Chapter Sixteen Emily
Chapter Sixteen
Emily
For possibly the first time in the history of knowing Jack, he looks unsure. Nervous. “I don’t think so.”
“Why? You critiqued every other chapter just fine.”
His gaze is so connected to mine you could zip-line on it. “This is different.”
“How is it different? I write romance—the sex is an important part of it. I want to make sure it’s up to par too.” I shouldn’t push this. I feel the edge of something at the tip of my toes and I shouldn’t take another step. But I do. “Unless you don’t think your skills are good enough in that arena to be of any real help to me.”
He pushes off the wall, smiling quietly. “I’ve never been baited so much in my life.” He pulls a chair out and takes it. “Fine. You really want me to say what I think? Here we go. First, it lacks emotional depth. The rest of your book is packed full of feelings, but when we get to your sex scene, it’s basically just graphic words for what’s happening. It gives the impression that your main character, Kate, is moving through the motions but not actually feeling anything.”
Oh god. What have I done?
He continues, back in work mode—completely oblivious to the fact that my breathing is shallow. “Next, she does all the work. For instance, this part…” He’s pointing to specific sentences like he’s pointing out solar systems on a map of the galaxy. And here is where the heroine straddles him. And if you look over here, you’ll find his bonus hand job. “The entire scene just feels one-sided to me. Like he’s on the receiving end of all the pleasure and Kate’s working her ass off to make it great for him. But then…” He pauses and shakes his head in near disbelief. “It’s just over.”
I swallow, feeling sick. Turns out I was unprepared for those sorts of insightful comments. “What do you mean it’s just over? Is there supposed to be a song and dance to conclude it?” My voice has never been so high-pitched.
“She leaves his house in a rush after. Why not have them lounge around a bit and snuggle? Give them some emotional intimacy in that moment at least.”
I want to gag on that word snuggle. “Because…she’s busy. She has places to be. People to see, Jack. She doesn’t have all day to lie around in his arms and swoon over him. She’s an independent woman who wanted sex, got it, and needed to get going.”
“But that’s not strictly true, is it? She loves him all through this story, even if she doesn’t realize it at first. She wants him for more than just sex, obviously. So why not give your readers more here?”
“Maybe she doesn’t know how, okay?”
I think it’s the sudden clip to my words that finally clues Jack in to my mood. Understanding touches his face. Softens it. He looks at me from behind those glasses as he sits back in his seat, angling his body in my direction as he drapes his arm over the back of his chair. “I see now.”
“You see nothing,” I reply, snapping the manuscript pages over so they’re in a nice, neat pile again. Show’s over. Case closed.
He grins. “Why don’t you snuggle after sex, Emily?”
He could at least have had the decency to ask me if I do or not. But of course he just acts like he already knows. Like I am some obvious, garish painting whose meaning he immediately understands.
“It’s a waste of time. I’ve never seen the purpose of it.”
“The purpose of it is comfort. Pleasure. Connection.”
“I don’t need any of those things.”
“Have you ever snuggled after sex?” Why are we saying the word snuggle so much? It’s a silly-sounding word. It should be stripped from the English language.
“No.”
“Not even in a long-term relationship?”
I tap my finger on the table. “These questions are pointless, and they have nothing to do with my story.”
“They’re not pointless. It’s important to interrogate where our words are coming from. When we write, we are putting our own thoughts and feelings down, yes, but also wearing someone else’s skin for a time.” Jack definitely just said we, didn’t he? Does this mean he writes too? I don’t get a chance to dwell on it because he continues on quickly. “You might not like snuggling, but Kate, your main character, does. That’s why the scene felt so strange to me. She’s so full of feeling and then suddenly, we get to arguably one of the most important scenes in the book and suddenly she’s one and done. It’s important to question whether you’re putting too much of your own experience in, or if it’s organic to Kate’s character.”
I meet his gaze even though my skin burns with embarrassment. I force myself to nod toward the manuscript. “I guess you could say that, yes, in a nutshell, this is what I’m used to. I’ve never had a partner who…” I grit my teeth to get through saying this out loud. “Well, the only real relationship I’ve ever had was in high school, so I don’t think that counts. And as an adult, if I’ve wanted a good time, I’ve had to make it happen. And then after…I’ve never seen any point in hanging around with any of them. I have a fantastic mattress. Incredible sheets. I like things how I like them, and I don’t see the need to lie around playing pretend that I’m a romantic leading lady when I constantly feel like a side character. So yes, when I hook up, it’s for a specific purpose. Hopefully he has a good enough time that he’ll call me again even though I don’t like to cuddle, I’m not flexible with my schedule, and I insist on cracking the eggs in the morning because I can’t stand shells in the scramble. Are you happy now?”
