The Forbidden Throb Chapter 112

Emma's POV:

Daniel's voice made me jump, my eyes flying open.

He'd removed his headphones and was watching me from his seat, reading lamp now off. 

Heat flooded my face. "I'm just... not used to new environments."

A soft knock at the suite door cut our conversation.

"Miss Johnson? Dr. Prescott?" A flight attendant appeared beside our suite, her voice barely above a whisper. "May I offer you any pre-dinner beverages? We have an excellent selection tonight—Château Margaux 2015, Dom Pérignon..."

I reached for the iPad she offered, scrolling through the wine list without really seeing it.

"I'll have this one." I pointed to the Baileys Strawberries & Cream.

Daniel's head lifted from his computer screen, one eyebrow rising slightly.

"That's unexpected." A pause. "Nervous about the conference?"

I managed a weak smile. *Nervous about sitting three feet away from you for the next seven hours, more like.*

"Just... felt like something sweet."

The attendant returned moments later with a bottle of Baileys and two Waterford crystal glasses, ice cubes clinking delicately. "Sir, would you care for—"

"I'm fine, thank you." Daniel's response was polite but final. He simply leaned back in his seat, watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher.

I poured the first glass, the cream liqueur flowing thick and smooth. The attendant departed with a knowing smile that made my face burn.

Pulling out my Bose headphones, I scrolled through the entertainment system until I found something—anything—to focus on besides the man sitting two feet away.

*Before Midnight* appeared in the indie film section. A love story. Perfect for wallowing in my own confusion.

The Baileys slid down like silk. Strawberries and cream, sweet and indulgent, with barely a hint of alcohol. *Like a fancy milkshake*, I thought, taking another sip. *Harmless.*

On screen, the couple walked through autumn leaves in coastal New England, their conversation about missed opportunities and second chances hitting too close to home. I felt my eyes sting, quickly wiping at them with the back of my hand.

Another sip. Then another.

The bottle was somehow half-empty when I finally registered it.

The movie reached its climax—the leads finally kissing on that windswept beach, Sufjan Stevens' "Mystery of Love" swelling in the soundtrack.

I clutched the empty bottle in one hand, the half-full glass in the other, my body sinking deeper into the plush seat.

Everything felt... softer. Warmer. The edges of my anxiety pleasantly blurred.

I didn't notice Daniel close his laptop. Didn't register him setting it aside and turning toward me until his fingers gently lifted the headphones from my ears.

His fingertips brushed my earlobe—just barely, just for a second—but the touch sent electricity skittering down my spine.

My eyes flew open.

The cabin lights had dimmed further, casting Daniel's face in shadow and warmth. His gray-blue eyes looked darker somehow, more intense, fixed on me with an expression that made my stomach flip.

"Don't go..." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, still caught in the ending of *Before Midnight*.

My hand shot out instinctively, fingers closing around his wrist. The warmth of his skin against my palm felt like an anchor pulling me back.

I felt his pulse jump beneath my fingertips.

The glass and bottle slipped from my other hand, rolling across the cream carpet with dull thuds. I didn't care.

"Emma." My name, barely a whisper. "You're drunk."

"'M not." But even I could hear the soft slur in my words. "Just... a little... warm..."

I tugged on his arm, and somehow—I still don't know how—I ended up pressed against his side, my face buried in the soft cotton of his sleeve.

He smelled like mint and citrus and something uniquely *him*, and I wanted to drown in it.

"Jesus Christ." The curse was so quiet I almost missed it.

His whole body had gone rigid, every muscle tensed like he was preparing for surgery. Or trying very, very hard not to move.

I felt him reach for the Hermès blanket, attempting to drape it over my legs, but I pushed it away with a frustrated sound.

"No blanket... too hot..."

*Everything's too hot. The dress. The cabin. Him.*

I shifted closer, my arms winding around his neck before I could think better of it. His jaw was right there, smooth and perfect and close enough that my breath ghosted across it.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently.

Through the pleasant haze of alcohol, some distant part of my brain was screaming at me to stop. To pull back. To maintain some shred of dignity.

But I was so tired of being careful. So exhausted from wanting and waiting and wondering.

"You're hot ..." My fingers traced the line of his jaw, fascinated by the way his skin flushed beneath my touch.

When I reached his ear, I couldn't resist—I caught his earlobe between my fingers, rubbing the soft flesh gently.

*Like petting a cat*, some drunk part of my brain supplied helpfully.

The sound Daniel made was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh.

His neck had gone crimson, the color spreading from behind his ear all the way down to where his collar disappeared.

I could see his pulse hammering in his throat, could feel the tension vibrating through every inch of him.

"Emma." His voice had gone rough, scraped raw. "You need to stop."

But he didn't push me away.

His hand came up to rest in my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. They tightened, then loosened, then tightened again—like he couldn't decide whether to pull me closer or push me back.

"One drink and you're like this..." The words were meant to sound stern, I think, but they came out broken. Desperate. "No more alcohol for you. Ever."