Epilogue Two
Alice
“You know what, I lied. I am afraid of something.”
Emily chuckles behind me, but I can’t hear it.
This ear protection is particularly effective, but I can still feel her chest rumble because she’s standing so close.
She somehow moves even closer, pressing against my back and positioning her finger over mine on the trigger.
With her other hand, she lifts one side of my earmuffs off.
“Sharks and rattlesnake poison are fine, but you’re afraid of a little gun? I thought I was talking to the daughter of an infamous weapons runner.”
I huff as she lets the earmuff snap back into place, already missing the feeling of her breath on my neck.
Fifteen minutes ago, when I was watching her target practice, Emily’s whispered voice in my ear would have gotten me halfway out of my clothes.
Now, my lust is significantly dampened by the fear that I’m going to accidentally shoot her, or myself.
“May I remind you that I didn’t even know my own clothing size until I faked my death? I wasn’t exactly given a ton of weapons training,” I bite back, trying to focus down the barrel at the target like she instructed.
Without speaking, Emily increases the pressure on my hand, tilting my wrist at a lower angle. She disengages the safety and taps the finger on the trigger with her own.
So I pull it.
And miss spectacularly.
If it wasn’t for Emily’s body bracing mine, I think the force of the shot would have blown my shoulder out of its socket.
My bones rattle, a terrible zing racing up and down my frame like I’m a lamppost someone’s taken a baseball bat to.
I push the gun into Emily’s hand and stumble away, ripping the ear protection off in the process.
“That wasn’t too bad,” Emily congratulates, her voice filled with genuine pride. How pathetic.
“I didn’t get anywhere near that paper,” I argue, gesturing wildly toward the hanging sheet with an outline of a human drawn on it. Not a bullet hole to be seen.
“Yeah, but you didn’t kill either of us, so let’s call it a success,” she replies, and I hate that there’s not a drop of condescension in her tone. She really is proud that I didn’t shoot us.
“I never want to touch that thing again. I feel like I got clipped by a moving car,” I grumble, rolling my shoulder out. “You said that was a small one.”
“It is,” she says with a shrug, engaging the safety and placing the weapon in its case. “But you’re also small, and new at this. It takes practice to know how to absorb the blowback.”
“Too bad I’ll never learn. Oh well,” I say. I know before she opens her mouth that there’s no way I’m getting away with that.
“Sorry, Pecas. If you want to be a bonafide member of The Syndicate, you have to at least be able to handle a gun. And know how to disarm someone who's pointing one at you.”
I know she’s right. Over the past few weeks, as things have gotten more serious—both in the Costas’ investigation and between Emily and I—I’ve learned more and more what it means to truly be a part of this family.
Emily has been consistent in her offer to leave this life behind the moment her family is safe and mine is eliminated, but every insight I get into the work The Syndicate does only makes me want that for her less.
And for me as well.
We still haven’t formally made a decision about what we’ll do when this chapter of our lives is closed, if we survive. But one thing we know for certain is that we’ll face that unknown together.
“And who says I want to do that?” I ask, easily slipping back into that slightly turned on mentality I occupied before I had to touch the wretched thing. Emily does that to me. Makes me feel safe—free to explore, to give in, to lose control, to want.
“You did, pretty girl,” she replies, a sly smile on her lips as she locks the gun’s case and beckons me toward her. “Two nights ago, if I remember correctly. Make me, Emily. Make me yours.”
“Hmm, I don’t remember that,” I lie, slowly making my way closer, dragging out my steps just to be a little obstinate.
This dynamic is new within the last few weeks, but it’s grown on both of us.
Me fighting back, her putting me in my place.
Usually by means of pleasure so overwhelming I beg for mercy she never gives.
It’s a good dynamic.
“No?” she asks, her tone chiding and patronizing and soothing all the zinging in my bones. She slips her fingers into the waistband of my long, flowy skirt, tugging me into her until my chest is pressed to hers and I have to tilt my chin far up to meet her gaze. “Do I need to remind you?”
“Remind me of what?” I push, slipping my arms around her waist and dragging my nails up and down her spine. “Of how good it feels when you make me?”
