3. Emma
3
EMMA
“ T hank fuck it’s Friday!” Ana throws herself backward onto my couch with a groan, somehow not spilling a drop of the prosecco carefully clutched in one hand.
“You treat every day like it’s Friday,” Meghan points out, closing her eyes while I add the last dab of mascara to her long lashes.
“I do not!” Ana pouts and props herself up on one elbow. “I’ll have you know I work hard all week and I simply appreciate the finer things in life.”
“The finer things?” I shoot her a glance; the mascara wand paused an inch from Meghan’s lashes. “And those are?”
“Drinks and hot guys, obviously.” Ana rolls her eyes and sinks down onto the multiple fluffy blue cushions that line my couch. She balances her glass against her leather-pant-clad thigh and sighs. “Some man is going to get so very lucky tonight.”
“All done.” A final brush of the wand and Meghan’s eyes are perfect.
With a flutter of lashes, she opens them and her face melts into a warm smile. She may be the more reserved of the three of us, but she’s never afraid to get a little dolled up for a good night.
“Thanks.”
“I gotchu.”
Standing takes a second since I’ve wedged myself in between the coffee table and Meghan but I manage it, much to the complaint of my thigh muscles.
“So, what’s the plan?” Looking over to the mirror hanging on the wall, I run my eyes over the red mini-dress I’ve secured for the evening. Complete with black fishnets and silver heels to match the fresh silver streak in my hair, I look good.
I know I do.
“Like, for tonight or for our futures?” Meghan leans past me to pick up her glass of prosecco. “Because my future is headed for disaster.”
“What?” I spin to face her, worry building in my heart. “Why?”
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Ana sits back up, poker straight this time, while Meghan lets out a deeply pained sigh.
“My final piece is a mess. I can’t draw straight for shit. I have nothing for my ‘practical application of art.’” She air-quotes the last part. “And every time I bring up my concerns to my Professor, his advice is to stop stressing about it because you can’t produce quality art under stress.”
Ah. Meghan’s hot as fuck teacher. I send Ana a knowing glance—after lunch earlier in the week, I’d called her and told her every single sexy detail of the teacher Meghan had been hiding from us, and she was of the same opinion as me.
We should switch to an art course.
“He has a point,” Ana says. “The more you stress, the harder it will be to let the creative juices flow.”
“Exactly.” I sipped my drink, wobbling over in my heels to perch on the edge of the sofa. “The more you stress, the harder it is to art, and then you stress more. The cycle continues.”
“Telling me not to stress doesn’t help when deadlines are bearing down on me,” Meghan snaps slightly. Then she winces. “Sorry. I just…I can’t relax. I’ve tried and now it just feels like everything sucks.”
“I’ve seen your art.” Crossing one leg over the other, I savor the sensation of bubbles bursting over my tongue with my next sip. “I think this is a case of the creator being unable to appreciate her work.”
Meghan rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile pulling at her pink-painted lips. “Whatever. At least I’m not like you guys having to write essays and shit, right?”
“Tell me about it.” Ana dramatically drapes one arm over the back of the sofa, then suddenly spurs into action with the makeup bag and begins applying some gold eyeliner above the black she already wears.
“I’m not looking forward to the exams, but only because of my parents.” The two people in the world who should, in theory, have my best interests at heart. Sadly, that isn’t always the case.
Meghan’s eyes soften and she settles on the edge of the table. “Are they still giving you a hard time?”
I nod. “After graduation, they expect me to get some stuffy job at a respectable publishing house or to write shitty articles for some boring old news company.” My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek. “My dad keeps saying people will always need news and someone has to write it.”
“Fuck them,” Ana says, her voice low as she concentrates. “I keep telling you, you should drop out and follow your real passion. Snap pictures of the hottest celebrities in town!”
My real passion has been photography for as long as I can remember. As soon as I was old enough to save up for a camera, I used every spare dollar in my name to buy one, much to my parent’s dismay. They see a camera and think paparazzi. I tried to tell them once that while my passion was photographing people, I had a stronger interest in boudoir shoots. My mother nearly had a heart attack.
“Maybe don’t drop out,” Meghan warns. “But you’re really talented with a camera. You should focus on that.”
“You know I couldn’t live with my parents’ disappointment,” I remind them. My fingertips tingle, though, and two minutes later, my camera is in my hand. Ana and Meghan instantly become top models under the click of my snapshots, and together, we pose with makeup, alcohol, and more. I take so many pictures that by the time the taxi arrives, the storage warning flashes up.
Doing this for a living would be amazing but it can’t be anything more than a hobby. My parents can’t even handle the streaks of color in my hair, never mind a life behind the lens.
Frankie’s usually has a guest list as long as your arm, but tonight is our lucky night, and Ana gets us in with minimal hassle. I’m not sure what she promised the bouncer as we walked by, but she had the cheekiest smirk on her face.
The club itself is as dark as the night, with hundreds of colorful spotlights raining down from above. They highlight the mass of people swaying and bouncing in time to the throbbing beat of the bass, and the crowd moves as one as the smoke machine creates the illusion that everyone is joined together.
Heat clings to every inch of my bare skin, and I’m sweating by the time we fight our way to the glass-topped bar for drinks. The music turns up, streamers and glitter explode above our heads, followed by excited screams and cries, and the night is in full swing.
