Off Limits

  "I don't mind getting these clothes messed up." I try to sound jovial but I sort of want to slap him upside the head for being such an idiot the last few days.

  "Whatever. I'll be in my shop working if you need anything. But please...try not to need anything."

  "Fine." I snap at him and I do see a little flash of guilt in his eyes but it only makes a brief cameo appearance before it exits stage left. He doesn't respond and walks out the door.

  I huff a little to myself over the entire conundrum that is Nix Caldwell as I step up to the task. I don't recall whether YouTube said to do the main wall with a roller or do the trim with a brush first, so I go ahead and opt to start with the roller.

  I recall with vivid memory dipping the roller into the pan, pulling it back and rolling it on the slope back and forth to get it evenly covered. I make my first strokes, rolling in diagonal crisscrossing patterns, enjoying the work.

  I let my mind drift. It would be nice right now to just reflect over the hotness of Nix, but I'm actually a bit more occupied with the fact that my parents are coming to dinner tomorrow night. This lovely news was just sprung on me this morning when my mother called me.

  I was running late for class, something that did not happen often, when my phone started ringing. I wasn't thinking and I pulled the phone out to answer before even looking at the Caller ID.

  "Hello, Emily."

  I felt guilty that my stomach dropped upon hearing my mother's voice. Plus I was still smarting over the fact she kyboshed my trust just because I dared to declare Journalism as my major. So, it was no surprise I went in for an early kill.

  "Hi, Mom. What's up?"

  I could hear my mother suck in her breath just a bit. She hated the title "Mom". I had grown up always calling her "Mother", clearly educated to do so from an age so early I don't remember receiving the edict. But I made the mistake of calling her "Mom" one day several years ago and I got a fifteen minute lecture on the proper title of a parent.

  My mother, Celia Thorne Burnham, is where the old money comes from in our family. Oh, my father made great money as a trial lawyer before he went into politics, but our insane coffers come from my mother's family and goes back generations of Thornes. Thorne Enterprises, run by my Uncle Jim, is a conglomerate of corporations that dabble in everything from shipping to manufacturing to research and development.

  In fact, my Uncle Jim is the one that years ago talked my parents into amending the trusts for me and Ryan so we could have full access to them when we turned twenty-one. Until that time, they were controlled by my mother, which is why she had cut off my monthly allowance.

  And the funny thing is, outside of not being able to pay Nix the money I owe him, I don't miss the damn thing at all. I didn't use it for anything but buying clothes and trinkets.

  Heck, I was kind of enjoying being one of the frugal, working masses now. I had even told Uncle Jim that earlier this week when he called to check in on me. He laughed so hard when I said that, he started choking and coughing. The memory of his amusement makes me smile.

  Finally, my mother found her voice. "You know I don't like that, Emily. Please call me Mother."

  "Yes, Mother," I dutifully said but I know I didn't sound repentant at all.

  "I wanted to let you know that your father and I will be in New York tomorrow and we've made reservations at Le Bernardin for dinner. You need to be there at 7:30pm."

  I gritted my teeth that she assumed that I would be available on such short notice. Even though I was. "Okay, Mother. That will be fine."

  "I'll see you then."

  I hung up and ruminated about the conversation the whole way to class. This conversation would have not bothered me a few years ago. It would have been...normal. But I won't lie...it hurts my feelings that the conversation failed to include her asking how I was, or how school was, or even that she missed me. Living in the real world and out of my sheltered environment, I have come to learn how cold and sterile my family could be. If it wasn't for Uncle Jim, who called me every week just to check in and see how I was doing, I would probably lose my faith in parenthood altogether.

  My heart actually clenches up a little thinking about this. It's not like I ever had this type of relationship with my parents. My mother was always there, but emotionally distant. My father was emotionally closer, but never physically there. I wish they could be more normal.

  And I wish it didn't hurt so much that they weren't.

  Enough of this subject!

