One More Taste (18 page)

“I need…” she began as a whisper. Her fingers delved behind the waistband of his pants, letting him know exactly what she needed.

“More,” he finished for her.

She tipped her head up. Her eyelids were heavy with desire, her cheeks flushed, a goddess of sensuality, the sexiest goddamn woman he'd ever seen in the whole of his life. “Yes. More. Now.”

At her words, everything Knox had thought he was, a man of reason and purpose and control, surrendered irrevocably to the drumbeat of raw, primitive need. He reached between her legs and grazed his hand over her panties. On a whimper, her body shifted, and she pressed herself more fully into his touch, sinking his fingers against the wet fabric. He groaned along with her at the intimate contact. She gripped his belt tightly as her body undulated against his hand.

Her lips parted in a silent cry. She released a hand from his belt and molded her fingers over his still-clothed erection. The caress rocked through him so intensely that his knees buckled. He collapsed back into the desk chair, pulled her down to straddle him.

With her curly brown hair cascading in waves around her face, she unlatched his belt, then his pants. He watched her work, marveling that the same hands that were so capable and confident in the kitchen were so unsteady now. He leaned back in the chair to give her more room to work, but bumped the chair back into the desk. Something tumbled from the desk to the floor. A
Dukes of Hazzard
action figure, reminding Knox where they were. Not his current house, not his apartment in Dallas either. His mother's house. Which meant …

Shit.

He forced the fog of desire to clear from his mind insomuch that he could speak. “I don't have…” Damn it, he couldn't get his mouth to form words. “There's no protection here.” Every sound had to be forced out from a sandbag tongue and concrete jaw. “So I'll need to…” The sentence dissolved into an almost angry growl of pleasure as she tugged his briefs down, freeing his heavy, swollen cock. He couldn't think past being inside her, past achieving that profound connection with Emily—this maddeningly intense, ferocious, singular woman who was so much a reflection of his own famished soul.
Right the hell now.

She wrapped a hand around his girth with a reverently whispered curse of approval and need. Then she met his gaze again, her expression pleading. “I'm on the pill. If that's … if you…” Her eyes turned glassy again with unshed tears. “I need this. You.”

He searched her eyes, weighing her words. As if it would've made a difference if she'd been lying about the birth control. Their needs were too intense to be ignored, regardless of the cost.

Panting, he moved his hand between her legs again and slid her underwear out of the way. He parted her folds with a single finger and swirled his knuckle gently around her clit. She writhed against him, her head back and lips parted, lost in her pleasure. The slick heat of her body was intoxicating. He swayed with her, drunk on the feel of her flesh.

He considered himself a good lover, smooth and confident, with a practiced touch. Not today. Not with her. Every flex of muscle was a battle between logic and lust. The knowledge that he was violating so many boundary lines that, professionally, he may never recover was at war with the howl of his most primitive, atavistic instincts warning him that if he didn't join with Emily right now, right here, then his inner self—his very soul—would perish.

Her body went rigid in his arms. She clutched the back of his neck to steady herself and rose, positioning herself over his cock. Her body was wet and ready for him, but still, he spit onto his hand, then stroked his erection.

She sank onto him with excruciating slowness. Her tight, silky flesh gripped him, drawing untold pleasure from him, setting his nerves on fire. Her hands gripped his neck and shoulder too hard, as he was probably gripping her hips too hard. But he couldn't seem to get his limbs to ease up their hold. It was all too much. He gritted his teeth and surrendered himself to Emily, body and soul.

*   *   *

The moment Emily seated herself to the hilt, a harsh gasp vibrated up from her throat. Her soul shattered, as though her ribs had ripped open, exposing her beating, damaged heart to Knox. She'd never felt so raw or vulnerable. In the distance, muffled and far away, she heard him cry out, too. At the sound, at the realization that he felt it too, the profoundness and pain of it all, the tears crowding her eyes spilled over.