All thought of exams, graduation, and the future melts away with each sharp cherry tang of my cocktail. The ice melts so quickly that the drinks flow more easily, and Meghan, Ana, and I dance like there’s no tomorrow. From singing the lyrics to recognizable songs to balancing against one another when our heels cut into our ankles, it’s the perfect night to blow off steam.
And pent-up frustration at hot, uninterested teachers.
“Emma?”
I spin around, throwing my arms up as the music surges, and come face-to-face with Mike from class. His hands land on my waist, stopping me from completing my spin and my heart lurches faintly at the contact. He’s dressed in all black and sweat darkens his brown hair.
“Mike? Hey! Having a good time?” Raising my voice to be heard over the music, I take a half-step backward, but Mike’s hands linger on my waist.
“Yeah! I was looking for you, actually.”
“Oh?” Lifting my glass to my lips, a disappointing trickle reminds me that I need a fresh cocktail.
“You wanna dance?”
“Sure. Join us!” I wave one hand back at Ana and Meghan, who are giving it their all, grinding up on each other and anyone else who comes within a foot of us. The bass thumps so profoundly that I can’t tell the difference between it and the thump of my own heart as we dance. Mike lingers close, never straying far, even as Ana darts away to collect more drinks.
“Emma.” I sway and roll with the music, then stop because Mike is suddenly in my space with his face close to mine.
“Mike?”
He blinks slowly and his lips purse just enough that my stomach drops. I may be drunk but I know exactly where this is going. His hand returns to my waist, his fingertips pressing in to encourage me closer, and his lips pucker.
“Mike.” Placing one hand on his broad chest, I gently push him backward and smile as sweetly as I can. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
“Huh?” Confusion washes over his face, and something flashes in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher. “I’m interested in you, though. You’re single, aren’t you?”
“That’s flattering.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “And I am. But I’m sorry, I’m not interested in you, in that way.”
There’s a moment, a single second when sobriety cuts through the fog of alcohol, where I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. Should I have been kinder? Rejected him after a kiss? Said no in a different way?
To my surprise, Mike merely shrugs and his hand drops away from my waist. “Alright.”
He steps away, making a beeline for Ana as she returns with the drinks, and she’s definitely more receptive to his attention than I am. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, calming the sudden influx of nerves inside me. I didn’t even know he thought of me that way, considering we barely know each other, but then again, I am quite the catch.
Holding onto that thought, I throw myself back into dancing with Meghan and draining my latest cocktail while Ana entertains Mike. Watching them dance together with Meghan laughing in my ear draws my thoughts back to Finn and Caspian.
If only they were here. Either of them.
Or both.
By the time I get home, exhaustion bleeds heavily into every limb. The Uber drops me off at my place and waits, with Meghan and Ana in the back, until I’m at my door before driving off. The silence in my apartment is almost smothering after the loud music from the club. The cool air is a welcome touch, though, and I strip off my clothes the moment I trudge into my bedroom.
“Ow.” My heels come off with a flicker of hot pain at the back of my ankles, and with a sympathetic rub and a distant thought of showering in the morning, I collapse into bed.
Sleep doesn’t come, though. My drunken thoughts are filled with Finn and Caspian.
Finn, with his lopsided tie, loosely buttoned shirt, and thick, brown hair. Caspian with his golden skin, sexy silver hair, and those gorgeous tattoos. My mind runs away with itself as I picture wrapping Finn’s tie around my fist in one hand while my other maps out every intricate detail of Caspian’s tattoo.
I should be so lucky. Tossing and turning, sleep continues to escape me as the fantasy builds in my mind.
I can’t go to sleep like this.
Giving in to the desire and the building ache between my legs, my uncoordinated hand fumbles around the inside of my bedside drawer until my fingers lock around the trusty vibrator I keep there.
Honestly, who needs a man when things like this exist?
The soft hum of the vibrations fills the air at the push of a button. Rolling onto my stomach, I shove my face into my pillow and guide the toy between my legs. The second I touch my clit with the toy, my hips jolt forward and I moan deeply into my pillow.
Immediately, my fantasy takes over.
Finn is between my legs, holding this toy against me as I tell him it’s too much. He makes me beg for more, tells me to take it like a good girl, and I do because I want to please him. Caspian beside me, stroking his large hands down my back like I’m the clay I watched him work over in the studio. The press of his cock against my hip, thick and long, as he whispers in my ear that he wants to fuck me all night long. Until I scream myself hoarse and can’t walk in the morning.
My hips move with a will of their own, following .my drunken fantasy of riding Finn’s cock. I slide my toy back and forth across my pussy but end up mainly focusing on my clit the closer I get to orgasm.
I want them. Either of them. Both of them. I want to smell them, taste them, feel them wrapped around my body as they hold me.
I come with a cry muffled in my pillow, wave after wave of scorching pleasure rolling through my body. My hips stutter and an ache builds in my wrist from how I angled the toy to the left to make sure I got every last delicious drop of pleasure.
Then, with a satisfied sigh, the toy returns to my drawer and I wrap both arms sleepily around my pillow.
Fuck.
Finn might not be interested in me, but in my fantasies he loves me.
Although, if reality can’t match up with that, maybe it’s time I followed through with Caspian’s flirting.