Page 34 of Off-Limits Bad Boy

“Your sister?” I say with a snort, playing it off, keeping my true desires hidden behind a safe wall of indifference. “Never. Not in a million years.”

“Right.” He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't push it, either. We both know the truth would complicate things far too much.

“Are you here for a drink or just checking up on your little sister?” I ask, confronting him to throw him a little more off balance. I love Alex, but he’s easy to control.

“A bit of both,” Alex says with a nod of his head, but his attention has already shifted, distracted by other matters.

“Then go to the bar,” I say with a vague gesture toward the main area of the club. Even though I know the move won't work, I do need the distance to get my head straight.

“You have that scotch?” he asks, nodding toward my desk.

“Of course,” I say, turning to lean against the wall as I watch him speak.

“Maybe you should break that out.” Something about this way he says the words puts me on edge. But I do as he asks and pick up the bottle of Scotch, quickly pouring it into two glasses I keep deep in the bottom drawer of my desk.

“Have you heard anything back from him?” Alex asks and for the first time, my mind is dragged away from the image of Emma bolting like a frightened deer.

I shake my head, the weight of unspoken tension bearing down on us. “Is that why you stopped by? And why you need a drink?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says, clipped and all business now. He throws a glance over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to just appear in the doorway.

I offer him a glass and he stands, sipping the liquid and staring into space.

“Did you hear something?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “The silence is the worst part, you know.”

I nod, knowing exactly what he means.

“But if you haven't heard anything, I guess I can go.” He downs his drink in a single gulp and hands me back the glass before leaving my office.

The second the door clicks shut, I move. Leaving my office, I weave through the club's labyrinth, every corner and shadow familiar yet feeling alien because she's here, and this feeling between us has morphed into something unrecognizable.

I find her in the storage room, a sanctuary of solitude amid her signature brand of organized chaos. Her back is to me, shoulders tense as she arranges bottles with meticulous care and makes notes in the system via a handhold in her grasp.

“Emma,” I say softly.

She freezes, and even though she doesn't turn, I can picture her wide-eyed surprise, her lips parting slightly in anticipation.

I want her with an intensity that frightens me, but this isn't the time or place, and she's off-limits in ways that go beyond the physical. Still, the urge to walk over and pull her into my arms, to kiss her, is almost impossible to ignore.

“Kade,” she says in a short tone, acknowledging me in a cold, polite tone without facing me. The joke is on her. The sound of my name on her lips does weird things to my desire.

“Turn around.” My tone is soft and demanding. But one question sticks out in my mind. Will I be able to keep my hands to myself? And can I resist her?

She complies, and the sight of her hits me hard—a visceral punch to the gut. There’s a stubborn tilt to her chin, a challenge in her stance that tells me she's no pushover, despite the vulnerability she tries to hide.

The look she gives me is a wild cocktail of fear and wanting. “What do you want?” Her voice wavers, dancing between defiance and something softer.

I stride toward her, bridging the gap with a few purposeful steps. My heart thrums against my ribs, and I ache for a taste of her lips. But I clamp down on that desire, focusing on why I'm really here. “I want to talk about earlier,” I say, locking eyes with her and steeling my self-control.

A shiver runs through Emma's frame, a visible tremor that tells me her thoughts are miles from the letter. She’s thinking about the kiss we almost shared. That makes two of us.

“About the letter,” I say.

She nibbles her bottom lip—a small, uncertain gesture that has me itching to reach out and run my thumb along the spot she bit. But I hold back, waiting for her permission to make a move. And then it comes, a slight nod that unleashes the words I've been holding back.

I lean against the cool, metal shelving, watching her process as I speak. “The letter,” I say, “was a goodbye to Stella. I need closure.” I pause, gauging her reaction. “There's no 'us' with her.”