Page 71 of The Amber House

The kiss was desperate, lacking any polite preamble. Victoria breathed her in, tasting vanilla and the relief of being back in her orbit. Emma held her hands on Victoria’s waist, gripping the linen fabric like her life depended on it. The contracts, the deadlines, Harrison’s threats—they all vanished. For the first time in seven days, Victoria stopped bracing for an impact.

She pulled back, her breathing uneven. Her gaze dropped to Emma's shoulder, her thumb brushing a frayed piece of canvas resting against her collarbone.

"You tore your apron," Victoria murmured.

Emma blinked. Her brain was scrambled by the kiss, struggling to process the sudden shift in conversation. "Huh?"

Victoria’s lips curved into a faint smile. She tugged lightly on the severed strap.

Emma glanced down at the torn strap. "Oh. It caught on a nail when I was carrying the blackberry preserves up from the cellar."

"A bit clumsy, are we Ms. Hayes?" Victoria murmured, her voice dripping with dry amusement.

The reaction was immediate. A liquid heat flooded Emma’s green eyes, her grip tightening convulsively on Victoria’s lapels just to stay upright. Victoria kissed her again, slower this time, a thorough exploration that mapped the exact shape of Emma's surrender. The B&B didn't have any guests in for the day, steeped in the quiet lull of the weekend. Victoria’s hands slid down Emma’s back, tracing the curve of her spine, before she stepped away. She grabbed Emma’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and led her toward the staircase.

The bedroom was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Victoria closed the door, turning the lock with a definitive click. She shed her linen jacket, discarding the rest of her suit with practiced efficiency until it was draped carelessly over the armchair. She stepped close to Emma, untying the knot at her waist and letting the ruined apron fall to the floorboards, before pulling the cotton t-shirt over Emma's head.

Victoria backed her gently toward the mattress. When the backs of Emma’s knees hit the frame, she sank onto the sheets. Victoria followed her down, propping herself up on one elbow, her hands going straight to the button of Emma’s denim shorts. She worked the metal free, sliding the zipper down before tugging the denim down over Emma’s hips and kicking them off the edge of the mattress, leaving Emma bare and trapped beneath her gaze.

"Show me," Victoria murmured, her voice a low vibration in the quiet room.

Emma found herself suddenly starved of air, the pulse in her neck jumping wild. "Show you what?"

"What you did the other night." Victoria reached out, her fingers brushing the inside of Emma’s bare thigh, nudging her legs apart. "When I was in Chicago. Show me how you touched yourself."

Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks. Without the distance of a telephone receiver to hide behind, she stood fully exposed.

"Victoria," Emma whispered, her fingers curling tight into the white sheets.

"Don't hide from me," Victoria coaxed softly. She traced the line of Emma’s hip, letting the touch ground her. "I want to see you. You get this flush that starts at your throat whenever I touch you, and I missed it every single second I was away."

Emma hesitated, her breath turning shallow. She moved her hand downward, her fingers trembling slightly as they found her own center. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Look at me," Victoria instructed, her tone soft but absolute.

Emma dragged her eyes open. Victoria was watching her, unmoving. Seeing that naked trust laid out without defense dropped whatever guard Victoria had left.

"That’s it," Victoria whispered, her voice dark with devotion. "Let me see how much you want this."

Emma moved her fingers, finding a slow, slick rhythm. The friction was agonizingly precise. Emma let out a choked gasp, her hips lifting instinctively off the mattress, her eyes locked on Victoria’s. The sight was the most beautiful thing Victoria had ever witnessed. She let Emma build the tension for a few torturous moments longer, watching the pleasure sharpen her features, before she reached out, wrapping her fingers gently around Emma’s wrist and pulling her hand away.

"Mmm… I'll take it from here," Victoria whispered.

She shifted downward, the heavy drop of her hair brushing against Emma’s stomach. She pressed a kiss to the inside of Emma’s thigh, feeling the violent shudder that ran through Emma's nervous system.

"You said you wanted my mouth," Victoria murmured against her skin, tasting the faint salt there. "You said you wanted me to taste you. Am I right, Ms. Hayes?"

Emma’s breath hitched into a sob. "Yes."

Victoria replaced Emma’s hand with her mouth. She was meticulous, setting a slow pace that drew a ragged, broken cry from Emma’s throat. Emma tangled her hands in Victoria’s hair, her spine arching off the mattress as she chased the friction. When Emma finally broke, Victoria's name catching in her throat, Victoria held her against her chest, letting the aftershocks run their course against bare skin. She moved up the mattress, gathering a profoundly exhausted Emma into her arms, and pressed a kiss to her damp temple.

✽✽✽

Three weeks later, the mid-July heat settled over the valley like warm honey, and The Amber House felt like a completely different world.

The twenty-one days bought by the environmental survey had melted into a domestic routine so effortless it terrified Victoria whenever she stopped to examine it. The invisible walls they had spent the spring building around the kitchen island were entirely gone.

By three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, the weekend rush was winding down. Victoria sat on her usual wooden stool at the butcher block, wearing faded denim and a soft grey t-shirt, an open ledger resting in front of her. Across the counter, Emma was testing a batch of salted honey tarts, her blonde hair twisted up with a wooden skewer, humming quietly under her breath.