The Righteous and The Wicked Page 8

  “Oh. Hi.” She greets him and holds the door open. “Sean will be down in a second.”

  It’s awkward. Tense. Eric says nothing. His perverted eyes move to her hair, her breasts, her legs, and then back to her eyes again. He makes her feel dirty. He’s handsome, she can’t deny that, and maybe in a different time and another place, she would have enjoyed the eye sex he’s trying to have with her, but it pisses her off that he has the audacity to ogle her in her own home, with her fiancé—his best friend—just feet away.

  She folds her arms across her chest and shoots daggers at him. She won’t let him make her uncomfortable; she wants him to know that she doesn’t want any of what he’s offering. He smirks at the nasty look she is giving him. A chill runs up Danielle’s spine in spite of her desire to appear unaffected by his creepiness. Suddenly, he looks down and away, and she’s thankful that he stopped visually molesting her.

  Eric finds it amusing that Danni’s standing here pretending she doesn’t want it, when he knows that deep down, somewhere inside her, she does want it—but she won’t admit it to herself. He imagines her blond head bobbing between his legs. The flesh of her breasts in his mouth. Her legs wrapped around his waist, or bent in submission. Her feet resting on his shoulders. He fantasizes about watching the angry look on her face melt into the ecstasy he knows he could make her feel. He can almost hear her begging him for more. He can almost taste her sweat. Swallowed by temptation, he gets rock hard and his hunger is all-consuming. Desperate to stop the avalanche of evil, he thinks of the one thing that can distract him. The one thing that can make him come away from the edge—Emma.

  He looks away from Danielle and thinks of Emma’s eyes, her smile, her voice. Her sweetness. But the thoughts of Emma don’t quiet his thirst, they only shift its focus. He needs to be near her. He knows he has to see Emma as soon as he can—tonight.

  “Hey, man, you ready to get your monkey suit?” Sean interrupts the tense moment as he thunders down the stairs and kisses Danielle goodbye.

  Danielle watches them get into Sean’s car and drive away, then she does the same. She’s late for her bridal fitting.

  “Oh my God. She looks gorgeous! Emma, doesn’t she look fucking gorgeous!

  “Abby, watch the language, will you please? And yes. She’s stunning.”

  Danielle stands on a pedestal in front of a three-way mirror. Emma is on her left and Abby is on her right, dressed in identical light blue, silk taffeta. The seamstress kneels at Danielle’s feet with pins between her teeth and glasses sliding down her liver-spotted nose, adjusting the hem of the wedding gown.

  “Emma, you look happy today. I’m glad to see it,” Danielle says to Emma’s reflection.

  “That may have something to do with you know who,” Abby says in a singsong voice, and Emma shoots her a look.

  “Who? Sexy Neighbor Guy? Did you see him again?” Danielle has a smile from ear to ear.

  Emma turns beet red and stares at her feet.

  “They went on a bike ride, Danni. How romantic is that?”

  The girls squeal and shriek, overjoyed for her. She wants to let herself feel happy, too, but they don’t know what Emma knows. At any moment, she could discover him entwined with another woman and, in addition to feeling devastated and overcome with jealousy, Emma would be turned on by it. Although she has embraced her desire for Eric, she has not yet embraced her attraction to his secret sickness.

  Danielle and Abby think Emma’s new crush is cute and sweet. That it’s the beginning of a healthy relationship.

  They are mistaken.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma stands in the kitchen, her eyes locked on Eric’s black Jeep. She could hear him working when she came home, and imagines what he would look like . . . exhausted and dirty. Instead of ignoring the fantasy, she indulges it, and she doesn’t regret doing so. She wonders if he’ll be leaving soon, if he will go to some random place tonight, looking for someone strange and beautiful. She is terrified and exhilarated by the idea.

  If he did leave, she would follow him. She wouldn’t be able to resist pursuing his sin, even though they have formed a sort of friendship. She turns her attention away from the window, to the pot of boiling water on the stove.