There. I said it. My humiliating words fall like smoke bombs in the room, replacing our oxygen with something unbreathable.
Jack’s gaze sharpens on my face, his jaw flexing. “I’m the farthest from happy I could ever be,” he says quietly. “I hate everything about what you just said. Especially the part where these assholes are out there taking from you and making you feel like there’s parts of you that you should be ashamed of.”
I stand, my chair scraping the floor, and walk back into the kitchen, pulling a carton of strawberries out of the fridge and carrying them to the sink to wash them. “Don’t pity me, Jack. I have a good life. So what if my sex life is lackluster? I’ll learn to write better scenes that are less stilted regardless. But unless you truly have some constructive criticism on how to improve the scene, this topic is closed.”
I flick on the faucet and dump the strawberries into a colander to run under the water. It was a bad idea asking for his input. I didn’t even consider that he would take a magnifying glass to my real life. And this lingering feeling is why I don’t want a relationship. I’m fine with one and done. I am fine with never liking anyone enough to even slightly consider snuggling. Coming back home alone is so much more preferable to always stressing and wondering if I’m going to be enough for someone or if I’m going to say too much, show too much of myself, and scare them away when I’m just getting comfortable.
I’m lost in thought, washing the strawberries so thoroughly they are practically reborn. And that’s why I don’t hear Jack walk in behind me.
“Okay.” His voice carries gently over my shoulder. “If you want constructive criticism, then let me show you what I mean.”
My breath catches as his hands enter my field of vision and bracket me on either side of the sink. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you, Emily, or the way you have sex. Not a single thing. And when I say I’m upset, I mean that I’m upset you haven’t had the kind of attention you deserve. You don’t owe any man anything—and if he doesn’t know from the first second of talking to you that he’s the luckiest son of a bitch in the world for getting any attention from you at all, he deserves to be run over with a truck.” He reaches forward and cuts the water. Touches my hip with his hand and gently turns me to face him. “I have practical ideas for your scene. If you want them.”
Oh.
He steps back and gives me space to consider. “Yes, tell me your ideas.”
He shakes his head. “I want to show you the difference between your scene as it stands now, and what I think could be more meaningful…to the readers.”
“Show me?” I say, wishing my voice sounded more confident than it does. “Are you offering to…have sex with me right now?”
“Not quite. I’m not sure our…friendship…could withstand something like that. But I think we could stage-block it out. I’ll walk you through the overview. Maybe it’ll help you focus on the emotional side I’m trying to evoke and potentially give you a different perspective to write with. One you’ve maybe not experienced firsthand before.”
The transcript of his words would read as harmless and matter-of-fact. A Method acting of sorts, since I’ve only had lousy sex thus far and as a romance writer would benefit from the hands-on learning experience. But I read the subtext in his eyes.
Jack’s ulterior motives are as stark as a plane shooting across a clear sky, and I’m walking toward them with my eyes wide open.
I suck in my last normal breath before what I’m certain will change the way I categorize time. From now on there will only be BSB (before scene blocking) and ASB.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
One quick breath is all he needs before pushing off the counter and taking my hand.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Your scene starts inside the front door of Kate’s cottage. So we’re going to the front door.”
We round the corner, and he drops my hand when we’re standing at the door. I hate how much I miss the contact immediately. Jack has held my hand a few times now and each one is better than the last.
“All right, what next?” I ask, mustering more bravado than I feel.
“Now show me what happens in your scene.”
“You’re kidding. I thought you were the one blocking the scene. I didn’t sign up to act out my own words.”
He smirks. “Intimidated by me?”
Always. But I can also appreciate a good challenge.
I put my hand directly on the center of his chest and shove. He stumbles back until he’s flush with the door. Just like in my scene. I step closer and rise up on my toes, nearly level with his blazing eyes. “Insert hot passionate kiss here that has them dropping clothes, sinking to the floor, and her straddling him as they both climax together.” I notice his pupils flare and I smile. “Careful, Jack. So far, it doesn’t look like you’re too bored with my scene.”