She turned her face away from him so he wouldn't see, but he wasn't having it. His hand took hold of her chin and forced her back to lock gazes with him. She complied, allowing him to see her tears, knowing now that hiding anything from him was useless. For better or worse, he was seeing all of her today.

Eyes fixed on each other, they moved together with jerky, harsh thrusts and arches, drugged by the pleasure and desperate for release. Their foreheads came together, contracting the universe down to the two of them. She clutched at his neck, as he was clutching hers. At least he didn't try to kiss her; she couldn't have borne it on top of everything else. When the first stirrings of her release started to gather pressure, she snaked a hand between their bodies to stroke her clit as they moved, pushing herself right over the edge of the cliff.

She came so hard that fresh tears burst from her eyes. She threw her head back in a silent, open-mouth cry as her body violently quivered. Knox tightened his hold on her and buried his head against her chest, his lips and nose pressed to her breastbone. When he found release a few heartbeats later, he nearly levitated them both off the chair. Beneath her thighs, she felt his quads tighten, his pectorals, his arms, his whole body. His warm breath fanned over her like a salve for her raw, aching heart.

The arm wrapped around her waist tightened to the verge of pain, but she didn't try to loosen his grip. She knew what it meant to need to hold on to something so tightly that you risked crushing it. So rather than fight it, she wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his hair, and, together, they quaked until both were wholly spent. Still, they remained locked together. Her quiet, persistent stream of tears slid over her cheeks and into his hair.

“Jesus, Emily. What have you done to me?” he whispered on a breath.

Done to him? What about what he had done to her? What he had done to the simple, straightforward fabric of her life? Every time she was near him, she felt like she was on fire, burning uncontrollably. Her brain, her heart, her body. She'd never been so inspired professionally, yet so completely out of control emotionally.

Downstairs, a door closed with a bang. Both Emily and Knox tensed and lifted their heads.

“You two still here? Hello?” Linda called.

Oh God. His mother was home. And Emily had slept with Knox. And nothing was ever going to be the same. And …
oh God. What the fuck had she done?

Knox cleared his throat. “We're upstairs. Be right down.” He voice was husky, drained. He sounded like Emily felt.

She swiped at the lingering tears in her eyes as she disentangled her body from Knox's and stood. She walked to the window, righting her clothes as she moved, and stared out at the darkness. The lights were on in the house across the street. A black cat sat in the living room window. In the sky, the lights of a plane blinked as it crossed the horizon. So ordinary a night. From behind her came the sound of rustling clothes, the zip of a zipper, the clang of a belt buckle. The chair creaked as Knox stood.

There was no escaping the room without facing him, and when she did so, she wasn't surprised to see his face curtained by a stoic mask, the same warrior's mask she'd donned before turning around. They both needed the masks now, as much as they'd needed the intimacy only moments earlier because they'd both seen too many intimate details of the other—their hearts, their weaknesses, and their deepest needs.

“You wanted to know why you scared me,” he said in a tight growl of a tone. “Do you have your answer now?”

She opened her mouth, meaning to tell him,
Yes. I get it. And you're right. We're both terrified of each other for good reason.
But no sound came out. Maybe that was for the best. She closed her mouth again, made sure her pride and dignity were on full display, and walked from the room.

 

Chapter Ten

Dinner the next several nights was one gastronomic wonder after another, served in Knox's dining room on fine china. By Haylie, who was apparently acting as Emily's assistant. The better for Emily to avoid him by lurking in his kitchen, as she'd been doing all week. It was hard to hold it against Emily, though, because he'd tied himself into knots trying to avoid her, too. He simply couldn't figure out what he felt, much less what to say to her.

On this night, after the first course of asparagus soup with a poached duck egg, he glanced over the cardstock menu next to his place setting that described in great detail the four courses he'd be served. Up next would be sous vide salmon.

Every element of the meal was a technical culinary marvel. Perfectly prepared, perfectly seasoned. Totally void of Emily's passion and personality. Just as the tropical smoothie she'd presented him with—via Haylie—for breakfast had been, as the deconstructed salad nicoise had been for lunch, all the meals had been that week. Before this week, he never would've guessed it possible to use food as a tool of distance, but he felt Emily's retreat from him in every empty bite he took.

