21. Emma
21
Emma
I t’s hard to properly ignore someone when you’re alone with them on a tiny private plane. It’s even harder when I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my waist. The light stroke of his fingers across my skin. The rustle of his breath in my hair. The long, hard…
Nope, nope, nope.
Bad Emma.
I am not going to sit here and drool over my boss’s accidental erection. It meant nothing. It was purely biological. Any man would react that way when a pair of breasts are shoved in his face.
Then I remember the way he looked at me. The way his fingers flexed, digging into my waist as my body slowly slid down his.
My thighs clench and my mouth goes dry.
“Could I have some of that?” I ask, motioning to the glass of whiskey Garrett poured himself as soon as we boarded the plane. He’s been white knuckling the tumbler for the past half hour.
Surprise flickers across his face.
“There’s vodka if you prefer,” he offers.
I shake my head. “I think I need something stronger.”
Garrett reaches for another glass and pours a generous amount of amber liquid into it. I thank him and take a small sip. It burns a path down my throat and through my chest. Suppressing a shiver, I set the glass down on the table between us and glance up at Garrett.
He takes a long, slow sip of his whiskey as he studies my face. “So, it’s safe to say that caving isn’t your thing?”
The knot in my stomach loosens a notch. Garrett assumes that I’m still worked up over the caving debacle yesterday. The truth is that Garrett had a far greater effect on me than any of those dark, narrow crevices. Instead of the nightmares that should have plagued my sleep last night, I was haunted by a different type of dream. One that left me breathless and aching for relief. And when I slipped my hand under the waistband of my shorts in the middle of the night, it was Garrett’s fingers I imagined between my legs. It was his voice I imagined coaxing me along, ‘You’re doing so good. Take a deep breath for me. Just a little deeper.’
To be fair, he’d given me a lot of material to work with in that cave.
“No, caving is definitely not my thing,” I say with a weak laugh.
“Have you always been claustrophobic?”
“No, um, that started when I was thirteen,” I say.
Garrett knits his brows and sets his glass down. “Did something happen?”
My stomach twists. What’s the best way to tell my hot lumberjack of a boss that I’m afraid of small spaces because I fell in a hole at fat camp and broke my arm?
Oh, right…not telling him at all would be best. Unfortunately, I’m a lousy liar. I’d probably end up nervously stammering my way through a story that culminates in something outlandish, like a Bigfoot attack.
The truth is better.
It might even be…cathartic?
Trust has always been a bridge too far for Garrett and me, but over the past two weeks, we’ve managed to cross it somehow. I couldn’t say when or how exactly. All I know is that when I look at the man across from me, it isn’t trust that’s standing in the way of the truth.
It’s pride, and perhaps a bit of fear.
It’s the small but insistent need somewhere deep inside me for Garrett to see me as someone worthy and desirable. It’s my perplexing newfound craving for his approval.
I take another long sip of whiskey. Yep, still hate this stuff, but at least it will calm my nerves. When I look up at Garrett, the intensity in his eyes sends a jolt of electricity through me. I take another small sip for good measure then quit stalling.
“When I was thirteen, my mom sent me off to this summer camp for, um – it was for overweight kids.” Heat prickles across my cheeks. Even though I’m perfectly fine with my body these days, it still hurts to talk about the way my mother treated me when I was younger. “We went on a hike one afternoon, and I got separated from the rest of the group. It was getting dark outside. I started to panic because I’d never really hiked before, and I didn’t know what to do. Then I tripped on a rock and took a tumble down into a narrow ravine. They didn’t find me until the next morning.”
Half of me expects Garrett to laugh. You’d be surprised by how many people actually laugh at this story. That’s part of why I rarely tell it.
I take another sip of my drink – more of a gulp, really – and wait for Garrett’s reaction, which he seems to be mulling over.
“What happened after they found you?” Garrett asks.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and take a deep breath. “They brought me back to camp. I told the counselors that I thought something was wrong with my arm, but they wouldn’t listen. As a punishment for not keeping up with the group, they sent me back to my cabin without a meal. I snuck out a while later and called my dad, who came to pick me up right away. My mom had tricked both of us into the camp in the first place, so my dad had no issue with me leaving early. He took me straight to the hospital, where we found out that my arm was broken, and I had a minor infection from a scrape on my leg. They had to do surgery to reset my arm properly.”
My fingers trace the faint, white scar down my left forearm. When Garrett glances down at it, his angry face makes a brief appearance. I know that face well, even though I’ve been seeing less and less of it over the past weeks.
I should leave it at that. There’s no reason to tell him the rest of the story. He asked for an explanation of my claustrophobia, not an overview of every childhood trauma I endured. Maybe it’s my nerves that keep me rambling on, or maybe it’s the way Garrett’s eyes soften and hold mine as his anger fades.