  I'm getting depressed. I decide to put those thoughts aside for I am now in a mood to turn my attention to the hotness of Nix Caldwell. I am finding the movements of painting to be relaxing and the perfect environment to slip into a sexy daydream about him.

  CHAPTER 14

  Nix

  I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to go check on Emily.

  This week I've tried my damnedest to distance myself from her and I've done a good job of it. But I'm not liking it. And just like everything else in this world, that pisses me off.

  I don't like having this unnatural attraction to her. And trust me, it's unnatural for Nix Caldwell to have any sort of passing interest in a female other than trying to get in her pants.

  But I'm going to say it, and I'm going to kick myself for saying it. Emily is different.

  She is.

  I find her utterly fascinating and for a variety of reasons. First, she's apparently done a complete overhaul of her persona and character, because she deemed herself to not be a very nice person not all that long ago. I don't think many people ever go through life having that sort of epiphany and I'm strangely attracted to that.

  Second, she is fierce. She's stood up to me, she's stood up to her parents, she's stood up to a guy that was probably intent on raping her, and she stood up to her psycho, stalker ex-boyfriend. She's tough as nails and I like that a lot.

  Third, and most importantly, she seems to get me. I don't know the how's or the why's, but I have watched her handle me like a pro. She has found some secret to unlocking my defenses, yet she knows exactly when I've had enough. That, in and of itself, makes me start to trust her just a tiny, tiny bit. I feel like I could open up to her, but when I've had enough, she will back off. My dad is really good at that, too. Linc, not so much, but he's just being a pestering younger brother half the time, so I'll cut him some slack.

  I wash my hands in the shop sink and dry them off. I have a ton of other stuff to do, but like I said...I can't stand it anymore and so I'm lifting my self-imposed Emily Exile.

  As soon as I enter the house, I hear her singing. And while I've recently come to admire many of Emily's qualities...let's just say singing will never be one of them. I smile to myself as I picture her with earbuds in her ears, bopping to some tune that only she can hear.

  As I walk into the living room, I'm momentarily stunned to find she's not singing to any music.

  Nope. No earbuds in her ears.

  She's just belting out a song on her own. No wonder why she's not in tune.

  I have to almost bite into my tongue not to laugh out loud at her. She's singing the theme song from True Blood, and trying to replicate the low, low, baritone of Jace Everett. She's perched on the top rung of the ladder I left out for her. She's got a paintbrush in her right hand and she's balancing herself with her left hand on the ceiling. She's shaking her ass to the song she's singing...badly...

  When you came in the air went out.

  And every shadow filled up with doubt.

  I don't know who you think you are,

  But before the night is through,

  I wanna do bad things with you.

  I watch mesmerized as she belts at the top of her lungs, her gorgeous hips gyrating back and forth. Surprisingly, her paint line is super straight. She's clearly a multi-tasker.

  And while her tune is off and she doesn't carry Louisiana hillbilly off very well, the words to the song and just imagining she is singing those words to me sends a wave of hot longing str
aight below my belt. I walk quietly up behind her and stand at the base of the ladder, looking up.

  I don't know what you've done to me,

  But I know this much is true.

  I wanna do bad things with you.

  I wanna do real bad things with you.

  I clear my throat. "Who do you want to do bad things with?"

  Emily shrieks and turns around so fast, her flip flop gets stuck in the ladder rung and she pitches sideways. The brush flips out of her hand and hits me on the side of my face with a wet slap, before grazing down my neck and bouncing off my shoulder. I reach out instinctively as she falls and she slams into my chest.

  I had a brief moment of panic--just a mere second--when she started to fall. Then when I caught her in my arms, panic turned into something hot and carnal.

  She comes to rest perfectly with her chest mashed to mine, her arms draped over my shoulders. We came perilously close to banging heads, but I don't even consider that. Instead, I consider the fact that I can feel her heartbeat slamming from her chest into mine...and the fact that her lips are mere inches away.

