23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Trent
B efore I knew what it was like to sleep with Emily, I never had to worry about my behavior around her. Casual touches and close proximity made me think dirty thoughts, but I had those under control—mostly. None of it was ever going to go anywhere, or so I thought.
Now, though, it’s like my whole body knows when she’s in a room, when she’s close enough for me to catch a hint of lemon or peaches, and there’s some subconscious part of me that’s become aware of the rhythm of her, beyond the calendar and her technical cycle.
Some nights, I can tell when she’s feeling me a little too much. Most of the time, I work really hard to ignore any impulse to push her buttons. I know I could, but doing that is wrong.
Right?
Except, sometimes wrong feels a little too good. That’s always been my problem.
So when I get home from the gym a week before anything physical should happen between us, I notice how she moves through the kitchen, tidying up, as though she’s also hyperaware of me, where I am, what I’m doing.
And I should let that sensation go. That’s the responsible thing to do. She doesn’t want things to get out of hand between us, and I want us to be able to return to friends once my duty is done.
Or I think I do.
I will admit to myself, usually when I’ve had a drink or two, that the idea of this not ending when my duty is done isn’t out of the question.
At least for me. On those rare days when it feels like what I did in this town is fading into the past, being buried in people’s memories, the idea of keeping Emily is more appealing than it should be.
No matter what happens, I definitely get I should be savoring what we have right now. Emily Sullivan is mine .
And I swear to god, or all the aliens in outer space, Emily’s sundresses were put on this planet to torture me.
When she’s in sweats, I can almost pretend we’re just friends, but when she’s still wearing one of the dresses she wore to show a house or film a promo, I hold on to my sanity by a thread.
Not only is she wearing a dress tonight, she’s wearing my favorite yellow one with these little purple flowers on it. I don’t know how she wears it for work because it barely reaches mid-thigh, and it’s a wispy material, the kind that would be soft and silky to the touch.
The air around us has heated, in a way I normally only let it when I know it’s go-time, but I don’t feel like fighting it tonight.
In fact, I might be feeling a little bit of an urge to break the rules.
“There’s food in the fridge, if you want it.” She’s at the sink doing the last of the dishes from dinner, I presume.
“I’m definitely hungry.” I let my gaze drag over her, not hiding what I’m thinking about eating at all.
A flush rises to her chest and into her cheeks. “Help yourself,” she says.
Instead of going to the fridge, I approach her at the sink, and I trail my fingers along her exposed leg, stopping at the hem of her dress, and then I put my palm on her hip, kiss her on the temple.
“I’ll definitely help myself,” I say.
I heat up the leftover casserole, and I sit at the table. When she goes to walk past, to head into the living room, I catch her wrist, and I tug her between my spread legs. She cups the back of my head, and she doesn’t make any noises of surprise or dissent.
“Is this okay?” I murmur, looking up. If she tells me to keep my hands off, I’ll rein myself back in.
“Yes,” she says, her voice hushed.
I drag my palms up her outer thighs, under the hem of her dress to cup her ass.
She leans into me, into the contact, and I hear the smallest sigh of contentment.
She likes having my hands on her. I lift up her dress, and I kiss a line along the top of her panties.
Her fingers dig into my scalp, and I think she’d let me do more, if I pushed.
Instead, with superhuman self-control, I remove myself and tug her dress back down.
“I’d have you for dessert, if you’d let me,” I say.
“One more week.”
That just means one more week of self-gratification and cold showers for me.
When I get out of the shower and hear swearing coming from behind Emily’s door, I knock lightly, mindful of waking Amir up.
“Can I come in?” I call softly.
There’s an obvious commotion, more swearing, and something thuds on the floor before she calls for me to come in.
“You okay?” I ask when I push the door open gently. “Sounded like you were having trouble with something.”
“No,” she says, her voice high pitched and strained. “Everything is fine.”
I step closer because Em’s version of fine and most people’s aren’t always aligned. And then I see the lube on the nightstand. Then I focus on her face, and I see what I should have noticed the minute I walked in. She was clearly in the middle of something.
