His Uncle's Obsession: After I Seduced Him novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: Shut the Door

Emmy has Crews shut the door and spends the night with Sutton, then turns down his offer to crew-chief his comeback, until Reba turns up fired and asking where his barn is.

Nobody in the doorway moved.

Forty phones stayed up behind Crews.

I turned my head on Sutton's shoulder and looked my ex right in the eye.

"You heard him," I said. "Shut the door, Crews."

Brinley made a sound.

Somebody in the back said, "Oh, my Lord."

Crews's knuckles went white on the doorknob.

For one second I thought he'd come across the room.

Then he looked at his uncle's back, and whatever he saw there changed his mind.

He shut the door.

Not a slam.

A careful little click.

Across the hall, the jazz trio kept playing.

Sutton still hadn't put me down.

He leaned his forehead against mine.

"Nobody's watching now," he said quietly. "If you want to stop, this is where we stop. I'll find you a robe and a car home, and I'll never say a word."

"I don't have a home. I lived with him."

"Then a robe and a room."

I looked at him.

His shirt hung open where I'd pulled at it.

An old burn scar shone pale on the back of the right hand that held me against the glass.

His watch lay on the carpet where he'd dropped it, still ticking.

I'd come in here to hurt Crews.

Crews was gone.

And I still wanted the man holding me.

"I don't want to stop," I said. "I want you to take me to bed, and I want to be the one who says what happens there."

One corner of his mouth went up.

"Yes, ma'am."

He carried me through the dark suite with my legs still around his waist.

The bedroom was all window.

Charlotte glowed below us like a circuit board.

He set me down at the foot of the bed and stepped back.

"You said you'd be the one saying what happens," he said.

"I did."

"Then say it."

I looked at him.

Shirt open, belt still on, jaw set.

Waiting.

"Take off the shirt," I said.

He shrugged it off and let it fall.

His chest was broad and dusted with dark hair, his stomach flat.

Older than Crews.

Built different.

Better.

"Now the belt," I said.

He pulled it free in one motion and dropped it on the floor.

The buckle clinked on the carpet.

"Pants," I said.

He unbuttoned them and pushed them down.

No boxers.

He was already hard, his cock thick against his stomach.

My breath caught before I could stop it.

He saw it and his mouth twitched.

"Something you want to say?"

"Shut up," I said, and his grin broke wide open.

I pulled my dress the rest of the way off and tossed it at the chair.

It missed.

I didn't care.

"Lie down," I said.

He lay back on the white sheets, arms behind his head, watching me.

"On your stomach," I said.

He rolled over without a word.

I climbed on top of him and sat on the backs of his thighs.

The muscles went tight under me.

I leaned down and bit his shoulder, not gentle.

He hissed through his teeth.

"Fuck," he said, low and rough.

"Nine years out of practice," I said against his skin. "I don't think so."

I dragged my nails down his back, slow, leaving red lines.

He shuddered.

"I'm going to put my mouth on you," I said. "But not yet."

"Then what?"

"You're going to touch me first."

I sat up and told him exactly where.

He rolled onto his back and reached for me.

"Not there yet," I said. "Start at my knees."

His hands were warm and dry, callused in a way Crews's never were.

He ran them up my thighs, slow, like I'd told him.

Higher.

I let my head fall back.

"Your hands," I said. "God, your hands."

"I've got two good ones," he said.

The laugh surprised both of us.

It broke out of my chest, raw and strange after the hour I'd had.

"Higher," I said.

He stopped with his thumbs at the crease of my thighs, not quite touching my pussy.

I was so wet I could feel it on my own skin.

"Say it," he said, and his voice had gone deeper.

"Touch me."

"Where?"

"Don't make me say it twice."

"Say it twice."

"You want me to say pussy, Sutton? Fine. Put your hand on my pussy."

He did.

One broad palm cupped me, hot, and I jerked against it before I could stop myself.

"There you are," he murmured.

He didn't move.

Just held me there, letting the heat build, watching my face.

"Your clit," he said. "Tell me what you want me to do to it."

"Rub it," I said. "Slow, and don't you dare stop."

He obeyed.

Two fingers traced circles around my clit, then over it, then around again.

I was making sounds I didn't recognize.

High and thin and desperate.

"That's it," he said. "That's the sound I wanted."

"Don't talk."

"Make me."

I grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand harder against me.

"Faster," I said.

He laughed, low in his chest.

"This is you leading, is it?"

"It's me getting what I want."

But he slowed instead.

He pulled his hand away and flipped me onto my back so fast I gasped.

When I looked up, he was over me, knees between mine.

"My turn," he said softly.

"Like hell it is."

"You said you'd be the one saying what happens."

He bent and kissed the inside of my knee.

"So I'm listening."

Another kiss, higher.

I grabbed his hair.

It was thick and soft, going gray at the temples.

"I didn't say you could stop."

"You'll tell me when to start again."

He put his mouth on me.

Right on my clit, no warning, tongue flat and patient.

I bucked up into his face.

He held my hips down with one arm and worked me with his mouth like he had all night.

The jazz from across the hall was gone.

Or maybe I just couldn't hear it over my own breathing.

"Please," I said.

He lifted his head, lips wet, eyes dark.

