Page 15 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
I want it to last forever, locked in memory and perfect ecstasy as we dance our way toward a mutual climax. This is where I want to be, reliving the very best of my time with Emily.
Then, suddenly, the eyes that stared into mine are hazel, wide and slightly alarmed. The hair spread out on the pillow is dark, long, and straight. The body beneath me is athletic and narrow with small, high breasts, instead of richly curved. The sweet, cupid’s bow mouth says, “I don’t know how to sign this. We can’t do this if we don’t sign the document.” Somewhere, an alarm bell starts ringing.
It rings and rings, pulling me up and out of wherever I was, like I am being lifted by a crane. The woman under medisappears into the distance, but I can still see those eyes — wide, innocent and a little frightened.
I awake, hard as a rock and as frustrated as a teen-age boy in a room full of naked women that he can’t touch. The phone is ringing, an angry insistent buzz.
I answer it. “Charles Emory.”
Manuela’s voice comes through the connection. “I am so sorry, Mr. Emory. There’s been a sickness in our apartment building, and nobody is allowed to leave. I won’t be able to come help with Miss Cece.”
I try to pull myself together and to shake off the after effects of the dream. “It’s all right, Manuela. I found someone for her. I’ll put you on paid leave of absence. Do you need anything?”
“They say we’re supposed to get grocery and food deliveries, but I don’t know . . .”
“You call me if you need anything, anything at all. If ‘they’ don’t come through, you can count on me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Emory. Gettin’ paid will help. It’ll keep me from being evicted.”
Good God! I hadn’t even thought of that. But I had funds in escrow and insurance to take care of my people.“Don’t you worry. Just call if you need something,” I say.
I make the usually polite noises that go with ending a phone conversation and look at the digital clock on my nightstand. It is 4:30 in the morning.
After that dream, I don’t even want to go back to bed. Sure, it had been a while since I’d had a woman sleeping with me, but those eyes . . .I’d been dreaming about James Bailey’s baby sister! Maybe the old biddy on the party line wasn’t all that wrong.
I get up, walk myself into the bathroom, take care of business, and dump my overly emotional self into the shower. I run it on cold, blasting myself awake.
It doesn’t help. I’m still hard, and I can’t get the dream out of my head.
I turn the water over on warm, soap up and have a quick session with what my father used to call “mother thumb and her four daughters,” all the while remembering those eyes, wild like a deer caught drinking from the edge of a pool.
I knew from experience that masturbation probably wasn’t going to solve all my problems. But it should get my libido to the point where I can behave like a decent human being.
I had just stepped out of the shower and am toweling off when the phone rings again. “Charles Emory,” I answer it.
“Mr. Emory?” Sherry’s voice comes from the phone, “Mom says I can’t come to work until all this is over. She saw on the news that someone in your building got sick. She won’t even let us go to the grocery store. She’s ordered a delivery.”
I sink down on the bed. Of course, Sherry’s mom wouldn’t let her go out of their house to work.Shoot, if it were Cece, I wouldn’t let her go out, either.“It’s all right, Sherry. You’ve got paid time off coming to you. Is everyone ok at your house?”
“Yes. We’re ok. Mom says she wants to keep us that way.”
“You have a smart mom. You just keep listening to her. Call if you need anything, all right?”
“All right, Mr. Emory. Thanks for understanding. You’re the best.”
I flop back on the bed. I am down two chaperones, and I doubt if I can count on the dog walker. Now, what am I going to do?
Chapter seven
Kate
At 6:00 in the morning, I awake to a light tapping on my door. I throw on the terry cloth robe my mother had made for me, which was barely big enough to wrap around me. My flannel pajamas are comfy, but too threadbare to be decent.
I am completely unprepared to speak to anyone, let alone the ;ahem; vision that meets my gaze when I open the door. I feel heat rise from my navel to my hairline and possibly invade certain other regions.
Charles Emory stands there in home-office casual. Which is to say, he is wearing a button-down shirt and tie with red plaid pajama bottoms. I try to keep my eyes on his face. Those pj bottoms cling to him, not leaving much to imagination. And boy, is he built! I can see a manly bulge beginning below his flapping shirt tails.
I am suddenly terribly conscious of just how much my old terry robe doesn’t cover, and how thin and possibly revealing my old pajamas are. My face grows even hotter, and I know I’m blushing.