When Haylie delivered the salmon—a work of art with a yin and yang of vibrant green basil oil and vivid red pepper sauce, and radishes so finely minced, they sprinkled like confetti over a perfect fillet of deep orange fish—she did a little curtsey.

Knox gave the fish the side-eye and poked at it with his fork. Maybe this was part of Emily's strategy—prove her culinary skill by getting him addicted to her meals, then yank them away. If she'd been hoping he'd go into withdrawals, then she would have been right.

Something in him snapped. He couldn't stomach one more technically perfect, heartless meal. It was time to face up to Emily and the damage he'd done by taking advantage of her at his mom's house.

He caught Haylie's attention just as she reached the door to the kitchen. “Haylie, would you send the chef out, please?”

Haylie paled. “I don't think that's in your best interest. She's, like, way stressed tonight.”

I'll bet.
“Please. I can handle her.” The lie of the century. He'd already demonstrated he could no more handle being alone with Emily than a puppy could be trusted alone with an ice cream sundae.

Haylie returned with Emily, and the pair stood at the far side of the long table, with Haylie's carriage that of a bodyguard, though it was unclear whether she was there to protect Knox or Emily.

“Haylie, leave us,” Knox said.

She looked to Emily for approval.

Emily nodded, and Haylie scurried back to the kitchen.

“Will you sit?” he said.

“No.”

There was no way he was going to call to her from across the long table. He pushed out of his chair and walked her way. With each step nearer, her body grew more rigid. The pink stain on her skin spread and deepened.

“Stop right there,” she said, holding her palm out. “Me first. The other day—” The swinging door to the kitchen creaked. Both their eyes swung in its direction. The shadows of two feet were visible in the space beneath it. Emily stepped closer to Knox and lowered her voice. “The other day, at your mother's house, that shouldn't have happened. I shouldn't have been there, and we shouldn't have slept together.”

The word she'd left out was
barely
. They'd
barely
slept together, in the loosest definition of the term. They hadn't kissed or spoken or removed their clothes. In fact, the more time went by, the hazier the experience got in his mind, and the more he wondered if it had only been a dream. “If that's what you want to call what we did, then fine.”

She wrung the kitchen town folded over the belt of her chef jacket. “What else would we call it? A hook-up? A quickie? Fucking? You tell me, Knox.”

“How about momentary insanity?”

He read the debate on her features, the head of steam too stubborn to dissipate. She finally answered him with a curt nod. “Sounds about right.”

On a huff, he raked a hand through his hair. “Look, I called you out here to tell you that I'm sorry. As your boss, I should have never put you in this position. This is all on me, and I can assure you that it won't happen again.”

“Damn right, it won't. When you give me the restaurant, it will be because I earned it with my skill in the kitchen and nothing more. I refuse to sleep my way to the top. Even if it was…”

Her voice trailed off, but he could've easily finished her sentence.

Even if it was the most profound release he may have ever had.

Even if, when their bodies had connected, the electric force of it was nothing he'd ever experienced before.

Even if he still wanted her so badly that it wasn't healthy or wise or reasonable.

His mind filled with all the things he would never have the chance to say to her,
do
to her, with her—thoughts that were too dangerous even to think. That same atavistic coil of lust flared to life inside him again. Disgusted by his visceral reaction, he took a step back, then turned and walked to the wall of windows overlooking the lake, his hands in his pockets to obscure his ill-timed arousal.

“For the record, it had never occurred to me that you had ulterior motives or were trying to win me over … that way.” As he'd told Shayla, when she'd voiced the same concern, it would have been insulting to Emily for him to think that about her. Not to mention how insulting it would have been if any other employee—yes, she was an employee, a fact he needed to start keeping in the forefront of his mind—had suggested that Knox would be so corrupt as to coerce her. That went against everything he stood for. But Emily was perilously close to being correct. “But I agree that it certainly has that appearance.”