Dumbass cat.
“Kevin,” she shout-whispered as she approached the ajar door. Perhaps Brody was already up and off in the west wing polishing his guns for the shooting party later. This wealth really freaked her out. She peeked a head around the door, torn between hoping she wasn’t disturbing him and wishing he were lying in bed with a sheet halfway down his body, revealing the curvature of his steel-muscled ass.
No such luck. But his bed had been slept in, which she took as a good sign that he hadn’t spent the night with some trashy piece he picked up in a club. She had enough self-awareness to be amused at this little irony.
Shower sounds reached her ears as she took a few steps farther inside. Cleaning up after a night with some skank, Mr. Kane?
God, what was wrong with her? Less than two nights ago, she had been the skank. She had no claim over him and neither did she want to. She needed to find Kevin, get ready for work, look for an apartment, figure out how to pay off Ray—as well as the money she now owed Brody for all that damn cat food—and plan her next steps. Which might involve disappearing off the grid. Sex with her smokin’ boss should really be the farthest thing from her mind.
Brody’s closet was open. Emma tiptoed over and spied inside.
“Kevin!” The incubus was sniffing out Brody’s shoes, likely looking for a place to make his mark. “Come here.”
The little shit ignored her.
“Oh, you are in for it.” She moved to grab him, but he shot right by her. That’s when she heard it.
Well, she wasn’t quite sure what “it” was, but if she had to hazard a guess, she’d say it was a moan. Panic seized her chest. Was Brody hurt? Hungover? Singing?
With the quietness of a ninja, she moved toward the bathroom. The door was open a few inches, the soothing pitter-patter of the shower the only noise now.
“Mr. Ka—uh, Brody?” she asked tentatively. “Are you okay?”
The sound came again, this time louder, and now that she was close, there was no doubt that it was Brody. Only he was definitely not hurt.
A groan disturbed the air. Full-throated, pleasure-tinged, threading an invisible line of need to the sensitive flesh between her thighs. A throb started up there, a sweet ache—oh God, there he went again. A deep, shuddering moan.
She turned away from the door, moving her back to greet the wall. Needing its support to keep her upright.
He was jerking off in the shower.
Oh. My. “Wow,” she whispered.
Acknowledging the fact tightened her nipples painfully. The pulse between her legs beat faster and joined the rhythm of her pounding heart. Instinctively, she moved her hand over her chest, seeking calm, but now that she had her hand on her breast, the action had a sensuous effect. Stroking her aching nipple produced short-term relief and a deep-seated need for more.
She dropped her hand like her breast was forbidden country. She couldn’t do that. Not here with her boss next door.
Her boss next door under a steamy spray with his big, rough hand stroking that monster cock.
Leave this room now. Forget what you heard.
Her feet seemed incapable of following her brain’s instructions. This was ridiculous. She shook her head, giving herself a mental shake, and stepped toward the door.
“Uh-uh-mmmm-a.”
She stilled. Surely that was her imagination. Surely he had not just said her name. With that big hand wrapped around that big—
“Oh, Christ, Emma.”
She slumped against the wall, boneless, paralyzed at what she’d heard. Once might have been an accident, twice was the stuff of fantasies. His, apparently.
Hers, definitely.
Maybe it was a different Emma. Maybe he was fantasizing about his favorite Jane Austen novel. Right. Sure there had been odd moments in the office when she glanced up and found him staring at her from behind those sexy rims with an intense regard that made her sex tighten in need. But then he would look away as if it meant nothing.
However, things had changed. Lines had been hazed beyond recognition. She knew what he felt like inside her, how his beautiful cock was crafted to fill her emptiness. He had made her come hard, and last night, her dreams had been steamy and filled with him. She awoke sweating, humping her hand, her entire body on fire with want. Now he was using her in his fantasy. So flattering.
And arousing.
Unbearably arousing.
His next groan sounded louder, the shower tile’s amplification conspiring to crank up her own craving. What would he do if she walked in there, threw open the glass door, and stepped inside? Fell to her knees and took him in her mouth?
She squeezed her thighs together, desperate for relief. Aiming for completion without doing something so deliberate as touching herself. Look ma, no hands!