  Eric sits on the edge of his bed, staring through the trees toward the white house, dreaming of the sanctuary that lies within. He nibbles on the skin of his thumb and his leg jiggles up and down with nervous energy. The need is rising, and he’s not sure he can refrain from hunting. He’s torn. He doesn’t want to indulge himself by seeking an anonymous victim, but he doesn’t want to allow his urges to taint his relationship with Emma. To soil her with his desire would be unforgivable. She has brought him continuous peace and has distracted him from his compulsions, but he’s finding himself more and more interested in her. Drawn to her virtuous beauty and captivated by the way she shoulders her burden with grace. He wonders if this attraction will turn her into one of his victims. He doesn’t want it to, but he’s not sure he can stop himself.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Her muscles contract, causing her to jolt. Tomato sauce splatters from the edge of her wooden spoon. She wipes the mess with a dishtowel, and walks away from the hot stove, smoothing her hands over her hair and trying to conceal her smile as she rushes to the door. What she sees on the other side sends a thrill through her. It’s Eric, dressed all in black, the outfit he wears when he’s looking for a woman. The same clothes he wore in the club, at the coffee shop, in the bar. But he’s not out looking, he’s here.

  “Hi,” he says, smiling.

  Attraction and revulsion revolve through her. The duality is dizzying. He will only torment her, but she wants him anyway.

  “Can I come in?”

  Desperate to see each other, they are now locked in the grip of formality. They shield their true desires behind it. He walks past her into the living room, and his eyes wander over all the antiques that live there. His hands pass over certain items, and Emma watches his long fingers. They stop when they find her father’s old record player. Eric kneels down and begins to browse through the vintage albums. Something piques his interest and he pulls it out, blowing the dust off the cover.

  “May I?” He gestures toward the turntable.

  “Of course.”

  Eric lifts the needle and places it on top of the spinning black circle. He turns the volume up as loud as it will go and a woman’s gritty, melodic voice fills the house. He closes his eyes and begins to move back and forth to the rhythm. Emma’s body is ablaze, but she’s frozen where she stands. His eyes open and fall on her. The stormy blue pierces her and the six feet between them feels like miles as he steps toward her, devouring her body with his gaze.

  Emma looks at his divine, supple mouth and the scruffy stubble that surrounds it. She wants to run the tip of her nose along his jaw. He takes another step and so does she. They’re an arm’s length apart, gazes locked, hearts pounding with longing. The lone sound that fills the room is the singer’s solemn voice. Just an inch apart now. So close.

  He reaches for her, takes her wrists, and brings them up onto his shoulders, pulling her against his body. She feels his hardness press into her and she closes her eyes with pleasure as her breath escapes. He slips his hands around to the small of her back as he begins to command her body in a slow rhythm with the music. Her mouth is at his neck, and she can almost hear the blood pulsing beneath his skin. She’s afraid to look in his eyes, for him to see how much she wants him, even though she can feel he wants her, too.

  “Emma . . .”

  His lips are so close to hers, she has no choice but to look at him. She finds his eyes, and sees her own lust reflected back. They dance together, just barely moving to the music. Desperate flesh pressed against desperate flesh.

  “Eric . . .”

  She answers his plea and that’s all the invitation Eric needs. He takes her bottom lip between his own. Just enough to taste her. He opens his eyes and looks at her. She’s b
egging him to continue, and he cannot resist this temptation.

  He presses his lips to hers with definite purpose. The feeling that rises and courses through his veins is unfamiliar to him. When he kisses her, he doesn’t sink into the blackness of his sickness. He’s not falling into the all-consuming void. Instead, her goodness flows into him. The passion he feels is not a desire to use her body and discard it, but to treasure it. She pulls him closer, and slides her hands up his neck and into his hair. She explores his lips, his tongue.

  She tastes so sweet, her kiss so sensual. Her initiation excites him further and he cradles her face, with a tenderness he has never shown to anyone. She’s breathless, and he is savoring her. She melts against him and he slips his fingers through her thick, soft hair. She moans, and at that sound the tenderness leaves him, replaced with fire and urgent passion. He deepens their kiss and she meets him. They clutch at fabric and flesh, trying so hard to get closer. The heat of their bodies melds together. They burn for each other. The crescendo of this first kiss rises and weaves like a symphony through their souls. Every wound that they have ever had is erased with this kiss. It is beautiful.

