Rascal (Rascals Book 1)(36)

Alex’s hands clutched my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. I didn’t care.

Slowly, I began to move. I eased back, almost completely out of her before thrusting deep, filling her completely. Her hands slid to my back and then to my ass, where she guided each thrust, arching against me.

I lost myself in her—in her body, in her scent, in her sound. She was all I wanted, all I needed, and I could focus on nothing else.

Alex moaned, her breathing going shallower, and I could tell that she was close. I sped up my thrusts, somehow going deeper. Drawing her legs up against my hip, I dipped my other hand between us and found her clit with my thumb. Just one brush of my hand against her made her shatter.

She cried out as she came, and I felt her body clenching mine. I thrust once more and then found my release, collapsing on top of her, my heart racing.





14





Alex





Sex had never been like that before. I had never lost myself in someone so completely, been taken almost out of my mind with pleasure.

I had been wrong all those years ago. Legal briefs had nothing on good sex. And I was immensely grateful to Emerson for showing me the truth.

We both were so exhausted that we curled up together in bed. I fell asleep almost immediately.

I slept better than I had in weeks.

“Good morning,” he said, as I blinked against the bright light the next morning.

We were still tangled in each other’s arms, our naked bodies pressed closely together. And what a body Emerson had. I had barely taken the time to worship it last night, but I planned on taking the time today. Unless, of course, I had to work.

“What time is it?” I asked, my voice sex-raw.

“After ten.” Emerson kissed me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept past eight—even on a weekend. I knew there was plenty of work that needed to be done, but I couldn’t extract myself from Emerson’s arms. And I didn’t want to.

“What are you doing today?” he asked, his hand tangled in my hair.

“I should work,” I told him reluctantly.

He nodded, but then gave me a sexy grin—one that showed off his dimples.

“Any chance I can convince you to play hooky with me?” he wanted to know, his hand sliding down to my hip, and then around to my ass.

I arched against him.

“Depends,” I moaned as he pulled me closer. “What did you have in mind?”



I had fully expected Emerson to want to spend the entire day in bed. And I would have been completely fine with that. But no, when he said we were going to play hooky, he meant it. We were getting out of the Loop. Out of the city. We were getting away.

“How far away is this cabin?” I asked him as we drove out of Chicago.

“Not far,” he said, clearly not willing to give me too many answers.

“And who does it belong to?”

“Sawyer,” Emerson told me. “He lets all of us use his place.”

We settled in for the drive, listening to WTMX, windows open as we sped along 94 West. I had no idea where we were going, and I didn’t care. I was taking a break from work, from life, from everything. I wasn’t going to second guess my decisions. Today was my day of freedom.

About an hour and half later we got off the freeway and drove a while through the shady pines. Emerson rolled the windows down, and I happily inhaled the scent of nature, feeling all my tension melt away. It felt like a vacation, even before we reached our destination, Fox Lake. And wow, Sawyer’s cabin was absolutely breathtaking.

Right on the lake, the whole place looked like a rustic cabin out of a movie. Gleaming wood paneling, gorgeous plush rugs, and an incredible fireplace. And that was just the inside. There was an incredible deck out back with a hot tub, and a small dock where a rowboat was tied up.

“Want to go for a dip?” Emerson asked, his breath hot in my ear.

“The water’s probably freezing!” I spun to face him. “Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” he teased. “Are you chicken?”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Did you just call me chicken?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “Maybe,” he grinned.

That dimple. It was probably going to be the death of me. Because before I knew what I was doing, I was stripping down to my underwear and racing down the dock, my bare feet pounding on the wood.

“I’ll show you who’s chicken,” I shouted just before I leapt into the water.

I immediately regretted my decision.

The water was ice cold. Goose pimples popped up on my skin as I resurfaced, getting splashed in the face as Emerson hit the water.

“Holy shit, that’s cold,” he said when he came back up.

“This is your fault,” I laughed, my teeth chattering as I swam back towards the dock.

“You jumped in first!” he reminded me, grabbing my ankle and pulling me back towards him.

I splashed water at him, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled me flush against his body, our legs kicking as we did our best to stay afloat. But then he started kissing me, his long, hard body against mine, and I didn’t care about the cold, or even about staying above water.

After we dunked ourselves a few times, choking on water and laughter, we climbed out of the lake, gathering our clothes as we rushed back towards the warmth of the house. Emerson dug up some warm, fluffy towels to wrap ourselves in and then sent me to the living room to build a fire, while he scrounged in the fridge for food.