There’s a flash of something primal and needy in her eyes, and she flips us so my lower back is pressed to the table, her hands skating down my sides and to my ass.
“Is that what you want, Pecas?” she asks, lifting my thighs so she can slide me up on the metal table. Even through my skirt, the cold surface bites my flesh, more intense because of how hot my skin feels. “For me to remind you that I know your body better than you do?”
She forces my knees further apart before I can respond, threading her fingers through the hair at the name of my neck and tilting my face up so she can look in my eyes.
“Yes, please,” I admit, the flood of adrenaline rushing through my veins more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced.
Emily doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe.
Her eyes scan my face, looking for something she won’t find.
She’s always so careful, every time we play on this edge.
Her dedication to making sure I have as much control in my life as possible extends even to when I want to give it up.
And in this moment, I do want to let go of the control I always so desperately seek. To know someone wholeheartedly dedicated to my pleasure is deciding how I find it. I want to beg her to stop, knowing she won’t. I want her to force me to take what she tells me I deserve.
I want to feel inherently safe with the only person I could possibly trust this much.
“What’s your safe word?” she asks, so very still, her body nearly vibrating with the effort of holding herself back. It’s intoxicating, knowing how badly she wants to make me come. How much she craves me.
“クラゲ,” I reply, forcing her careful, controlled expression to break as she laughs.
“English, Spanish, or Russian please,” she says, kneading the base of my neck with her thumb and forefinger. “Only give me your safe word in a language at least one of us is fluent in.”
“Since when is that a rule?” I ask, being difficult on purpose, because she loves it. She doesn’t ever punish me for it either. More like she encourages it, finding new ways to make me tumble over even higher cliffs of pleasure when I push her buttons.
“Since when do you question my rules?” she shoots back, pulling my hair at the root, forcing my back to arch and my blood to heat another couple of degrees.
“All the time,” I say with a teasing smile. In response, she grabs my hip and yanks my ass to the edge of the table so her legs are pressed right between my thighs. Her mouth is millimeters from mine when she repeats the question.
“What is your safe word?”
I think about being difficult once more, just to see how far I can push her, but I’m already too on edge. And I know she needs to hear that we both know the rules and are on the same page.
“Jellyfish,” I reply, earning myself the softest, lightest brush of her lips against mine. I chase it, even though her grip in my hair keeps me from what I want.
“And what happens if you say no? Or stop?” She keeps her other hand planted firmly on the table beside me. I want it over my mouth. Around my throat. Between my thighs.
“You won’t listen,” I answer, my eyes dropping to where her chest rises and falls. It feels so perfect, knowing how badly we need each other. How obvious it is to both of us.
“What is the only way to get me to stop touching you?” she asks, being more explicit than she ever has before. It only makes this hotter. Because I know she’s going to push me to my limit, and I can’t fucking wait.
“Saying my safeword. In English, Russian, or Spanish,” I say, being as thorough as I can so she knows I’m taking this seriously.
“You’re sure about this?” she asks, her eyes softer now, hesitating slightly. I raise my hand to her forearm, dragging my fingers from wrist to elbow, needing to feel her skin under mine.
“I trust you, Emily,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around her arm and squeezing. “I love you.”
It’s not the first time I’ve said it. That came when she took me on a private whale-watching tour off the eastern coast of Choshi, as she leaned over the railing even though she was clearly terrified, and asked me to tell her about the migratory patterns of whales on this side of the Pacific.
But each time I say it, she looks like I’ve sewn the world together for her. She gets the same expression when I play viola. I imagine I look the same when she’s brave for me, and when she finds ways to let me choose.
“I love you, Pecas,” she says, pressing her lips to my forehead and breathing deeply.
And then her grip tightens at the base of my neck, and everything changes.
Emily angles my head up again and seals her lips to mine, kissing me like it's the last one before the end of the world. I need little encouragement to open my mouth, allowing her access to whatever part of me she wants.
Her other hand travels slowly up my leg, pushing my skirt up until it's bunched at my waist. Each inch closer to my pussy pulls broken cries and moans from my lips, muffled against her mouth. I need more—I always need more with her—and I feel my hips lift of their own volition, seeking her touch.