“When I came out of the anesthesia, I could hear my parents arguing. My mother was upset that I hadn’t lost any weight. She wanted to take me back to camp as soon as the surgeon cleared me to leave. My dad told her that she could have the house and everything in it, but he wanted a divorce and full custody of me. She yelled at him until a nurse finally came and threw her out of the room. I pretended to sleep through it all, but my dad realized I’d been crying when he came over to sit beside the bed.”
I still remember his thumb wiping a tear off my cheek as he quietly said, It’s okay, sweetheart. You and I will be just fine.
It was true. My dad and I were always a team, united by our big bones, soft hearts, and my mother’s constant ire. Things were much better after my dad and I moved out of that house. I don’t know if my mom ever truly loved either of us, but I know that losing us was a huge blow to her ego. She didn’t take it very well.
Garrett holds my gaze. Fearing that I may have overshared, my pulse accelerates while I wait for his response. He takes a long, slow swig from his glass. His eyes lower to stare at the table between us when he speaks. “I broke my arm when I was a kid, too.”
A hint of regret flashes across his features, like he wishes he could snatch the words out of the air and shove them back down deep under his skin.
I know the feeling.
“How?” I ask softly.
A deep but quiet sigh rises and falls in his chest. Even when his eyes drift back to mine, they’re a thousand miles away. The corners of his mouth are pulled down into a frown, which his tongue darts out to moisten before he speaks.
“When Ethan was five, he really wanted to learn how to ride a bike. All the other kids his age were learning, and he felt left out. I wanted to help, but there were two problems: I’d never really learned to ride one either, and neither of us owned a bicycle. I decided to borrow a couple of bikes from the neighbors when they weren’t home. I guess I sort of stole them, but I was going to return them before the neighbors even realized they were gone. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned. I skidded off the road into a ditch and took Ethan down with me.”
“Did he get hurt?” I ask.
Garrett shakes his head. “Just a few scratches, nothing major.”
Another long pause follows. I recognize it as if it was my own. Garrett is struggling to get through this story just like I struggle to get through the story about summer camp.
“But you broke your arm? Did you need surgery?” I prod gently.
“Probably,” he says, still distant. “We didn’t have insurance though, so they just put a cast on it and sent us on our way. The neighbors were there when we got home, understandably upset about the two mangled bikes in the courtyard, but my parents made us promise to pay them back every cent. I got a paper route, and the maid and groundskeeper paid me a few dollars here and there to help them with little things until I had enough money to pay the neighbors back.”
Garrett takes another sip of whiskey, staring off at nothing in particular.
The story doesn’t make any sense. His family couldn’t afford bicycles or proper healthcare, but they had a maid and a groundskeeper? Only one scenario comes to mind, and it makes my stomach churn.
Stiffly but delicately, I force the words past my lips, “Garrett, were your parents abusive?”
His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “No, no nothing like that. Just very poor. They were great parents, but they couldn’t always make ends meet. We were living in a motel at the time, sort of like the place we stayed in Moab.”
Guilt washes over me. Garrett wasn’t being a snob, he just has bad memories of that sort of place.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
Garrett shakes his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t know, and I’ve stayed in worse.”
It’s hard to imagine worse than that place with its crusty carpet and holey sheets. Then another conversation pops into my head, the one we had about donating tents to the homeless shelter.
“The tents…” I blurt out, barely above a whisper.
Garrett nods slowly, eyes fixed on mine. When the corners of my eyes fill with tears, his low voice gently scolds, “Emma…”
I try to blink back the tears. My childhood was far from ideal, but I can’t imagine what Garrett and his family went through. Not knowing where they might have to sleep that night, or when they might have their next meal. A smaller version of Garrett just wanting to give his brother something that all the other kids had. Something as simple as learning to ride a bicycle.
It's too much. A tear spills down my cheek, followed by another on the opposite side. Embarrassed by my outburst of emotion, I quickly wipe them away.
“Emma,” Garrett repeats, his voice softer now. I want to blubber out another apology, but the words are lodged in my throat. After a few long moments, Garrett speaks again. “Come here.”
It shouldn’t feel so natural to slide out of my seat and into his lap – my boss’s lap. It shouldn’t comfort me so much to feel his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer as he strokes my hair. And I certainly shouldn’t feel such a sweeping sense of relief when Garrett’s lips brush against mine so tenderly that it eviscerates what little hold I had left on my heart.
The kiss lingers for a few perfect seconds. When it ends, Garrett’s face hovers inches from mine. In his eyes, I see a reflection of my own emotions – the conflict, the hope, the need.
His gaze dips to my mouth, and my lips tingle with anticipation. Garrett’s hand moves to my jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing a faint line over my cheek. I feel him memorizing, cataloguing, savoring…in case this ends before it begins. The thought makes panic rise in my chest, which expands with shallow breaths. My heart pounds wildly as I shift in his lap. Then I tilt my chin up, up, up until my lips are pressed against his.
