Between the Pages: A Novel (18 page)

He turns and begins to walk back to the car. I’m glued in place. When he sees me, he motions for me to get in with one tick of his head. I climb in, and he starts the engine. We leave quickly, tires screeching. The farther away we get, the more relieved I feel.

Ever since I cut my parents off, I’d wondered if I’d done the right thing. I’d wondered what it would be like to have them in my life. Would we get dinner every Sunday night? Would I see them at Christmas? Probably not—Christmastime has been hard since Chloe died so close to it. But I have to wonder: would my mother and I bake cookies and talk about boys? Would my father teach me about investing money and how to pay my taxes?

I’ve come to realize something only recently: I don’t need them.

I don’t need any of that in my life. Certain people bring me down—and I have to avoid those people in order to thrive. We wouldn’t get dinner every Sunday, because my parents are way too busy. I probably wouldn’t see them at Christmas, because they’d probably be at their chalet in Switzerland—Chloe and I often spent Christmas with our nanny. My mother and I wouldn’t bake cookies. She doesn’t know how to bake—she has a cook for that. And my father wouldn’t teach me about money and taxes, because he never
really
talked to me. Not genuinely, anyway. I was just some kind of pet for him to pat on the head and then discard.

Mary and Gabriel Matthews never should’ve reproduced.

I made the right decision five years ago.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Emerson

I’m angry as we pull up to the house. The blood is still rushing past my ears, and I have a death grip on the steering wheel. Finley and I don’t say anything as the car idles. I
would
park in the garage but both spaces are taken. A storm is blowing in, and the wind is howling all around us.

“Can I ask you something?” Finley asks quietly. She turns to me. Even after crying—even though the makeup she was wearing has washed off—she still looks stunning.

“Sure,” I answer.

“How did you get to the place of not caring? About your mom?”

I shake my head. “You think I don’t care?”

She looks at me, startled. “I just . . . you’re so indifferent.”

I shrug. “It’s a front.”

She watches me curiously, her disconsolate eyes studying my expression. “Oh.”

I continue. “It does get easier. The longer I stay away. I don’t know who my father is, so that part’s easy. I suspect my mom doesn’t remember. She was probably high the night they . . . ” I trail off. “Anyway, I have Isaac. And Brady. And a few friends in the city. And you.” I say the last part softer.

Her eyes well with tears. “You
do
have me.”

Fuck. Me.
I reach out and wipe the single tear off her cheek. “Your parents may be dicks, but you have me. Do you understand?”

“I’m beginning to,” she whispers. She leans over slowly. She looks at me through her lashes, her intentions clear.

I hesitate. “Finley,” I sigh, scooting away. I turn the car off and look down at my hands. “You’re vulnerable.”

“I know.” She says it confidently. I watch her as she unbuckles her seatbelt and in slow motion, crawls over to my side, straddling my thighs. Her warm thighs hug my hips, and I can’t help but stare at her glorious breasts that are level with my eyes.

Must. Resist.

I move to push her off, but her hand grips mine firmly. “Emerson,” she says in a low voice. That voice alone makes me hard.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my resolve crumbling. Every time I inhale, I can smell her.
Coconuts.
Every time I move, I can feel her.
Softness.

She bends down to kiss me, and I let her. Her hair tumbles onto my chest, and the intoxicating mix of her scent and the feel of her mouth on mine are exquisite. I bite her lip gently, and she moans.

God help me.

“Finley,” I rasp into her mouth. She moves her hands to my stomach, inching lower. “Finley,” I repeat, louder this time. She looks at me—her face inches away. Her eyelids are hooded and she’s breathing heavily. Her breath smells like mint. I want everything. I
love
everything about her. It begins to rain. Drops pelt the roof of the car.

“Stop saying my name,” she says quietly. I feel her hand inch along the waistband of my jeans. “I know what I’m doing.” I feel her unbutton my pants, and my whole body tenses. My heart is hammering in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.

But . . .

“If you unzip my pants, I’m not responsible for what happens next,” I growl.

“Good.” She slowly unzips my pants, and I suck in a deep hiss as her fingers clutch me.

I slide my hands underneath her shirt. She’s warm—hot, even—and the touch of her smooth skin enhances everything. She moans, and bends down to kiss me again. This time, our kiss is molten lava—we’ve thrown away the boundaries and now it’s just
us.
She wraps one arm around my neck and deepens the kiss, while the other arm busies itself by sliding deeper down my pants. I grip her waist and push her away.

“God, Finley. What are you doing to me?” I ask, my voice hoarse. She doesn’t answer me with words. Instead, using both hands, she begins to slowly unbutton my shirt, one button at a time. Every time her hand makes contact with my chest, I inhale sharply. Everything is so intense with her. I feel drunk from her, like the smell of her alone could intoxicate me.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly, ducking her head and awkwardly pulling her shirt off. We both laugh as she flings it into the back seat. She’s wearing a light-pink bra.