  Emma drowns in the depths of Eric. She submits, surrendering to his taste and his powerful touch. Mosaics of color flash behind her eyelids. She’s overwhelmed with the pleasure of feeling his skin against her own, but an alien entity is trying to enter the sanctity of this moment. Emma can’t put her finger on what it is. Then she places it. It’s smoke.

  Emma pulls away from Eric’s viselike grasp. “Something’s burning.”

  Eric smiles at her. His face is flushed and he licks his lips. “Yes. Something’s definitely on fire.”

  They run into the kitchen. The pasta water has bubbled over and it’s frothing and dripping down the stove. The sauce has burned and congealed to the bottom of the pan. Eric removes it from the heat in a swift motion and waves the smoke out of his face. He throws the pan into the sink and runs water over it. It releases a searing sizzle and steam encircles him. Then the kitchen is quiet.

  Emma opens a window and cool air rushes in, dissipating the gray clouds of smoke. Eric stands at the sink with his back to her. Not sure what to say, she begins to walk toward him. She reaches her hand out to touch him, but withdraws it before she makes contact, letting it rest at her side.

  Eric looks down at the thick, black liquid that was once Emma’s dinner. His body is still possessed by his need for her, but his mind is uneasy. He doesn’t regret kissing her; it was so intense and intimate. It felt so good to touch her, so different . . . but he’s walking too close to the edge of the cliff. If he goes any further with her, it will open the door to his darkness. If his demon is released, it will attack her. It will gorge itself, and then it will crave more. He will not be able to stop with just her and will acquiesce to his addiction again. If he allows himself to indulge with Emma, he’ll be violating his pledge to leave her untainted, to be the source of her joy, not sorrow. If he touches her again, it will leave her hurt once more.

  He won’t do it. He turns around and finds her tiny body standing right behind him. He smiles at how timid she is, and his resolution flounces. It would be so easy. He could do it right now. A voice beckons from the shadows for him to touch her, to take her. Desire hangs in the air like the thick smoke above them. He wrestles with the temptation to satisfy their mutual need. It would feel so good, he could give her such pleasure . . .

  “Looks like the food is ruined,” she says.

  He reaches up to brush her hair from her shoulder. When he touches her, her eyes close for an instant, and then open again. He can see how affected she was by the kiss they shared. She wants more, and so does he. But he’s not ready to give it to her. Not yet.

  “Well, then,” he says, “it looks like I’m taking you out to dinner.”

  The Jeep smells like leather. The light from the dashboard makes Eric’s knuckles look white as he manipulates the stick shift. Emma stares straight ahead, wondering where he’s taking her. The radio plays, just loud enough to prevent awkward silence in the car. He glances at her as he drives and she looks away. Longing engulfs her. Now that she has touched him, she wants more, she needs more. But she doesn’t know how to get it. She has to get inside his head.

  She envisions what would’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Perhaps he would have made love to her . . . on the living room floor . . . on the couch. She would have finally been the one to meet his need. His restraint surprised her, but in a way, it was a blessing. Anything more than a kiss would’ve been too much. It would have been too fast. Her head tells her it’s for the best, but her body disagrees. She’s attracted to him, but she doesn’t want to be just a conquest. She wants him, over and over again. To be the sole object of his desire. The only one. It’s an unrealistic expectation, but she yearns for it nonetheless.

  The restaurant is dark inside. It’s the kind of place illicit couples come to hide, to avoid being caught. The aromas of fresh bread and spices fill the air. Eric speaks to the olive-skinned hostess, and they follow her to the back of the restaurant. She seats them at a secluded, candlelit table near a bay window. There are no chairs, just a cushioned bench seat on the windowsill. Emma and Eric have no choice but to sit right next to each other.

  Emma looks at the menu, and Eric studies the wine list. Their arms brush against each other, and Emma feels the powerful pull to him. The warmth of his body fans the spark inside her and she lets herself rest against his heat.

  “Do you want to get a bottle? Oh, that’s right, you don’t drink.”

  A glass of wine sounds like a perfect antidote to Emma’s nerves and unsatisfied lust. “I guess a glass or two won’t hurt. I like red.”