Garrett sighs against my mouth and relaxes beneath me. His hand cups my jaw firmly as he tilts his mouth over mine to deepen the kiss. When our lips part and Garrett’s tongue softly strokes mine, I feel it all the way down to my toes. My hand slides up his chest, over hard planes of muscle to curl around his neck and pull him closer. His desperation echoes mine. Fingers skate down my throat, grazing my breast before settling at my waist. They flex against my skin as I adjust in his lap. A hard ridge digs into my thigh when I move, and Garrett groans hungrily into my mouth.
Everything has changed on this trip. We’ve changed on this trip. Neither of us are the same people we were back in Denver. We aren’t even the same people we were back in Park City, the last time Garrett’s lips were on mine. This kiss is different. Tender instead of tenuous. Expressive rather than explosive.
Any lingering uncertainty fades away, leaving only my desperate need to feel more of him. To feel all of him. I move in his lap until my knees bracket his hips and I’m straddling him.
Garrett’s tongue laps at mine in deep, needy strokes. Fingers tangle in the hair at the base of my neck while his other palm slides down to my hip.
Eventually, his lips move to my neck. When Garrett’s mouth teases at the soft, sensitive skin just below my ear, a shiver tumbles down my spine. I can’t help but wiggle in his lap. My center connects with the hard ridge in his jeans, and we both make a quiet noise. Mine, a gasp and his, a moan.
Our eyes lock on each other, our faces just inches apart. I study the shades of gray beneath his dense lashes, finding my desperation reflected in his eyes. The same fear. The same hope.
With my eyes locked on his, I roll my hips again.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pressing his eyes closed for a second and letting his head fall back against the headrest.
When I repeat the motion again, tracing a slow line back and forth over his impressive length with more pressure than before, his eyes peel open and fix on mine again. Garrett’s other hand drops to my hip, holding both sides tight and pressing me down firmly against his cock. My clit connects with him through the thin fabric of my leggings, sending an electrical current through my entire body. A tiny gasp floats past my lips, and Garrett eagerly catches it with another deep kiss.
In a way, what we’re doing feels almost innocent. It’s the sort of thing teenagers do in the backseats of cars. But right now, it feels perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I start to wonder if I could actually come like this as I rock back and forth over him in rhythmic strokes. I think Garrett feels it, too. He presses me down harder against his lap and kisses me a little rougher.
My sensitive clit throbs and my inner walls clench, desperately craving him inside of me. My heart thumps against Garrett’s chest as if it’s trying to bury itself in there. My fingers card through the back of his hair, and my lips tingle against his as I moan.
“Garrett, I think I might…”
His eyes spark with heat at my words. With one hand, he reaches up and brushes some loose tendrils of hair back from my face. Cupping my jaw, his thumb rests beneath my chin, urging my eyes to stay focused on his.
“Are you going to come for me, Emma?” he asks.
I nod desperately against his hand.
The look in his eyes is absolutely fierce and possessive, as if he’s always owned the orgasm that’s building inside of me and he’s finally coming to collect what belongs to him.
“That’s it,” Garrett coaxes as I ride him. “Show me how pretty you look when you come.”
The low rumble of his voice quivers through me. His filthy words drip deliciously over my flushed skin. My muscles tense, and I know I’m so close to obeying his command.
“Garrett…” His name is a ragged breath across my wet lips.
Pleasure crests inside me, but just when I’m about to shatter, the fasten seatbelts sign dings loudly overhead.
The unexpected sound makes me jump. The fragile hold I had on my impending orgasm slips away into thin air. I’m panting to catch my breath, chest expanding to graze against Garrett’s. He eyes the illuminated overhead light with a level of disdain I’ve never seen from him before…and that’s saying something coming from Garrett.
A second later, the pilot’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Looks like there’s some turbulence ahead. I’ll ask you to please stay seated with your seatbelts fastened until we land outside of Yellowstone in about thirty minutes.”
Before we can debate whether or not to follow these instructions, the decision is made for us. A bout of turbulence bucks me up off Garrett’s lap, sending my head straight into the plastic ridge over the window. Garrett reaches up for the tender spot on my head, rubbing away the pain.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
“Yeah,” I nod.
This is not the ending I was hoping for.
“You should probably go back to your seat,” Garrett grits out, giving my thigh a sweet but dismissive squeeze with his other hand.
I begrudgingly agree and scramble off his lap to return to my seat.
At first, I try to distract myself by adjusting my clothes or looking out the window. Anything to avoid looking at Garrett. I couldn’t handle looking up and finding any trace of regret on his face. But when I’ve exhausted all other options, my eyes finally catch on Garrett’s, and my heart trips all over itself at the smile on his face.