“Lucian.” She rocked with me, the tips of her breasts brushing my chest.
Grunting, I reached between us; found her sweet, swollen nipple; and tweaked it. The walls of her sex clenched in response, and she circled her hips on a moan. So fucking good.
So good I felt like I was flying.
Emma was in my arms, and all was right with the world. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that became my truth; maybe it had been from the moment we met. From the first, she made me smile, threw sunshine and air into my dark, closed-up world.
I needed her like I had needed the ice, like I needed food and water. I kissed her again, licked the plump curve of her lower lip. “Em. It’s never been like this,” I whispered. “Never like this.”
Our gazes collided just as I hit a spot that had her coming around my dick, squeezing it so tightly I saw stars. I followed her with a long, ragged groan, pouring myself into her with tight, hard strokes.
Empty and replete, I pulled her impossibly closer with a sigh. For a long moment, we lay in perfect silence, content to just hold on to each other. Then she tilted her head to look up at me.
A sleepy but content smile lit her eyes. “You’ve reduced me to a boneless puddle.”
I smoothed my hand over the silken curve of her cheek. “Let me do it again.”
I was mostly serious. I didn’t think I’d be able to move for a while. She’d wrecked me too.
With a dramatic groan she flopped back, then snuggled into the crook of my arm. “I need a long hot bath first. And coffee.” She blinked up at me. “God, I would kill for one of your croissants right now.”
I bit back a grin. As we were still at the hotel, that would have to wait. “It’s gratifying to know you want me for my baked goods.”
“And your dick too.”
I choked on a laugh, then ducked my head to nuzzle her neck. “Saucy, Snoopy.”
“Mmm.” Her finger traced the whorls of hair on my chest. “I had a good conversation with my agent yesterday.”
After the fundraiser, Emma had taken a meeting with her agent while I’d talked to Rickman and Clark. Neither of us had had the chance to discuss it with the other, as we’d basically gone at it like horny teens the second we were alone in our hotel room again. I couldn’t say I was in a rush to tell her about my news; I knew it wasn’t going to go over well. I concentrated on hers instead.
“What did your agent say?”
“There’s a part. The director and producers both want me. It’s a drama based on a huge bestselling thriller.”
She told me the title, and I whistled low. “Who do they want you to play?”
“Beatrice.”
I knew the book. Beatrice was the main protagonist, who was either slowly dissolving into madness or was actually being stalked by a killer; the audience wouldn’t know until the end. If Emma pulled it off, she’d be a huge star.
“You can do this,” I said with conviction.
She gripped my arm, holding on. “I know. I can feel it. This is my part.”
I kissed her swift and soft. “Where is it being shot?”
“Here in LA for the most part. I think there are some scenes in Nevada as well.” Her smile gentled. “I won’t go far.”
The promise had me pausing; the reality of our situation, of how I’d soon change it, crept back up to poke at my insides. I hadn’t told her my news. I couldn’t now. Not in the face of her happiness.
I pushed the thought away and concentrated on kissing her lips, light pecks that didn’t need to lead anywhere but sent pulses of pleasure down my spine each time I touched her.
She made a noise of contentment, her fingers combing through my hair. “Oh, and there’s something else.”
“Something bigger than a kickass role in a potential blockbuster?”
“Well, not that good, but I think it’s pretty great.”
“Tell me, sweet Em.”
She cuddled into me. “I want to take you somewhere. Will you come with me?”
“Not going to tell me where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Mysterious. I like it. I’ll come.” I tugged the comforter away, baring her to my gaze. “But you first.”
After a long, thorough exchange, we both came.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lucian
The house was in Los Feliz where the road wound its way up into the hills toward Griffith Observatory. Hidden behind a private stucco gate, it was a Spanish revival–style estate from the 1920s. In a lot of ways, it was a smaller version of Rosemont, with its terra-cotta-shingled roof, white plaster walls, darkly arching doorways, and beamed ceilings. Roses clung to the walls and dotted the courtyard.
Our steps were quiet as she led me through a grand living room with a carved-stone fireplace, past a library paneled in oak, and into a light-filled kitchen with wide windows overlooking an oasis of a pool. Worn marble counters stretched cool and smooth under my palm. I surveyed the double-wall ovens and eight-burner stove. This was a chef’s kitchen. And clearly the heart of a well-loved home.
“It’s private,” Emma was saying, walking to the arched double doors that opened to the outside. “And quiet.”
“It has good light.” My gaze roamed the kitchen, taking in the massive walk-in pantry and breakfast area. I had Jean Philipe’s old farm table in storage. It would fit perfectly right here, glowing in the sunlight.
Glass-paned cabinets and shelves lined the far wall. More than enough room to hold platters, plates, cookware, crockery. I glanced up at Emma, feeling her stare.
She smiled shyly at me. “You like it.”
“I do.” Didn’t explain the way my heart threatened to beat out of my chest.
“I’m buying it.”
There it was. I’d expected it; why else would she bring me to see a house for sale? But the confirmation still hit with the force of a well-placed kick. “How many bedrooms?”
“Five.” She didn’t move from her spot in the sun.
“Kind of big for one person.”
“Yes. But it feels good here. Like home.” Her gaze didn’t falter from mine.
Home. Hers. Away from mine. But did I really have a home? Rosemont was Amalie’s. Yes, I’d always be welcome, and it had been my refuge. But was it home or a safe space to hide away from the world?
I ran my hand along the counter once more. Unlike so many counters in high-end California homes, this one was old. It had a history, its tale told through faint stains and the silky smoothness of the marble. It would be excellent for tempering chocolate, rolling out dough.
Home. The temptation of creating one with Emma burned in my gut like boiling sugar, sweet but painful. Because I couldn’t do that. Not now, at least. “When are you moving?”
The floorboards creaked as she stepped a bit closer. “As soon as I can. Maybe two weeks.”
I absorbed that. She was always supposed to go. And it wasn’t that far from Rosemont. Why did it cut into me? Why did I feel cold along my skin, as though she were already gone?
Fuck. That hurt. She said I made her happy. I wanted to make her happy and proud.
“Lucian?”
“Yeah?” I tried to make it sound light, but the word came out terse.