and if the first time I shared it with her was with her sobbing and me holding her and stroking her hair instead of having wild, hot sex, then that’s what we’d do. And when she fell into an exhausted sleep with her head on my chest, it wasn’t from working her body to orgasm over and over. Carefully, I settled her onto a pillow, stood, stripped down to my boxers and slid in behind her, gently pulling her into my chest with her head tucked beneath my chin.
This was the first time I had her in my arms like this, the first time I felt the lush swell of her ass, the curve of her hip, the soft cushion of the underside of her breasts against the forearm I slung over her waist. She fit against me perfectly. The idea of having a woman in my bed before had been a fucking nightmare; never once had I even considered someone sharing it. I slept with women in hotel rooms and even their own beds but never here. Being famous made my apartment my space. My sanctuary. There had been no plan, no thought to having Emory here with me. It was just right. It was exactly where she was supposed to be. But did I deserve her here?
I stared into the darkness and thought about what the hell was going on. My dad knew about Emory, knew she meant something to me. I knew that because of his fucking phone calls, but I knew now he had Emory’s phone number. When she’d been in the shower, I’d heard her cell beep from her bag, and I’d pulled it out, worried she might miss a call from her son. The number that had come up as a text had my body tensing and my fists clenching. Somehow Dad, the fucker, had sent her a text.
Heard your son’s a midshipman. You raised a son your way, I raised one mine.
It wasn’t overtly threatening to make the police take notice, but he had to know she’d show it to me and piss me off. It had worked, but I had to calm my rage and think. Just because he was a total asshole, did that mean he’d break into Emory's house? Hell, no. He’d send someone to do it for him. But would he resort to harming her or just scaring the shit out of her? Either way, it was fucked up. She was my weakness, and he knew it. He was using her to get at me, and it was working.
I’d called Reed while she was in the shower to get an update, told him about the text. He’d had a guy already replace Emory’s door and would deliver the keys for the new deadbolt to the gym in the morning. Emory’s house was locked up once again, but for how long? Would the guy try again? If it was my dad who had arranged the break-in, what would he do next? He wouldn’t try the same thing again, but that didn’t mean Emory was safe. Until this fucking mess was cleared up, she was staying with me.
That’s what I'd been telling Reed when she came out of the bathroom, all flushed pink, clean and in my clothes. The sight of her in my T-shirt and boxers was one of the hottest things I’d ever seen. It wasn’t the most alluring of outfits, no lace or satin or frills, but Emory didn’t need lingerie to make her sexy. It didn’t take much to make me hot for her, she just had to be in the room. Hell, I got hard just thinking about her or getting a whiff of tropical shampoo.
If it was my dad, then I’d brought my troubles to Emory, put her in danger. She’d climbed out her window and down a fucking emergency ladder to get away. Jesus, the idea of that made me sick. What would have happened if her son hadn’t been a Boy Scout? What if… there was a never-ending line of what-ifs. The biggest one was, what if I’d never met her? If we hadn’t met at the engagement party last weekend, it was possible she wouldn’t be in danger. The fucking kicker was she wanted to be in my arms, and yet the danger to her appeared to be all my fault.
I should let her go, should forget I ever met her, in order to protect her. To protect her from… me. But