Unbroken

swings me out into his arms.
    “Put me down!” I yelp, shocked at the feel of his body, so close to mine. “Emerson!”
    He ignores me, striding up the steps to the porch. I struggle against his body, but his arms are like steel around me. I’m helpless against the flood of sensation overwhelming me: the heat of him, the deep, masculine scent, the friction of his shirt against my bare arms. “Emerson,” I try again, desperate. “I’m warning you!”
    Emerson looks down at me, his dark eyes flashing. “Do you ever shut the hell up?”
    He opens the door, and takes me through the hallway to the living room, depositing me gently on the couch. I scoot back the minute he lets go of me, trying to put the maximum distance between our bodies.
    “I told you I was fine.” I snap angrily.
    “Yeah, well your ankle says different.” Emerson glowers down at me. “Maybe you should pay more attention to what your body’s telling you.”
    He strides off into the house, leaving me weak and breathless with his last words. What my body is telling me? God, if I did that, I’d be naked and on top of him right now.
    Argh! I let out a small cry of frustration. This was exactly why I was afraid to come back here—why I tried to bail on the party tonight. It’s not that I don’t know what my body wants, it’s that I sure as hell can’t ever allow myself to have it.
    Like, ever .
    Because I know how that ends: with me alone, and heartbroken, wishing I’d never laid eyes on him in the first place.
    Emerson returns from the kitchen with a damp cloth and the old tin first-aid kit. He kneels down at my feet beside the couch, and takes my injured leg in his hands.
    I flinch away from his touch.
    “Hold still,” he grounds out. One look from him, and I obey—his whole face is set and determined, lips pressed in a grim line. Clearly, having to take care of me is the worst thing in the world to him right now.
    “Your ankle should be fine,” Emerson says, carefully rotating my bare foot in his hands. “It’s not broken or sprained. I’ll get this knee cleaned up.”
    “I can do it myself,” I snap, watching him dab the wet towel to clean up the gravel and blood.
    “Like you could cycle home? Or take care of yourself in the bar?” Emerson shoots back. “I’m surprised you’re not dead in a gutter if this is how you’ve been carrying on the last four years.”
    Before I can reply, he takes the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then pauses. “This is going to hurt a little.”
    A little?
    “Motherfucker!” I let out a yell as he pours it over the open wound.
    “OK, so I lied.” Emerson grins.
    I grit my teeth and wait it out. It stings like hell, but to my surprise, that’s a good thing: the more I can focus on the pain, the less time there is to feel his hand gently gripping my bare leg, or watch how his head is bent over me, focused completely on the task.
    On fixing me.
    Emerson wipes the alcohol away, and then presses a Band-aid over the wound. There’s a pause, he glances up to catch my eyes. Then, to my shock, he slowly leans down and softly kisses my knee. “All better,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine.
    My heart stops.
    Slowly, Emerson rises from his knees. Holding my gaze in a magnetic stare, he steps his feet on either side of mine, bending over to rest his hands on the couch cushions on either side of my head. His face is just inches away from mine. His body looms over me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from every muscle. The look in his eyes is deadly determined.
    I close my eyes. It’s all too much.
    “Emerson…” I whisper. Even in the dark of my mind, I can see him perfectly. His presence fills every one of my senses, a wave of pure longing. I can hear the ragged sound of his breath, uneven; feel every shift and motion of his body through the thin air between us.
    Then he touches me. His finger brushes against my cheek, tracing down my jaw, my throat, along my collarbone. I let out a gasp, my skin burning to his touch.
    Every cell in my body crackles with electricity. Everything I have cries out for more.
    I bite my lip. My eyes are still pressed shut, and I’m caught up in the darkness, and this wildfire racing through my body. I should stop him, I should push away, but the only thing that matters to me is that slow trail of his fingertip tracing so gently down the centre of my chest.
    He reaches the neckline of my flimsy tank, gently teases along