“Are you having fun without me?” I ask, a little surprised.
Her cheeks turn pink, and she seems momentarily at a loss for words. “One more week.”
“I am very aware of our timeline,” I say, closing the distance to the bed. “But if you need some satisfaction in between, I’d love to be the one to take care of you.”
“My batteries died,” she whispers.
“I’m good at changing batteries,” I say, “but I’m even better at eating pussy.”
And I swear, she melts, turns to absolute liquid in the bed.
“Lock the door,” she says.
She doesn’t have to ask me twice, and I’m back at her side of the bed, drawing back the covers to see her nightgown around her waist, and she’s bare. I get on my knees, and I tug her toward me, turning her on the bed. She comes willingly.
“I could not love this view more,” I say. “Fuck one more week. I’d do this every day if you let me.” Then I lick a line up her, and she shudders, clutching the blankets.
“You got me so turned on downstairs, I could hardly stand it,” she says, moaning when I cover her with my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ll make it all feel better.”
I love the taste and feel of her on my tongue, and the way she lets out panty moans and throaty noises of pleasure when she starts to get close to reaching her orgasm.
We might only do this once a month, but they are marathon sessions, and I feel like I know every sigh, every pitch and tone she makes when she’s turned on, ready to rocket off the bed when I get her to the finish line.
When I slide two fingers into her as I work her over, she cries out and then covers her mouth, letting out a loud groan of pleasure. She can be loud, so doing this with Amir sleeping a few rooms over is probably irresponsible.
That’s the tricky part about wanting her, though. I have no self-control once I start.
“Maybe put a pillow over your face,” I say.
“Oh, god,” she says, but she grabs one and presses it to her face.
She must be close, and I keep licking, sucking, and swirling in the rhythm that I know doesn’t just get her there, but gets her there in a way that drives her a little insane before she tips over.
She told me once that she can never decide what she wants more when I do this—for me to keep going or for her to hit the peak.
“You’re right there, Em. You’re right there. You’re doing so good,” I murmur against her thigh as my fingers and thumb keep up the tension.
She lets out an audible whimper, and I go back in one more time. With a tiny bit more pressure, her hips shoot off the bed, and she cries out.
“Oh my god,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about you doing that all day.”
“You only need to ask,” I say, rising over her to make eye contact. “I’ll do anything you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” she says without even a hint of self-consciousness.
I search her expression, trying to figure out if this is post-orgasm talk or she’s serious. “Right now?”
“Right now.” She hooks her ankles around my waist.
“The timing…” I can’t even believe I’m not already sliding into her, but this feels like a slippery slope. It’s one thing for me to get her off whenever she wants, but it’s another to have sex become a free for all.
“Maybe that’s what we’ve been doing wrong. Too rigid. Maybe we should just do what feels good.”
“Em, are you—”
Her hand on the back of my neck, dragging me into a kiss kills the last of my protest. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe the slope will be slippery and dangerous. Maybe I’ll lose sight of the goal. Maybe this will blow up our friendship.
And it’s that last thought that gives me the tiniest hesitation until her hand is in my box-briefs, shoving them down, gripping me, guiding me to where she wants me.
Who am I to deny her what she wants when she wants it this badly?
“Fuck, Em,” I mutter as I slide in.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this badly,” she says into my ear as I move inside her.
That comment, coming from her, is the biggest aphrodisiac of my life. I may not have much to offer, but I can give her this. I can give it to her whenever, wherever, and however she wants.
“I love when you’re inside me,” she whispers, clutching onto me. “I love it so much.”
If she keeps saying shit like that to me, I’m only going to last another two or three thrusts, but I can’t deny how much my chest swells to hear it, how good it is to know that I matter in some way to her.
Because we’ve been together so many times now, I recognize the signs that she could hit a second orgasm.
It’s rare, but it seems like tonight she’s extra keyed up, which is good because it gives me something else to focus on.
With each thrust, each brush of our bodies, I watch her reactions shift until I’m driving us both toward the height of pleasure.
And when she cries out my name, I kiss her deeply, and I follow right behind.