  Eric smiles. “All right.”

  The waiter arrives and Eric orders the wine, chatting about Argentina and Malbec, but these are foreign topics to Emma. Eric asks what she would like to eat, and orders for her. Then they’re alone.

  She begins her careful journey inside Eric’s mind. “Where were you living, before you came here?”

  “Most recently, I was in Santa Catarina.” He spreads his crisp white napkin across his lap.

  “Were you building a house there?”

  “Yes. I was commissioned to design and build a vacation home for a wealthy couple. Well, for his wife mostly. The man wasn’t interested in the project, but the woman was the one who . . . wanted it.”

  He’s uncomfortable answering her, and she assumes what it was that the wife wanted from Eric, or what he took from her.

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Actually, they speak Portuguese there.”

  “Oh.” Emma bites her tongue. She’s broadcasting her lack of worldly knowledge. Boston and Pine Lake have been the extent of her travels. “So you speak Portuguese, then?”

  “Yes.” The black of his clothes makes his eyes seem an even deeper blue, and Emma struggles to keep focused on her goal.

  “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful language. Will you say something?”

  His face is devious yet tender. He rests his elbow on the table, and his arm flexes as he clears his throat. He speaks in a low and intimate voice . . . almost a whisper. “Sua beleza é um presente para mim. Seus lábios são celeste, sua pele tão macia.”3

  She has no idea what he’s said, but she feels herself flush. The spark has ignited an inferno, and she fears she’ll soon become nothing but a pile of ashes. His mouth is closed, but his eyes are still speaking to her, and this language is not foreign.

  “What does that mean?”

  He leans in closer to her, and his hand slides onto her knee. She is blazing, scorching.

  “It means . . . that I’m happy I met you, Emma.”

  She wants to tell him, to show him, how much she yearns for him and that she can give him what he craves. She wants to kiss him again, right now. She wants him to slide his hand up her thigh . . .

  “I’m happy I met you, too.”

  As the waiter appr
oaches again, Eric removes his hand from her leg and she feels her skin scream at the loss of his touch. If Emma were less of a Catholic, she would tell the waiter to go the hell away. She narrows her eyes at him, furious at his interruption. He shows them the bottle and waits for Eric’s approval before he fills each glass. Eric sips and nods, dismissing the eager waiter. Emma drinks. The wine is sweet and dry, she relishes the flavor. Eric knows what he’s doing.

  She continues to push for more of Eric’s story. “Where is your family?”

  His brow furrows. “I don’t know. The last I heard, they were living back in Ireland. I was never close to them.”

  “Not even when you were little?”

  “No. My father traveled a lot for work. He was always busy, always away. My mother . . . my mother was an alcoholic. I was pretty much raised by a nanny. Her name was Mary.” He stares into space.

  “And where is she?”

  “She died when I was thirteen.” He gulps his wine.

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  He clears his throat and sits up straight. “Yes. Well, what can you do? People come and go.”

  She recognizes his attempt at minimizing his pain. She hears it underneath the layers of his rehearsed response. She’s familiar with the effort it takes to look effortless when you try to remove your heart from your own life story. It’s like looking in a mirror.

  “Yes. Yes, they do.” It occurs to Emma that they have more in common than she thought.

  After dinner, Eric pulls the Jeep into Emma’s driveway, feeling relieved to have shared some of his memories with her. He let her in, he allowed her to attempt to scale his insurmountable wall. The wine has made him warm inside, but he can see it has made Emma drunk. She giggles as he puts the car in park and her eyes shine with a blissful haze.

  “That was a nice dinner, Eric. Thank you.” She shifts in her seat, and to Eric’s disbelief, her hand moves across the console and onto his thigh.

  This is too easy, too tempting. She could become a victim in an instant. The powerful urge to grab her and drag her into his lap seizes him. He wants to kiss her and let his lips drift to her neck. He wants to grind himself against her and let her feel how hard he is for her. He fights to resist his impulses, but it’s not easy. Instead of relenting and gratifying himself, he takes her hand and interlaces his fingers with hers. She squeezes it, and leans closer to him. Their mouths are so close, almost touching, but he moves his lips away from hers and kisses her forehead.