Page 37 of Emerson

“I have a theory.”

I turn in time to watch Dillon rub his hand through the back of his hair. My eyes track the movement. The path from the back of his head down the side of his neck, my heart stumbles over itself when it makes it to his naked chest. My own palms tingle, imagining what his chest hair would feel like.

Is it soft? Coarse? What would it feel like on my back while he thrusts…

“A theory about what?” he asks, ripping me from my thoughts. I follow him into the living room, and my eyes widen when he falls back on the cushions. Man-spreading out in nothing but black sleep pants and sleepy eyes and bare feet.

It has to be the Moscato. The sugary wine has taken over my entire system. My heart is racing, trying to burn through the carb overload, and my stomach is twisted up, trying to wring out all of the alcohol. My mind is buzzing.

My silk pajamas tickle over my skin when I step forward, and I curl my toes in my slippers.

“Emery,” he says, softer this time.

The lamp is dim, but it’s still too damn much. Moving over to it brings me closer to Dillon, close enough for my leg to graze the side of his.

We make eye contact right before I bend over and flick it off, blanketing us in darkness.

“My theory,” I start, after taking a second to find my breath. “I think the kiss we shared was a fluke.”

“I thought we weren’t ever to talk about it?” He answers in the darkness. So close.

I can just make out the outline of his head and shoulders from the muted moonlight coming in around the blinds covering the windows.

“Yeah, well. I told my brother about it, so I can’t pretend it never happened anymore. And also, I’ve decided it wasn’t real.”

“Which brother?” He rumbles.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then he exhales, and I watch his shadowed form move. Looks like he’s settling deeper into the cushion.

“Which part of it wasn’t real, then, Emerson?”

“All of it,” I whisper. The hair on his legs tickles my smooth ones. His skin is warm. So warm. “I was young, dumb, and inexperienced. Hopelessly crushing on the straight boy. My brother's best friend. It was so cliche and so utterly boring of me.” I hiccup, and try to press closer, but Dillon spreads his legs more, and the movement has me stumbling in the space between his spread thighs.

“So, your theory?”

“My theory…” I follow his warmth. The smell of cedar and him and move closer still. “If we do it again, it will be different this time.”

Even the wine can’t block out the thrill that shoots through my body, lighting up every nerve ending when I slide onto Dillon Montgomery’s lap, and he sucks in a shaky breath.

I can feel how much bigger he is than me with the stretch of my hips to straddle his thighs.

“Emerson…”

“I’ll see that it was just a kiss. Nothing to obsess over. Nothing to miss when it stops.”

“Em—”

“Because you’re not my big brother's straight best friend. The thrill of wanting the impossible will be gone.”

His breath smells minty and cool against my heated cheeks. Thank God I can’t see his eyes. Can’t read what he’s thinking in the way he looks at me. Won’t have the memory to replay in the morning.

The silk of my shirt does nothing to shield me from the warmth of his chest. I can feel the ring in his nipple, and I bite my lip against the groan when my lips meet the stubble covering his jaw.

It’s electric. The feel of him under me, and he’s not even touching.

My body must not have gotten the memo yet. That this man is gay and available. I could, potentially, have him. The thrill is gone. I just have to give it a moment to catch up.