CHAPTER107
God, this is agony!
“Emma?” His voice, husky and exhausted, pulls my gaze to him, and my stomach lurches up into my chest.
I guess that answers my question.
“Hey.” I smile unsurely from my position on the lounger as he walks toward me intently; he doesn’t hesitate but slides down beside me and lies down with a tremendous sigh. He’s on his front, and he’s buried his face in the crook of his arms making it obvious he is utterly exhausted. His body sags heavily, taking up a vast amount of room. He’s close enough that we touch delicately in places, but not deliberately. He smells good, of sea and sun and him. If I could bottle that smell and keep it forever, I would. My body is tingling with the proximity, but I’m holding my breath, waiting.
I glance over his profile, appraising how tired he really is. For once, his hair has nothing in it, and it’s the first time I’ve seen it au natural. It’s ruffled with a hint of curl in it, and it looks boyish and sweet somehow. I like that he keeps a short back and sides; it showcases his neck and jaw, but there’s enough hair on top to run your fingers through.
Not that I should.
It’s thick, dark, and unruly, a bit like him, and the temptation to touch it is overwhelming.
I study him for a minute, wondering what he’s thinking. His eyes are closed, and he seems like he’s fallen asleep; maybe he has. I don’t blame him. He was up all night in a cold sterile hospital after the drama of diving into the ocean, frantically searching for his friend, and then whisked away in a helicopter ambulance in a flurry of chaos before dawn.
“I’m still awake.” It’s as if he’s listening to my thoughts. My eyes widen at being caught, and I glance away. I don’t respond.
Crap. How does he do that?
Maybe he could feel me staring; I know that I’m always aware of his eyes on me. Shifting his position slightly, he reaches out an arm and drapes it across my waist loosely. He pulls me closer so our bodies mold in the best way they can and brings his face closer to my shoulder. His eyes are still closed, and I’ve literally stopped breathing; I think my heart skips at least three beats. The position is sensual, comforting, but the fear inside of me is notching up into frantic worry.
“You smell good.” His nose brushes against the naked skin at my shoulder near my dress strap, his touch burning through me, igniting some of last night’s passion. I need to push it down and shove it away fast, before I make another stupid mistake.
“Thanks,” I mutter, really trying to calm my racing thoughts. I’m tense as hell, rigid with it. I need to relax. I must be emanating all sorts of crazy anxiety, but he just smiles against my shoulder. I not only see it but feel it, the delicate, soft graze of his face as it moves, the slight scratch of the stubble of his jaw on my exposed skin.
God!
“Are you ever going to just learn to let go when you’re sober, Miss Anderson?” His voice is hoarse from tiredness, the change in its normally clear tone is devastatingly alluring.
“What do you mean?” I blanche.
“I can feel you, stiffer than a board. Why so formal after last night?” He smiles again, tickling the skin at my shoulder with his mouth and breath, his tone flirty. I wasn’t expecting this kind of conversation, especially after the kitchen kiss. I want the kitchen kiss conversation, the ‘sorry, we were drunk, it never happened’ speech. I’ve no clue what to say, so I swallow and chew my lip, twisting my hair, practically ripping the strand from my scalp. He reaches up, still with closed eyes, and tugs my hand out of it. He has that annoying habit perfected nowadays; he can even do it when not looking.
“Relax, I only want to sleep,” he mumbles, returning his arm to its previous position across my waist, as if there was some agreement to do more. “Stop thinking and have a sleep with me; you look tired.” He sounds gruff, but I’m bristling all over, in full alert mode.
I glare at the side of his face, hating his ability to read me.
Why did I ever let my boss get so goddamned close?
I know, because, since I took this damn job, he’s practically forced me to live with him. I’m at his side every second of my waking life, and now it seems he wants me there unawake too. The betrayal of my own body reacting to his has set me off in a weird mood, irritation rising like a beast.
“I’m not tired,” I huff and slide out of his grasp, diving off the lounger to dodge any attempts to keep me. “I’m going for a swim.” To cool myself off and put some much-needed distance between us. I catch his movement from the corner of my eye as he lifts his head, watching me storming to the stairs, then lays his head back down.
“Don’t drown,” he calls, “I don’t have the energy for a repeat of last night.” He’s already making jokes about Daniel. I guess that means Hunter really is going to be fine after all, and I am pressed with guilt for not even asking about him, also I’m pissed off. I don’t even know why. I throw him a shady look with a toss of my hair and head to my room for a bikini.
The water is exactly what I need; it’s cooler than yesterday because of the early hour, and even though I’m tired, it helps rejuvenate me. I love the ocean; the peace it brings me is unparalleled to anything I’ve ever felt. Maybe because, there are no oceans in my past, no childhood traumas in the sea.
I eventually haul myself back onto the yacht, walk along the lower deck to my bedroom, dry off and get dressed. I notice as I pass Jake’s room, which is next to mine, the door is ajar. It was closed this morning; he must have come inside. I peek into the darkened room and I can make out his still form in the bed, the heavy, calm breathing indicating he’s asleep, and I suddenly get stupidly emotional.
My Jake, my friend stroke boss, whatever he is; he ignites some maternal urge in my belly when he looks so still and peaceful.
I can almost make out his face in the dark; he’s just so damned cute when he’s asleep like this, irresistible in a completely different way to his wakened self, vulnerable and young. He sleeps in a way I would expect him to: childishly sprawled over the whole bed, taking ownership with cushions strewn and sheets tangled in his limbs. No wonder he wrapped himself around me in Chicago; he’s a bed-hogger. He’s face down lying diagonally from corner to corner, his arms sprawled out, his fingers hanging over the edge of the mattress. He’s in his sweats and T-shirt despite the heat, and I’m hit with a tug of disappointment at not glimpsing some naked flesh. There is something innocent about this spectacle, as though he came in and literally flopped down to sleep in any way he landed. It makes my heart twinge with adoration, and I close the door gently and head to my room to get changed."