“Should we go inside?” I ask, staring at her perfect, golden skin. She has a small freckle on top of her right breast. I can’t help myself—I bend over and gently place my lips on her skin.

She groans.

I reach for the door handle. “Inside,” I rasp. She climbs off my lap and stands on the driveway. It’s raining, and she’s shirtless. She wraps her hands around herself, and her hair begins to stick to her neck.
Fuck. Me.
I drop my keys and rush to her, lifting her up so her legs wrap around my waist. I push her up against the closed garage door.

She cries out as I kiss her neck, her jaw, and her cheek . . . her hands claw at my shirt as I slip out of it. I grip her wrists and push her harder against the door. Her head tilts back. She moans.

If she keeps making noises like that, I’m going to fuck her right here, right now.

“Emerson,” she begs, pulling away and watching me. “I need this.”

I need this.
For some reason, instead of having the effect I think she wants them to have, I pull away. Her legs drop, and she watches me with curious eyes. I breathe in and out and watch her, panting.

“If we do this, there’s no turning back,” I warn.

“There’s nothing to go back to,” she whispers, smiling. “Did you really think this would end in any other way?”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I didn’t expect . . . this. But then I broke all my rules for you, Finley.”

“There were never any rules,” she answers, biting her lower lip. “Not really, anyway.” She’s shivering. I’m not sure if it’s from the rain or from me.
Oh, how I wish there were never any rules, Finley.

“No, I guess not.” I reach for my keys and nod toward the door. “Inside.” I briefly look back to check the car. Doors closed. Locked. “Go.”

She nods and we rush in. I set the keys down on the table, and she sets her purse down. The storm grows stronger—a burst of lightning followed quickly by thunder. She’s still trembling. I walk over to her and she meets me halfway, jumping back into my arms. I hold her up and carry her up the stairs. We don’t stop kissing the entire way; our mouths hungry for each other; her legs wrapped around my hips. I walk her into my bedroom, and then I continue to the bathroom.

I set her down on the counter. She eyes me with dilated, dark eyes. I don’t have to ask her—she reaches her hands up and I pull her bra over her head. It’s a sports bra—I like it. I like
her.
I like every single fucking thing about her. I inhale a sharp breath when I see her, naked from the waist up. She’s perfect—womanly and delicate. I brush my thumb against one of her nipples, and she throws her head back. Every noise she makes undoes me.

I trace my hand lower and slowly unbutton her pants, pulling them off and throwing them to the side. She’s wearing a white lace thong. My. God. She’s perfect. I slide my finger into the waistband of her thong, peeling it off and pulling it down her legs, fling the small, white piece of fabric to the other side of the room, and study her.

Most fucking beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

“Wait,” she whispers, covering herself.

I remove her hands and kiss her lips gently. “Don’t,” I demand. “You’re perfect.”

She pulls away. “Compared to Sylvanna?” She bites her lip and looks down. My heart constricts.
How could she even consider comparing herself to Sylvanna? Why the fuck didn’t I end things sooner?

“You are
perfect.
Do you understand how completely crazy I am for
you
?” I ask a little too loudly. “That’s why I was late tonight. I ended things with her.”

Finley’s head shoots up. “That’s where you were all day?”

She looks a little panicked.
No, beautiful, not all day.
“I met with Isaac in the city. Explained the other night. Shit traffic getting home so I called Brady so you wouldn’t be late. And then I went to Sylvanna’s store, but had to wait till after 7:15 before I could talk to her. Didn’t think she’d want a crowd. But possibly due to women’s intuition, she knew anyway.”

Finley watches me with uncertain eyes. “Okay,” is all she says. She gives me a small smile.

“You,” I say, placing my lips on her collarbone. She sucks in a breath. “Are,” I add, trailing my lips lower. I take her pink nipple in my mouth. “Flawless.” I suck and flick my tongue. “How has no one claimed you as theirs yet?” I ask.

She stiffens. “I am not a woman who can be claimed,” she explains simply. 

I sigh and rest my head on her chest. “How is it that I’m the lucky one who gets to do this with you? Your exes are tools, apparently.” I’ve wanted to punch the wall at some of the stories she’s told me over the last few weeks. She really did have bad luck with guys. Until now. In some ways I am thankful they were idiots, because it means she can be mine.

Mine.

She laughs. “You remember my stories about my exes?”

“I remember everything,” I say seriously. I don’t give her a chance to respond. I move my mouth to her other nipple.

She arches her back and lets out a guttural sound. “Don’t stop,” she begs. I continue, flicking my tongue gently. Her supple skin is mind-altering. After a minute of writhing, she reaches out and goes for my cock.
Yes.

