Page 57 of Emerson

I could feel his rigid muscles last night. Could see the war between right and wrong looking down at me. Dillon wants my body, but he doesn’t want to. Dillon does not want me.

So I can’t walk through his door or unblock his number or crawl into bed with him.

Before I can get my feet to unstick themselves from the ground, he shifts. His head doesn’t leave the pillow, but his arm closest to me moves out from under it. He lifts it, cracking his eyes open just enough to find me hovering.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, shifting more to make room for me.

He shouldn’t call me that. He really, really shouldn’t. He should also not let me in his room anymore, let alone his bed. He should lock the window. Bolt it shut. Or, like, remove the whole thing completely, and…

“Em,” he sighs, reaching for my hand.

It would be easier if I could blame alcohol for my choices. But there isn’t a drop in my system when I choose to allow Dillon to pull me down in his warm sheets. He settles down, half on top of me, and fits his face in the side of my neck.

The moment is screaming for soft touches and warm, sleep-soaked kisses, and I close my eyes and let out a shaky exhale when his lips press against my skin. It can barely be considered a kiss, but my body lights up from the contact.

My body is a live wire, focused on his every breath and begging for another touch. But my mind? My mind is frantically screaming, running around, trying to draw arbitrary lines in the lust fog. Lines that should absolutely not be crossed.

Tender kisses and whisper soft, reverent touches are a hard fucking line wrapped in caution tape and barbed wire.

It feels wrong to slide my fingers into his hair and do anything but caress. That’s why I grip the hair in a firm grasp at the root, using the hold to tilt his head back. Dillon grunts, but lifts his head.

I feel like I can’t breathe.

He scans my face, sleep still lingering around the softness of his eyes.

“Are you going to fuck me, or should I leave?” Something shrivels up inside me when the words leave my mouth.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Why else would I be here, Dillon?”

We sit in the tension, highlighted by the moonlight and soundtracked by the way my heart drums a frantic beat, scared of being caught on the other side of truth.

Dillon rubs his thumb over my cheek, and before I can find enough air to speak again to break the moment, he shifts. Dillon sits up and moves, forcing me to make room so he can take up the space between my legs. The sheet is gone, leaving him naked, kneeling on the bed, and looking down at me. I need him to drop the soft look now.

“Okay, Em,” he finally says, raspy and raw. “We’ll do this your way.”

“Wha…”

“Strip.”

I sit up, resting on my elbows. Dillon’s jaw clenches, and he tilts his chin up ever so slightly. Looking down on me more than he already does.

My way.

Two bodies coming together. Teeth and claws and filthy words spoken to fill the breaths between moans, so there isn’t any space left to think about how good it would feel to be anything else.

This can’t be anything.

This can’t go anywhere.

I take my shirt off, tossing it off the bed. My belly quivers when Dillon exhales through flared nostrils when I shimmy out of my pants and briefs.

When I’m naked and already panting, Dillon is still as a statue. The definition of confidence, of restraint. His hands resting on his thighs, he tilts his head in the direction of his nightstand. “Condoms and lube are in the top drawer.”

Is he serious right now?

My face flames, and Dillon is daring me to complain. I can feel it in his stillness, the way he does nothing to help. Nothing but watch me fucking suffer. I sniff, leaning over. My hand feels shaky when I search for the handle of the drawer, and I fumble inside until I feel the smooth, plastic bottle. I toss that towards him, then go back in blind to find the foil packets. I pull out an entire strand of them, and he chuckles darkly when I toss those at him, too.