“I wasn’t going to come up.” She ignored the chairs, her eyes fixed on his face. “I didn’t want to intrude, but Aunt Mo saw me in the lobby and hugged me and then I was…here.” Her expression was downright sorrowful.
It sounded plausible. Especially the way she delivered it. Too bad he knew she was lying. He stared up at the overhead lights. This was a bad idea. “I need you to stop.”
“Stop?” She repeated. “Stop talking?”
He took a deep breath and met her stare. “Stop this. Whatever you’re doing. Stop.” He was moving toward her.
Her brow creased. “I don’t understand.” The front of her silky shirt trembled from her unsteady breathing.
How did she do that? Why? There was no one else here. “My family deserves privacy and respect.” He sounded detached. He wasn’t. If he were, he wouldn’t be this close. But somehow, he’d backed her against the wall. “We are not the Kings. None of us want the spotlight.” She winced, and he hated himself a little.
“I…I shouldn’t have come.” Her voice wavered.
That waver was a gut punch. Had she ever been the person he remembered? Or had she always been this manipulative? He braced himself, one hand against the wall by her head. “Why did you?” The words were hard and biting; he couldn’t help it. He wanted her to admit it—all of it. “Why are you here, Em?”
She swallowed, her gaze searching his face. “I read that your dad was in the hospital and I wanted to check on him.”
Once she admitted this whole thing was an act, he could smother out the last bit of hope he had that Emmy wasn’t a bad person—that CiCi was wrong. “And?” His pulse hammered away, his lungs deflating as he asked, “Tell me.” Another step, both hands pressed flat against the wall, framing her. “What else, Emmy Lou?”
“You.” Her brow creased as she reached out, carefully laying her hand against his arm. “I was worried about you. Are you okay?” She was shaking.
He stared at her hand, battling to keep his mind clear. He should hate her. He had every right. He shook his head, angry with himself. With her. Her family. Life. “No. I’m not.” If he were, he wouldn’t ache for her this way.
“Oh, Brock.” One minute she was against the wall, the next her arms were wrapped around his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
He pressed his eyes shut, willing himself to push her away. Instead he stood, rigid, in her arms. Her breath was warm against his neck. Her sweet citrus scent teased, making it a struggle not to turn his face into her soft hair. She was soft, so soft, pressing herself closer. The swell of her breasts against his chest emptied his lungs. All of him yearned for comfort—for touch. It had been a long time.
That was why the urge to hold on to her was so strong.
Bullshit.
He wanted Emmy Lou more than he’d ever wanted any woman. He could still feel her lips, the taste of her skin, the curve of her breast filling his hand… But right now, he wanted more than memories. He wanted the real thing. This. Emmy, pressed up against him, all sweet softness and lies, felt real enough.
He knew better. As long as he didn’t touch her, he stood a chance.
“Brock, I…” The moment their gazes locked, her words trailed off and her mouth formed a startled O.
He should look away—step back, say something, do something. But he couldn’t move. The shift on her face was electric. A spark in her emerald eyes flamed to life. Her breathing picked up. Hitched. Color bloomed in her cheeks and she sank her teeth into her lower lip while her fingers dug into the back of his neck. When her gaze fell to his mouth, he almost groaned out loud.
The longer she stared at his mouth, the harder it was not to touch her.
Fuck it. At least this wasn’t a lie.
He leaned closer. Close enough for their breath to mingle, close enough to see her pulse—racing—along the curve her neck. When their eyes met, there was heat and want and raw hunger. She was staring at him with wild eyes, a frantic sound slipping between her lips as she tugged him against her.
There was nothing hesitant about her kiss. Her lips touched his and she came to life. Arms tightening around his neck. Fingernails biting his scalp. She arched into him. When her lips parted beneath his and her tongue touched his, her moan obliterated all thoughts of self-control.
He cradled her face, running his thumbs along the line of her jaw, before sliding his fingers into her thick hair. He wanted to touch her, all of her, to make her remember this—make sure she’d never forget how she responded to him. He cupped the back of her head, sealing their mouths as his tongue slid between her lips. Her full-body shudder had him deepening his kiss, tightening his hold, and longing for more.
She was tugging at the back of his shirt, arching into him, clinging to him with the sort of desperate need he understood.
He’d give her what she wanted. He’d show her what she’d lost—what he still ached for.
His hands skimmed down her arms, along her sides, and gripped her hips. She was tiny, petite, easy to lift… With another throb-inducing moan, she hooked her leg around his waist and knocked the air from his lungs. Her skirt slid up, and his hand slid beneath, giving him the satisfaction of skin-to-skin contact. And damn but it was satisfying. The feel of her thigh, her hip… While she tugged his shirt free from his jeans and her fingers raked along his back, he braced them against the wall.
He couldn’t stop kissing her, the corner of her mouth and the soft fullness of her lower lip. He could spend hours relearning the shape and taste of her.
She wrapped both legs around him and ground against the rock-hard evidence of just how badly he wanted her. His fingers ran along the hem of her silk panties as he held her hips tighter, holding her against him—molding her to him. Her head fell back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shaky, ragged breaths.