I let her. She moves the pants down and I step out. She places a finger into the waistband of my boxers. I growl into her mouth, thrusting unconsciously. She giggles, removing my boxers. Again, I step out of them and then take a step back. I follow her eyes as they wander over me and widen when she fully takes me in.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Finley

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Emerson Whittaker’s body is godlike. It’s toned and muscular, but lean enough as to not be bulky. He hides it well beneath his clothes, but now that I can look at him unabashedly, I can’t stop staring. He steps closer and kisses me fervently, his mouth hungry and crazed, his hands flying everywhere. I can feel his hard-on against my thigh, and I moan. I can feel his hard
everything
against me—his chest, his arms . . .

“Stop me,” he rasps. I shake my head. I reach down and grip him. He stiffens. He pushes my wrist away, pulling back and breathing heavily. I hope I’m conveying my desire well enough.

“I
want
this,” I whisper, moving my hand onto him again. He doesn’t relax, but he makes no further attempts to stop me either. I feel him up fully—his size surprising me. “Holy shit, Emerson.”

He groans and thrusts against me. “I want this too, Finley. I just want to make that clear.” He presses his forehead onto mine and looks at me vulnerably. “You have me now.”

I move my hand up and down, and he quivers. He grips my thighs and slides his hand higher, higher, higher . . . I gasp and arch my back when he rubs me gently.

“God, Finley,” he murmurs into my ear. I whimper and close my eyes. “Look at me,” he demands. My eyes pop open, and we look at each other as the pad of his fingers move quicker. He slips one, two inside me. I shut my eyes automatically. I can’t help it when I clench helplessly around him.

“I’m close,” I whisper, my head lolling. I can feel my orgasm building.

“Open your eyes.” He works his hand feverishly. I open them lazily and look at him as the pressure builds and then slides down slowly. I cry out but I manage to keep my eyes open. “Come for me,” he whispers, his eyes frantic. His desire to give me pleasure sends me over the edge, and I shake as the last of it leaves my body.

I’m still breathing heavily as he opens one of the bathroom drawers. He curses.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice dazed.

“I thought I had . . .” He looks at me with a sad expression. “I don’t have any condoms.”

I smirk. “You must’ve used them all on Sylvanna.”

I mean it as a joke, but his eyes darken and he walks over to me, spreading my legs roughly. “I don’t want to talk about her. I need you to tell me what we should do.”

“
Fuck me
,” I whisper. He growls in response—actually growls.

“I can’t,” he says, looking down.

“I’m on the pill. And I’m clean. I promise you.”

“I trust you. Do you trust me?” His eyes are frantic and earnest as he looks at me through his lashes.

“Yes.” I don’t need to say anything else as he pushes forward and enters me. His hiss causes me to whimper, and he goes slowly at first. I close my eyes—this is all starting to feel too intense. The intimacy with Emerson is too intense. It’s what I wanted, though. It’s the
only
other
thing I’ve needed from him. I have my legs wrapped around his hips and we’re having sex. I feel his warm hand rest on my lower belly, and he begins to move his thumb rhythmically in soft, expertly paced circles.

“Eyes open,” he mutters unsteadily. I obey his order. I see a bead of sweat break out on his forehead. His whole body is straining to give me satisfaction. He looks strong and powerful—animalistic. He shifts ever so slightly, angling himself in such a way to hit the very spot I need. It’s enough to send me over the edge again.

“Emerson,” I gasp.

He pulls me close, off the counter, as I fall apart on top of him. I watch him the entire time, even though I instinctively want to close my eyes. The last of my orgasm leaves my body, but he stays inside me. He picks me up and carries me into the large, waterfall shower. It’s so steamed up I can barely see him.
When did he turn that on?

However, I can
feel
every part of him. We are connected
everywhere.
His mouth is on mine as he pushes me against the wall of the shower and thrusts into me slowly. I break away and pant loudly.

“Finley.” My eyes snap to his. The copper color is darker now—a chocolate brown—wild with desire. He moves quicker. I know he’s about to come, so I watch him avidly, wanting to see him come undone for me. His eyes lose focus as he cries out, and it’s beautiful. He shudders as the orgasm tears into him. His features soften with an unexpected vulnerability. I watch him the whole time.

Afterward, he places his face on my neck, kissing me gently. We stay that way for a while, planting small kisses all over each other. I rub the back of his neck. He pulls out but we stay in position, my legs wrapped around his hips. Truth be told, I don’t want to let go.

“You are breathtaking, Finley Matthews,” he murmurs into my ear. “When can we do that again?”

“Now?” I laugh. He smiles and then lifts me back onto him. I inhale sharply. I was joking. I guess he was serious.

“Now is good. And then again, and again, and again . . .” he mutters, going slow as he enters me yet again. “Fuck. Never stayed this hard before. You feel too good.”

I’ve completely lost myself to Emerson Whittaker, but sometimes it feels good to succumb.