn’t.

When Emmett curled his big body around my back, pulling me tight against his chest. With one more snapping push of his body, my mouth opened on a silent sob, my chest split open, warm liquid pleasure filling me until I slumped back because my legs couldn’t hold my weight.

He followed, his hands locked on my skin, his mouth against my shoulder with a relieved groan.

While we caught our breath, Emmett turned off the water and wrapped me in a fluffy white towel. I smiled, watching him indulgently while he dried himself off.

Neither one of us said anything, and I was so fricken grateful. If he asked me if I was okay, I’d dissolve into a heap. While he gathered his bag from upstairs and locked up the house, I pulled my pajamas out of my bag with a soft laugh and a shake of my head.

When I packed, I certainly didn’t expect to be seeing him.

I’d expected to be alone. It was my only excuse. I pulled it over my head and waited for him to come down to the bedroom.

Emmett paused in the doorway, his eyes drinking me in.

“That is…” He shook his head. “Attractive.”

“Shut up.”

He strolled toward me in nothing but his black boxer briefs, plucking at the stretched-out sleep shirt that ended somewhere around my knees with long, skilled fingers.

“You could fit three people in here,” he mused, tugging at the sides. “Donut interrupt my sleep,” he read with a smile.

I yanked the shirt out of his hands. “I don’t like sleeping in tight clothes. It’s a thing, okay?”

“You slept naked the last time.” He nuzzled under my ear, dropping kisses along my jaw.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sleeping naked tonight.” I poked a finger into his chest. “It’s always cold down in this bedroom.”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

I snorted. “I bet.”

It was so very normal, the way we got ready for bed after that. Side by side, we brushed our teeth, and he borrowed some of my floss while he watched with fascination as I applied two different serums and lotion after washing my face.

“So many steps,” he said as we walked back to the bedroom.

“Not everyone has supermodel parents,” I said, pinching his stomach.

Emmett was quiet, pulling back the blanket and waiting for me to get in.

I settled onto my side and tugged at the pillow until it was in the position I liked. Emmett climbed in beside me, tucked his legs behind mine, and locked his arm around my waist.

I could practically hear him thinking.

“What is it?” I asked.

He made a humming noise, kissing the back of my neck. “Nothing. Just made me think about whether you look like your mom. But you must take after your dad.”