"Please what?"

"Don't stop."

"Then don't come yet."

"Bastard."

He laughed against my thigh and put his mouth back on me.

I came with his name in my mouth, my thighs shaking around his head.

He didn't stop until I pushed at his shoulder.

When he looked up at me, he was grinning.

"You're in charge," he said.

"I want your cock inside me."

"Yes, ma'am."

I sat up and pushed him onto his back.

He went easily, watching me with something raw in his face.

"You're sure?" he said, but it wasn't a check-in.

It was a dare.

I straddled him.

"I haven't been sure of anything since I walked out of that party," I said. "This, I'm sure of."

I reached down and took him in my hand.

He was thick and hot, and he jerked when I touched him.

"Fuck," he said.

"Not yet."

I guided him to my entrance and sank down, slow, an inch at a time.

He filled me until I couldn't breathe.

His hands found my hips, but he didn't push or pull.

He let me set it.

I moved first, a slow roll of my hips.

His head fell back against the pillow.

"God, Emmy."

I watched his face twist and thought about Crews.

For one second, I thought about him standing in that doorway.

Then I moved again, and Crews was gone.

That scared me more than the rage ever had.

I rode him harder to outrun it.

The room filled with the sound of skin on skin and our breathing.

"Touch yourself," he said, his voice wrecked.

"Who's leading?"

"You are," he said. "Always you. Now touch yourself while I watch."

I did.

His eyes tracked my hand, then my face, then where we joined.

"That's mine," he said. "This pussy. Mine tonight."

"Yours tonight."

I braced one hand on his chest and took him deeper.

He groaned and sat up suddenly, his arms wrapping around me.

He drove up into me hard, his mouth at my ear.

"Say it again."

"Yours."

I came again with him moving under me, my nails in his shoulders, his name a broken thing in my mouth.

He followed three thrusts later, buried deep, his whole body going taut under me.

He said my name like it was ripped out of him.

Then we collapsed.

I lay with my head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my ear.

The city beyond the windows had started to go gray at the edges.

Dawn.

I didn't think about tomorrow.

I didn't think about the phones or the clip or Reba or the six-race suspension.

I just lay there and let his hand rest on my back, and I didn't think about tomorrow yet.

Room service knocked at eight.

Sutton answered in the hotel robe, signed the slip and wheeled the cart in himself.

Eggs, grits, biscuits, a pot of coffee and one pink rose in a bud vase.

"You ordered me a rose?"

"It came with the eggs," he said. "I'm not taking credit for a rose."

I sat cross-legged on the bed in his white shirt and ate a biscuit in three bites.

He watched me.

"Rules," I said, with my mouth full.

He poured two coffees and handed me one.

"Go on."

"One night. That was it. Nobody owns anybody. And nobody hears about it from me."

"Half that party already heard about it from a phone."

My phone had been buzzing on the nightstand since six.

I'd turned it face down.

"From me," I said. "That's the rule."

"Fair." He sat in the chair by the window. "My turn. You want to know what midnight was?"

"I figured your birthday."

"August."

He set his cup on his knee.

"Nine years ago my brother died in his kitchen on a Tuesday. Fifty-six. Twyla said she'd sell the team to strangers unless I walked away. Crews was twenty-one."

"So you walked."

"I signed a paper. Nine years. No driving and no owning in the Cup Series."

"And it ran out at midnight."

"It ran out with your legs around me," he said. "Best timing I ever had."

I laughed before I could stop it.

Then I saw his face, and I stopped.

"I've got a car," he said. "A #4, built in my barn in Lincoln County. Used chassis. My own money. I'm entering Daytona in nine days."

I put my cup down.

"You've been out of a Cup car for nine years."

"Yes."

"No sponsor. No engineer. You'll have to race your way into the 500."

"Yes."

"You need a crew chief."

"I need you," he said. "For the car."

The way he added that last part made my face hot.

"I'm suspended," I said. "Six races. I can't set foot on a track till Martinsville."

"I read the bulletin."

"Then you know it's no."

"I know you said it."

I got up and found my dress on the floor.

It was wrinkled to death.

"I'm not going from one Tillery's car to another," I said. "I'm not anybody's revenge again. Not even mine."

He nodded.

"All right."

"That's it? All right?"

"You said no." He stood and handed me my shoes. "I heard you."

That was worse than if he'd argued.

I went down in the elevator in last night's dress and his suit jacket, because it was February and my coat was across the hall.

The desk clerk looked at me.

She probably had.

I checked my phone at the front doors.

Two hundred and twelve messages.

The top one was a link from a racing blog.

A hotel door, my bare back, my legs, and the back of a man in a white shirt who never turned around.

The caption said TILLERY FAMILY REUNION.

A horn honked at the curb.

An old red pickup sat in the fire lane with its flashers on.

Reba Tackett leaned across the seat and shoved the passenger door open.

She still had on last night's sequined sweater, and her eyes were red.

"They fired me at six," she said. "Twyla's assistant called. Squeezing your arm in front of the sponsors was disloyal. Sixteen years, and I got a phone call from a child."

"Reba. Oh, no."

"Oh, yes." She patted the seat. "I've got a full tank and no job. Where's this barn of his?"

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