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Chapter Seven
I walk out of the bedroom into the living room, where Emery is reclining on the sofa with her feet propped on the coffee table. Her lips are curved into a soft smile of deep satisfaction, as if the food we consumed earlier fulfilled her every need. Her dietary needs, that is. I know the lass harbors deep, carnal hunger too, and I mean to tap into that later.
She had complained earlier when we ordered room service and I requested Cobb salad. Eating healthy is, I assume, a symptom of being an uptight erse. Emery naturally chose a large ribeye steak, but I refrained from commenting on her food choice.
Now, my salad lies half-eaten on the table.
Emery's plate is empty, though not only because she eats like someone who has just returned from a deep-space mission during which she ate only freeze-dried foods. Her plate is empty also because I had eaten some of her steak. I still can't believe I stole food from her plate, though I had asked permission first. Does that still qualify as stealing? Emery must think I am the most boring, stuffy person on the planet.
Not that I care. She can think what she likes.
For dessert, we had shared a massive piece of cheesecake, though I asked for two forks to go with it. She wanted to feed me, but I declined her offer. Emery had seemed mildly disappointed, but that's not my problem. I do not share forks, not even with bonnie, sexy lasses who beg me to "loosen up and live dangerously."
Emery pushed my tolerance to its limits today. The voodoo museum had been only the opening salvo in her battle to mold me into the sort of man she wants. When she had announced she wanted to drive a Lamborghini at over a hundred miles an hour, I assumed she was exaggerating in hopes of making me uncomfortable. She seems to enjoy doing that, and she usually calls me "cute" or "adorable" when I balk at her suggestions. I agreed to accompany her to a place called the Xtreme Xperience only because I believed it must be an arcade and she would "drive" that sports car virtually. Aye, I'm a complete sodding eejit. How was I to know there actually is a racetrack where people go to drive at outrageous speeds for fun?
Emery received a thirty-minute training session. Thirty minutes. Shouldn't a person need weeks or months of training before they rocket around a racetrack faster than an actual rocket flies into space? I sat in the stands, watching in mute horror as Emery drove a high-end sports car round and round the track, the engine screaming and the vehicle racing by so fast that I could barely see it. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but only just. I have never seen anyone drive that fast except in movies or televised car races. Christ, the woman is off her head.
By the time Emery trotted up to me in the stands, I felt sick, and I was swallowing against the bile that had crept up my throat.
She patted my shoulder. "You weren't even in the car, and you look like you're about to throw up."
"You were driving very fast," I said, my voice shaky. I had bloody well earned the right to sound like that after what I just witnessed. "I was sure you'd crash into the wall and die in a hellish explosion."
"You are so sweet to worry about me."
I scowled. "I'd worry about anyone as reckless as you."
"It's adorably sweet, Rory."
"Stop calling me adorable and cute and sweet." Though I tried to maintain my scowl, I failed, probably looking exasperated instead. "I'm a man, not a kitten."
Now, as I halt at the doorway to the living room where Emery waits, she opens her mouth on a big, loud yawn.
"Long day," I say, leaning against the doorjamb. "Time for bed."
The lass stretches her entire body, both arms above her head and all her toes extended. "Mm, yes, bedtime sounds good."
When she stretches her body like that, I can't stop myself from drinking in the length and breadth of Emery, from her bare arms and enticing cleavage to the exposed expanse of her legs and her sock-covered feet. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as I imagine licking her from head to toe. When I aim my focus at her face again, I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. "No sex tonight. You're exhausted, and so am I."
After the horrific trip to the racetrack.
"We can perk each other up," she says, waggling her delicate little toes. She lifts one foot to point her big toe at me. "Unless you're afraid you'll lose control again."
"I won't." Not sure I can reasonably declare that, but I don't need to tell her everything. I crook a finger at her. "Come, lass. Time for sleep."
She doesn't move.
I crook my finger a second time.
Emery rises and stretches again, boosting up onto her toes, then slaps her heels back down on the floor while her mouth gapes on another yawn. "We spent the day together, and now we're spending the night together with no sex. Sounds an awful lot like dating, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't date anymore."
With her hands on her hips, she tips her head to the side. "What do you call this?"
I scratch my cheek. "A casual fling, I suppose."
She strolls across the room to me and lays her hand on my shoulder. "Nothing about today was casual."