  My arms wrap tight around her waist and although propriety would dictate I should lower her immediately to the floor, I say to myself, Fuck Propriety!

  I'm staring straight into her eyes and they are warm and languid. I lower my gaze and her lips are slightly parted, and one soft pant comes out. Her legs are hanging down against my crotch and I know she can feel the erection I started sporting the minute I really paid attention to her lyrics.

  Neither one of us moves, and I am just considering if I should kiss her or let her slide down, when she does the unbelievable and lowers her mouth to mine.

  I didn't expect it. I had no clue Emily even felt the slightest attraction to me. But the minute her lips feather over mine, I know without a doubt she was singing those lyrics with me in mind.

  I want to see how far she takes this, because this is new territory for me. If a woman laid her mouth against mine, with the same look that Emily is giving me right now, she'd be in my bed for the rest of the night. But I don't want to make that assumption about her.

  I want it to be true, but I don't want to assume.

  Emily pushes a little harder against my mouth and I let my lips part. I have blood rushing to my head, and more blood rushing to my other head.

  When she slips her tongue into my mouth, it's all over for me. With one hand firmly around her waist to hold her body against mine, I bring the other one up to grab her hair. I fist a good chuck of it right near the nape of her neck and tilt her head to the side with a slight tug. It opens her mouth further and I plunge back.

  The contact is explosive. I groan at the same time she lets out a feminine whimper. Her arms curve all the way around the back of my head and she grips my hair.

  Really hard.

  Then she uses her arms for leverage to pull her body up, wrapping her legs around my waist, crossing her feet behind my back. She slides down a little and it puts her softness in direct, molten contact with my hardness. I flip our bodies around and push her up against the freshly painted wall. I can feel the wetness against my arms that are probably crushing her right now.

  The kiss becomes deeper, hotter, wetter. It goes on for an eternity, yet not long enough. I flex my hips against her, pushing her back into the wall. She rubs herself against me and although she doesn't break the kiss, she somehow manages to push the words, "Oh God" into my mouth.

  When I woke up this morning, I never thought in a million years that I would be on the verge of pulling Emily's pants down in the middle of my newly painted living room with the idea in mind of plunging mindlessly into her.

  Over and over again.

  And now that I'm on the verge of doing that, a small kernel of doubt starts to take hold.

  I'm holding Emily Burnham in my arms. Congressman Alex Burnham's daughter is molded to my erection. Insanely wealthy and formerly bratty Emily is rubbing herself all over me.

  And while it feels so right...so very, very right, I'm aware that too much of this could be wrong. I'm sure Emily has some wealthy, educated stud in her future that she will marry and with which she will have two point three little, rich babies. I don't have anything in my future except offering her an orgasm...or two...or three.

  For tonight.

  Because let's face it...I don't do relationships and Emily is built for them. She's too sweet not to be.

  I'm too rotten.

  My thoughts sound rational but do absolutely nothing to cool the raging lust I'm feeling, so it is with great difficulty I make myself tear my lips from hers and I drop her like a sack of hot potatoes. Luckily, the wall is there to support her because I immediately take one step backward to get some distance. Emily puts her arms back against the wall for support, before sagging completely against it. She's going to be covered in paint when she walks out of here.

  Both of us are standing there, our chests heaving with desire and need. We are staring wide-eyed at one another...disbelief on her face...resolve on mine.

  "This can't happen, Emily."

  The disbelief on her face pours through into her voice. "Why?"

  Why indeed?

  All of those reasons that were sparking through my brain are lost. I know I had sound logic not just ten seconds ago, but I can't grasp it right now.

  "Because...we're not...compatible."

  She stuns me when she laughs, genuine delight showing in her eyes. "Oh, we're compatible. Your working parts and mine were in perfect alignment just a few seconds ago."

  Damn, that is hot!

  She's clearly saying that wasn't just a kiss. She's saying she was imagining those multiple orgasms just the way I was. I almost lunge at her to pull her back in my arms, but I have a shocking moment of clarity.