His answering smile terrifies me. He leans close, pushes my hair back from my ear and over the back of my shoulder, exposing my collarbone, and whispers low, “But that’s the problem. It’s not about me. It’s about you. And so far, all you’ve been worried about is how I am responding.” He runs his hand from my shoulder down to my fingers, takes them gently, and then guides me with him to turn our bodies and reverse our positions. “Now…” he says. “What if your scene was all about her instead? What if the primary focus was her pleasure?”
“That seems selfish,” I breathe out.
The curve of his mouth is a potent drug. “I love when a woman is selfish.”
His index finger touches the place just below my navel and pushes ever so gently. I go back against the door as easy as a feather tipped over in the wind. He doesn’t follow me immediately, though, like I did with him. He stands there and his eyes take a slow caress over every damn inch of my body. Suddenly, I’m aware of how thin this fabric is. Sheer. I think of telling my sisters that I wear this type of lingerie for me. Because a man would never appreciate it the same. But Jack is appreciating it. He’s even nice enough to voice it. “This gown is beautiful on you.”
His gaze skips down me like rocks across a pond. Each stop is punctuated with special attention. A devouring, hungry look on his face that has want flooding my body and chills pricking my skin. His eyes are invisible hands—I feel them everywhere they linger.
Finally he steps forward and runs his finger along the thin strap, following it down toward my chest but stopping at the little bow. “Do you know these outfits torture me? Every single one of them.”
Oh god, oh god, oh god. Is this part of the scene?
He dips his face and breathes his way down my temple to my ear. “I like them on you a lot.” He pauses.
“Is this you starting the scene?” I ask.
“Sure.” He smiles. “And next I’d probably ask what you like.” He pauses, lips hovering over my skin, and I imagine that a kiss on my shoulder would normally happen in that moment. “Do you orgasm easily, or does it take more time?”
“Umm. Is this an example of potential dialogue or are you really asking me?” I sound scandalized. How dare he say the O-word so casually to me. Jack. The man who didn’t even say goodbye to me before he left town is using my own desire to pin me to the door.
“It’s up to you…choose your own adventure, scene-blocking edition. Feel free to skip or…engage at any point.”
This should be illegal.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “It’s rare if it happens with someone else.”
“I see,” he says tenderly. “Do you feel like you can tell your partners this ahead of time?”
“God no. It would put too much pressure on them.” His body heat curls around me like steam.
“Maybe on someone who’s too immature or selfish to be having sex. I like to know.” His thumb touches the inside of my wrist and draws the smallest circle. My eyes flutter closed, and I feel like I could pass out. Jack’s body is heat, just out of reach. He’s close but he’s not pressing himself against me. Not giving what my body is craving.
I like to know.
What do you like?
I love when a woman is selfish.
I have never encountered a man like this in the wild. The men I’ve been with have never even slowed down enough to process the need for these questions. Sex for me has always been A + B = C. Meanwhile it seems Jack has been out there performing advanced algebra.
He hooks his finger under my straps, tauntingly slow. I open my eyes and look down at where he could easily flick the thin fabric from my body. I wait in anticipation. Will he do it?
“In your scene, you have them naked in seconds. But if it were up to me…and if I knew the woman in question needed a little more attention to reach climax”—his finger slips away, his knuckle grazing my shoulder as he does—“I’d peel these flimsy clothes from you so slowly you’d want to die. I’d memorize every inch of skin I was given the privilege to see.” He pauses and squints one eye like he’s working on the details of a drawing. “After releasing your straps, I’d let the gown dangle around your waist for a bit rather than taking it all the way off. I think small moments of savoring like that go a long way.”
His finger skates down the side of my torso, barely touching me all the way until he reaches the lace trim at the side of my thigh. “I’d bunch this up so I could touch all the places it’s hiding.” His eyes watch my face and I feel like I’m in the most sensual haze of my life. And then, Jack sinks down in front of me to his knees. The same position he was in back in the kitchen that night, but so, so different now. His eyes trace the cut of fabric that exposes the smallest sliver of skin from my thigh to my hip. “Assuming there’s another scrap of fabric under here…” He taps my hip bone. I nearly vibrate like a rung bell. “I’d probably…or rather I’d have your hero hook the side of it with his finger like this and pull it all the way down.” My imagination is on fire. “Step out of them please, love.”
