The Forbidden Throb Chapter 113

Daniel's POV:

But even as I said it, my hand remained tangled in her hair, unable to pull away.

Emma lifted her head from my shoulder, her eyes glassy but suddenly focused with an almost comical intensity.

The pink flush on her cheeks had spread down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of that damned green dress.

"'M not drunk," she insisted, each word carefully enunciated in that way people do when they're absolutely gone.

She pulled back slightly, holding up her right index finger between us. "See? One finger. Just one. Not two, not three..."

The finger wavered in the air, tracing an unsteady path toward my face.

*Christ.*

I sat frozen as her fingertip made contact with my lower lip.

The touch was feather-light, exploratory. She traced the line of my mouth with singular focus, as if committing the shape to memory.

The amethyst bracelet—the one I'd chosen because it matched her eyes in certain lights—caught the cabin's ambient glow, sliding down her wrist with each movement.

My throat worked involuntarily.

The sensation of her finger against my lips sent electricity straight down my spine, pooling low in my stomach. I gripped the armrest hard enough that my knuckles went white.

"Emma." Her name came out strangled. "You need to—"

"Shh." Her finger moved from my lips to trace along my jaw, following the line up toward my ear. The touch left trails of heat in its wake. "You're so tense,"

*Because you're touching me like this and I'm barely holding on.*

My entire being was focused on the warmth of her body pressed against my side, the faint scent of strawberries on her breath mixing with whatever floral perfume she'd put on.

She shifted closer, and I noticed the slight sheen of perspiration at her temples, the way her hair clung to her neck.

She was uncomfortable, overheated in the climate-controlled cabin.

"Emma." I gentled my voice, the same tone I used with anxious patients. "Let's take off your jacket, okay? You're warm..."

My hand moved to her jacket's collar, fingers brushing against the soft skin of her neck as I tried to ease the fabric off her shoulders. The movement was careful, controlled.

She jerked back.

"No." Her hands flew up to clutch the jacket closed, eyes suddenly wary despite the alcohol haze. "I can't."

The rejection stung more than it should have. I dropped my hands immediately, giving her space.

"Emma—"

"This isn't for you to see." She pressed back into her seat, creating distance between us. Her voice carried a note of determination that cut through the slurred edges. "I wore this... for him. Not you."

The words hit like a physical blow.

The cabin's entertainment screen chose that moment to switch to the flight path display, its cold white light illuminating the space between us.

In that harsh glow, Emma's expression was serious, almost stubborn.

Something in my chest cracked.

*Him.*

I forced myself to lean back. "Who is 'him'?"

My voice came out flat, clinical. The same tone I used to deliver difficult diagnoses.

Emma tilted her head, studying me with unfocused eyes.

Her fingers had found the amethyst bracelet, turning it absently around her wrist.

The silence stretched. Outside the window, clouds drifted past like ghosts.

"It's my husband."

The words came so simply, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment they didn't register.

Then Emma smiled—actually smiled—her eyes lighting up with something that looked almost mischievous.

She leaned forward, closing the space between us again, and I could see the individual flecks of gold in her blue-green irises.

"Do you know him?" She was confiding a secret, her voice dropping to a whisper. "His name is Daniel Prescott. He's a brilliant... brilliant... brilliant cardiac surgeon."

The world stopped.

Every axis of my carefully controlled existence tilted on its head. The dark cloud that had been gathering in my chest dissipated like smoke, replaced by something so overwhelming I couldn't name it.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

My cardiovascular system had gone from one kind of chaos to another—from the leaden weight of jealousy to an adrenaline spike that made my previous reaction look like a warmup.

Emma's hand came up to cup my face, her touch impossibly gentle. She traced my eyebrow with her thumb, following the arch down to my temple, then lower to my eyelid when I reflexively closed my eyes.

"You look so much like him," she murmured, and I felt her breath ghost across my cheek.

She leaned back slightly, studying me with an intensity that made my skin burn.

"You look exactly like him."

*Oh, Emma.*

The sweetness of it nearly undid me.

And she didn't even realize she was confessing.

"Can I show you?" Her hands moved to the jacket's zipper, fingers fumbling slightly with the pull. "Just... just a quick look."

"Emma—" My voice cracked.

"Then can you tell me..." She bit her lower lip, suddenly uncertain. "If you think he'll like it?"

*He'll love it. He already loves everything about you.*

The zipper came down slowly, revealing what she'd been hiding.

The emerald dress underneath was simpler than I'd expected—thin straps over delicate collarbones, a sweetheart neckline that dipped just low enough to be devastating.

The fabric clung to her waist before falling in soft pleats, and a subtle slit along one thigh showed a flash of pale skin with each movement.

*I'd seen this dress before.*

That night she'd made dinner, the way she'd been so carefully dressed when I came home. She'd been wearing this exact dress, had stood in my kitchen, and I'd...

I'd kept my gaze carefully above her shoulders. Had focused on her face, her words, anything but the way that green fabric had moved when she reached for the wine glasses.

Now, with Emma in my lap and no escape route available.

"Look at me."

Emma's hand pressed against my chest as she shifted closer until she was straddling my thigh. The position was intimate beyond anything we'd shared before.

"Do you think he will like it?"

Her breath ghosted across my ear, carrying the sweetness of strawberries and cream.

I broke.

"Emma." My hands moved of their own accord, settling on her waist to steady her. The fabric was cool and smooth under my palms, her warmth radiating through it. "He will."

The words came out rough, barely more than a whisper.

"He'll love it."