Hunter steps forward, then places one warm, calloused hand over mine. And turns.
Just that easily the lock gives.
Of course it does, stupid traitorous hunk of metal.
Suddenly, Hunter is crowding even closer, pressing his heavily muscled chest against my shoulders as he presses down on the handle and pushes the door open. Then he’s propelling me inside, his long, lean body gently pushing against mine until I have no choice but to enter the house first. It’s that or stand on the front porch with Hunter forever, drowning in the orange and bergamot scent of him.
“This—” My voice breaks, and I swallow. Take a deep breath. And then start again. “This is the foyer,” I tell him as I reach for the light switch to the left of the door. “The floors are Italian white Carrara marble. The chandelier is one of Baccarat’s limited editions and the walls are marble and pearl glass tiles.” Or at least that’s what Kerry’s notes claim. I’d spent much of the trip here surreptitiously reading them over so as not to sound like an idiot.
I step deeper into the room and I have to admit, I’m a little in awe of the house. But I’m also a little disgusted. This room alone had to cost a few hundred thousand dollars to design. I like a nice house as much as the next person, but seriously. What’s the point of spending this much money on an entryway? Just to brag about how much money you have?
Sure, the room is beautiful—all white and airy and awe-inspiring—but all I can think of is what else that money could have paid for. Research for diseases, food for starving children, vaccines for people in poor countries…The list goes on and on and yeah, I know people can spend their money on whatever they want. But is this kind of ostentatious opulence really necessary?
Yeah, I want my ridiculously big commission, but I guess I never really thought about what a twenty-million-dollar house looked like before now. Never really thought about the excess of it all.
I turn to Hunter, expecting him to be impressed with all this grandeur—he is known for liking the finer things in life, after all. But he looks as disgusted as I feel as he gazes at the painting directly in front of us. It’s huge, and more than likely was commissioned for the space as it fits so perfectly, the woman’s platinum hair and evening gown reflecting the same coldness as the foyer itself.
It makes me shiver, despite the fact that Hunter had the heat on for me the whole ride over here.
“Well, I’ve seen enough,” he says. “Want to move on to the next one?”
I feel exactly the same way, but I also feel like we should at least take a quick tour. Kerry handpicked this house for him, after all. There must be something here that he will like, even if it’s not this monstrosity of an entryway.
“Let’s look a little more,” I tell him. “It’s a big house. According to her notes, Kerry thinks this place is exactly what you need.”
He grimaces. “It’s becoming more and more obvious that Kerry has no idea what I need.”
There’s something in the way he says it, something in the look in his eye, that has my stomach hollowing out all over again. And not because he’s making another double entendre, because he’s not. No, he’s too busy eyeing the house with disdain to be hitting on me.
But it’s more than disdain, I realize as he walks from the foyer into the huge formal living room to the left of the foyer. He looks disheartened. Disappointed. Worried, though I have no idea why he should be.
“Do you want to see the kitchen?” I ask. “Or the pool? There’s a sauna in the garden room and tennis courts—”
“I don’t need six fucking tennis courts!” he growls at me. Then he’s turning on his heel, stomping back into the foyer and out the front door.
I follow him—what else can I do—pausing only to secure the house and lockbox before skittering down the driveway.
He’s already in his truck, engine running, by the time I open the door. It’s raining again and I’m cold and wet and more than a little bewildered about the way he’s acting.
I open my mouth to call him on it, to demand that he tell me what the hell is wrong with him. But I don’t get the chance, because he’s on me the second I pull the door closed.
Chapter 6
Hunter
She tastes delicious, like strawberries and cream and warm, soft woman, and I let myself sink into her. This is exactly what I need right now. Emerson is exactly what I need.
She gasps against my mouth and I take instant advantage, sliding my tongue between her lips and stroking along her own. Her hands come up to my chest and for a second I think she’s going to push me away. I can’t face that yet, can’t take the disappointment weighing down my gut and the rage—the boundless, echoing rage—that races through my blood.
And so I renew my efforts, fluttering my tongue along her upper lip before pulling her bottom lip between my teeth and biting down gently. She moans a little, her fingers curling over my shoulders as suddenly she pulls me closer instead of pushing me away.
It’s what I’ve been waiting for, the final proof that she’s as into this kiss as I am. So I deepen it, delving my tongue into the dark recesses of her mouth even as I rest a hand on her lower back and press until her upper body is plastered to mine. Until her sweet, sweet breasts with their hard, raspberry colored nipples, are flush against my chest.
But still it’s not enough. The pain is still there, the rage that just won’t go away no matter how many weights I lift or plays I make or women I fuck. I’m falling into it, sinking deeper and deeper into the morass with each day that passes. And while Emerson doesn’t make the pain go away—doesn’t make the anger disappear—kissing her sublimates them a little. Makes them both just a little more bearable.
Not to mention it feels better than anything has in a really, really long time.
She moans again—a soft, breathy little sound that kick starts my heart even as it slams straight through my dick—and I slide my free hand up her neck to tangle my fingers in the flaming abundance of her hair. She arches into it, her head falling back on her neck even as her body curves against mine. I can’t help but wonder…