Hard Rules

“Emily. Good to see you. Do you want me to call upstairs and tell Mr. Brandon you’re here, or is he coming down for you?”

“I’ll call him from inside myself,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Let me know if I can do anything for you while you’re here.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He steps aside, giving me a grand wave forward, and that’s when my nerves kick in. Shane isn’t expecting me and he told me he’d had second thoughts about us, going so far as to tell me to stay away from him. And I should. I know that, but I just … can’t. Not tonight. I move through the lobby, digging my phone from my purse, and it hits me that at any moment, Brandon Senior could appear. It’s not likely, after his wife joined him at the office, but it’s possible. That has me double-stepping and rounding the corner to the elevator bank and punching in Shane’s number, each ring radiating through me with a new push of nerves.

“Emily,” he says when he answers, his voice sounding raspy.

“I’m downstairs, by your elevators, and I’m really nervous about your father returning and seeing me. Please come get me.”

“You’re here.”

“Yes. I’m here.”

Silence follows, stretching eternally it seems, before he says, “Don’t move.” The line goes dead. He’s on his way down and I’m not sure if it’s to tell me to go or ensure that I stay.

You weren’t supposed to walk away no more …

—Tommy Agro

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EMILY

The elevator door opens and Shane appears, dressed in black sweats and a black T-shirt, his tennis shoes unlaced as if he’d thrown on clothes to come and get me. My eyes meet his and the connection is a charge that lights up my body. What this man makes me feel is simply indescribable and I suddenly can’t breathe for the impact of seeing him.

“Come here,” he orders softly.

I don’t hesitate, crossing the small space between us and stopping in front of him where he holds the doors open. “Why are you here?” he asks, and he doesn’t reach for me or touch me when I want him to touch me. And I want to touch him perhaps more than I have ever wanted to touch anyone.

“You know why,” I reply.

His response is no response. He stands there, towering over me, searching my expression, looking for something, I hope he finds. Sincerity maybe? A lies I’m not telling this time? I do not know but I am certain whatever he finds will decide if I go upstairs with him. “I couldn’t stay away and the truth is, I didn’t want to.”

There is a flicker of emotion, or perhaps a glint, in his eyes, and then he’s dragging me to him, inside the elevator and he’s keying in his floor. Another quick maneuver later, I’m in the corner of the elevator, his powerful legs pinning mine, his hands on the wall above me, instead of on me.

“Why are you here?” he repeats, that dark energy I’d felt in him the first night he’d fought with his brother back tenfold.

“I told you. I couldn’t stay away. And…” I hesitate a moment on a confession, a piece of myself I’m supposed to deny now, but I can’t. Not with him and what I know of his father now. “And because,” I continue, “my father killed himself and I know what it’s like to love and hate a parent at the same time. And I know how that guts you and fills you with guilt.”

I have barely said the words and his hands are framing my face, and again, he is looking at me, but not with a question this time, but rather with shock that fades into heat and desire, and then he is kissing me, deeply, completely. And he lets me taste the guilt I’ve proclaimed to understand. The anger, that I know and expect, is there too. Hot. Fierce. Intense and barely contained. It is raw, the way I know his emotions have to be as well and I am certain he wants to drive them away, at least for now. For a moment in time that lets him forget what will never truly be gone.

The elevator dings and he tears his mouth from mine, lacing our fingers together and leading me into the hallway without stopping. With purpose in his steps, he walks toward his apartment, and I am right there with him. I am ready to be alone with him, to revel in every second I have with this man. I know it can’t last. And I am ready to be the way he escapes and finds just a little peace in the war that rages in his reality.

By the time we are at the door my heart is racing and my knees are weak, not from nerves, but from the pulse of energy radiating between us. He opens the door and we are inside his dark apartment at almost the same moment. He releases me then, leaving me chilled in all the places he’d made me warm, which is pretty much everywhere. The door shuts behind me, sealing our deal to spend this night together. A moment later, maybe two, Shane’s hands settle on my arms, and before I know what is happening, I’m facing the wall, my purse clattering to the floor, my hands pressed to the hard surface in front of me. He steps into me, his big body cradling mine, wrapped around me, hard where I am soft. Right in every way that nothing could ever make wrong.

“We’re going to fuck. Just fuck and I need you to tell me you know that.”

“I’m the one who said—”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Say it.”

“We’re just fucking.”

He leans in closer, his breath a warm tickle on my neck, his voice a firm demand. “You do what I say. You trust me. Without question.” Trust. It is not something I give easily, and yet, I sense that this isn’t about just wanting my trust. It’s not even really about trust, but rather the control death steals from you. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">