It’s all pretend. It’s all pretend. It’s all pretend.
I raise my feet, miming the action of removing my panties. Oh boy, even thinking the word panties with Jack right here kneeling like that seems so wrong. In the very best way. Jack’s gaze devours me like this—as if I’m actually standing here completely naked in front of him. He can see right through my clothes. His hands wrap the back of my legs, the most reverent touch in the world. His gaze lifts to me as he runs his hands up my calves and stops, holding on to me just above the bend in my knee. “Then I’d tell you to take one of these pretty legs and, if you’re comfortable, hook it over my shoulder so I could taste you until I wrung every bit of pleasure from you at least once.”
I have to brace my palms flat against the door just at the thought. His eyes trail back up my legs, his hands gliding with him as he stands. “Only then, once I knew you were good and ready, I’d scoop you up…” And he actually does, bending to take my legs out from under me and carry me to the couch. “And I’d put you here.” He sets me onto the couch. “I’d take off my clothes for you, and then climb over you.” His clothes stay put (regrettably), but he does gently climb over me. Except he doesn’t press into me like I need. He uses all of his muscle to keep most of his body off me. But I’m dying for it. Dying for him. So far, this is the best sex I’ve ever had, and we haven’t even really touched.
His inked forearms are on either side of my face, and it’s an effort not to turn and kiss his arm. His skin would be blazing against my lips, I just know it.
“Now, if you really wanted to be on top, I’d consider it at this point. But see, you’d have to convince me that it’s exactly what you wanted, and still…” In a deft move, he wraps his arm around my lower back until he flips us and somehow I’m on top of him, straddling him with his hands holding firmly around my hip bones. “I wouldn’t let you do all the work.” His grin up at me is absolutely devastating. His eyes drink me in. This isn’t real, and yet it is painfully realistic. “I’d tell you how beautiful you are. How I think you’re the strongest woman I know, but I also really admire the soft places you hide away. That you’re scared of. I’d tell you I want you to let go and let me take care of you like this. That you’re safe with me.” He traces my collarbone with his finger, and I can’t help it, but my eyes are stinging and misty. What would this be like? What would it feel like to have someone saying these words to me and meaning them? (Even as I think it, something in me whispers that Jack does mean them.)
Some of the emotion sharpens when the corner of his mouth tilts. “And then I’d work with you until you were sweating and crying my name. Until I wiped everyone else from your mind.”
Ah—and there’s the cocky man I know.
His body is firm and taut beneath me, and I have to try very hard to breathe normally. Not to move exactly how my body is begging me to against him. He’s right. I’ve never made love like this. Nothing even close to it. And this was only an overview. Everything in comparison has been lifeless and gray. I never thought of efficient as a bad word until now. I never want efficient again. I want lazy. I want intense. I want blazing eyes and sweet hands and desperate words all over my body. This man, I think with frightening honesty, I would want to snuggle.
And he knows it.
He squeezes my hips like he can sense how badly I’m resisting giving in to what my body wants right now. “So what’s your verdict on my scene?”
The verdict is that I’m in trouble.
I lean over, putting my hands on the couch cushion beneath his head. I bring my lips to his but don’t kiss him. “I’ll consider it.”
Now he’s struggling to breathe. I can tell. His eyes shut for a beat like he’s in pain. It would be so easy for both of us to give in right now and end this torture. I’m so ready I could cry.
Maybe we could just…
I cover his hand on my hip and slide it back over the curve of my ass. He groans and the sound weaves between my ribs. “Jack…what if—”
My phone rings.
It rings loudly from the wall, and I roll off Jack and thump to the floor. Jack is catapulting upright. The ringing seems louder than normal. Feels like a siren. A warning.
We hold eye contact for long enough to exchange the same thought: That really almost happened.
I go answer my phone and now I’m Method acting a zombie. It’s Madison—finally calling to catch up. And normally I’d be ecstatic to hear from her. I’d drop everything with joy. But right now, all I can do is watch Jack offer me an awkward wave and then walk out the door.
A little thought flashes quickly like a lightning bug: I wish he were staying.