  I shake my head at her. "Our parts are definitely compatible, Em. But that's all it would be. It would never be anything but a fuck."

  I expect those words to hurt her...to enrage her...to make her realize that Nix Caldwell is the world's biggest asshole. I hope those words cause her to go running from my house in tears.

  Instead, she says, "So?"

  Well, shit. I'm kind of incensed--on her behalf--since she's clearly not smart enough to be. "So? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  She looks at me like I'm a dumbass. "Yes," she drawls. "You're saying this would just be casual. No-strings sex."

  Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Why does she sound so damned okay with that concept? This is sweet, Emily Burnham here. The one that wears buttercup, yellow dresses and sleeps with my dog's foot pressed against her nose.

  I don't buy it for a second. "Come on, Emily. You're not a casual sex type of person."

  Her eyes flare at me hotly. "What makes you think I'm not? I can do casual sex. If I want, I can do lots of casual sex. And it doesn't even have to be with you."

  Shit. I've offended her big time and her comment about implying she can do casual sex with other men pisses me off. But I don't backpedal. I'm determined to talk her out of her foolishness. "Get real. You are flowers and romance. I'm down and dirty."

  The hot look in her eyes goes nuclear, and my heart skips a beat with wariness. She bends down and picks up the wet, paintbrush off the floor and takes a step toward me. She slaps it against my chest and I feel little paint splatters against my neck. My hands reach up automatically to grab the brush as she releases it. "You don't know shit about me, Caldwell. I'm done for the day. Clean up your own crap and I'll see you on Monday."

  She stomps around me and leaves the living room. Just before she walks out of sight, she turns around and looks at me. Her voice isn't quite as frosty when she says, "You know, Nix. I've made it my mission the last few years to experience as many new things as I can. I bet I can get just as down and dirty as you can. Maybe even more so."

  With that, she practically flounces into my kitchen and out of my sight. I hear the back door slam and seconds later, her car pulling out of my driveway.

>   Fuck. That went well.

  I know her last words are going to haunt me for days. And there's not a doubt in my mind her words were calculated on her part to do just that. I've just added deviousness to Emily's list of attributes I'm beginning to admire. Just imagining Emily getting down and dirty with me is going to ensure I stay immersed in a cold shower for the foreseeable future.

  CHAPTER 15

  Emily

  My cab pulls into the front of Le Bernardin about ten minutes early but I know my parents will already be here. They habitually arrive early to everything, just as I do. I pay the cabbie and step out of the car. It's been awhile since I've dressed up, as there's not much of a need living the life of a college student.

  I smooth down the front of my cream colored, Valentino dress. It's one of my favorites. It's perfectly tailored to fit my curves and stops just above my knee. It's sleeveless and has a mandarin collar. A lightweight black jacket and black peep toe pumps complete the look. It's nice to play dress up every now and then, but these clothes represent such a small part of my life now.

  I'm finding myself more partial to paint covered cargo pants than anything.

  But just that thought makes me fume over Nix's misplaced sense of decorum. How dare he even place a label on me? I had just spent two years digging myself out of a category, and he was pushing me right back into one.

  Bastard.

  Maybe I should just show up Monday to work and drop my clothing on the floor and see what he does. I'll show him down and dirty.

  I walk into Le Bernardin and scan the bar. My parents are sharing a table and have drinks in front of them. I approach them with nothing less than dread in my stomach. The main topic of our conversation I'm sure will center on my degree and how wrong it is for the family.

  My heart hurts a bit that I can't have the type of parents that would be ecstatic just to come and have some quality time with their daughter. As I approach their table, they both look up at me. My father's smile is warm but he stays seated. My mother rakes her scrutiny down my body, taking in my appearance. Approval of my dress is the only thing reflected on her face. What I wouldn't give for both of them to jump up, yell out to everyone in the restaurant, "Emily, we've missed you."