Chapter 14 Emory #2
“Yes,” she sighed and rode his fingers as if she needed it just as badly as he did and was ecstatic they could finally drop the charade.
Amelia came apart right there in his arms. Emory tugged her bra down to free one breast that fit so fucking perfectly in his palm. He sucked on her nipple that was already hard.
“Is your pussy going to take my dick this good?” Emory demanded to know.
Amelia didn’t respond. With her eyes squeezed shut, she struggled for full breaths as Emory pumped slow and deep. She was so close and could have her orgasm but would have to answer him first. Emory wrapped her hair around his fist and tugged.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Emory swiped her clit and resumed his rhythm.
Amelia rewarded him with another moan, and her beautiful face contorted in pleasure.
He watched her, memorizing the tremble of her lips and the pulse at her neck flickering beneath her skin.
Another flush of wetness soaked between her legs and coated his fingers.
Such a sweet thing, she came so beautifully with his name on her lips and stunned in the afterglow with her cheeks flame red.
Emory unzipped his pants and freed his cock. “Take what you want,” he said.
A startled breath escaped her, and a torrent of emotion surfaced on her face. Part scandalized, part enthralled, poor baby didn’t know what to do. She stilled and clamped down hard on her bottom lip. Amelia hesitated, and Emory almost asked why.
It’s not what she wants.
He thought of the fights they’d had; those long nights with tears streaming down her cheeks, and Amelia desperate for comfort he refused to give. She needed him to want her in ways he’d never shown; not just her body, but the parts of her he barely knew.
Emory rested his forehead against hers and combed his fingers through her hair. Amelia came a little closer and steadied herself with her hands on his chest. He only meant to push her to the edge and break her down. He never actually expected her to roll her hips and grind against his shaft.
Amelia did, though. Her wet pussy glided against his cock, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Another paradox of intimacy, Emory closed his eyes and joined her in the moment, their moans soft and breathy and their lips perilously close to a kiss that never came.
If this was her power play, Emory would let her have every inch.
With his hands on her hips, he guided her movements. No longer demure, Amelia ground her clit against the tip of his cock that then slid to her opening. One thrust, and he’d be inside.
“Go on,” Emory commanded. “I know you want more.”
His chest heaved and body tensed, every part of him struggling to maintain control. Once more, though, Amelia wielded soft power that bested him with ease.
“No,” she said, so sweet and commanding in her own right.
Emory narrowed his eyes and tightened his hold on her hips. It was his turn for a power play. He hadn’t forgotten her master plan, nor could he forgive how she’d wanted to fuck with his heart.
“It’s funny,” he said, his mouth hot against hers. He nestled two fingers between her pussy lips. “If you can’t stand me, then why are you so wet for me?”
That he called her out dumped them back into reality. Amelia’s knees clamped shut against his hips, and she righted her clothing. Emory had seen and felt too much of her. She’d retreat behind her denial and remind herself how much she abhorred him.
“You can’t have me,” Amelia insisted.
“We both know I already do,” Emory laughed and placed a soft kiss to her lips before sucking her cum off his fingers.
His boldness ignited her anger. Amelia shoved off him and stormed from the room.
Emory watched her go and tucked his dick back into his pants.
For most men, a blow to their pride rendered them fools.
Emory was no different. The sting of rejection propelled him from his seat, and the booze emboldened, so he trailed after her as if Amelia was his to follow.
“You really think you can survive without me, baby?”
Emory’s question boomed off the walls and echoed up the stairs. God help anyone trying to sleep. On the warpath, he didn’t care.
Amelia shot him a look of pure venom as she slid into her shoes and scooped up her purse. “I’m not your baby, and I don’t need you.”
Another barb that stung, Emory pounded across the foyer and ripped open the front door. With an outstretched arm, he presented her exit.
“I don’t need you either.”
Amelia evaluated the black wilderness beyond, no stars to light up the sky and myriad monsters stalking the night. Her eyes raked over his body as if sizing him up. The fight would never be fair, though, so she played her only hand and marched toward the door.
In the end, desperate men all looked the same, and Emory couldn’t lie to himself that he’d ever let her go.
He caught her by the arm and wheeled her around more forcefully than intended.
Amelia yelped as her ankle buckled. Her arm shot out to break a fall, but the heel of her hand connected hard with his nose.
In a blinding flash of pain, white dots spangled Emory’s vision. He stumbled backwards and lifted a hand to his face. Blood trickled from one nostril and splattered his palm. Horrified, Amelia’s hand flew to her mouth. They stared at each other in stunned silence until a door upstairs slammed open.
“What the hell is going on?” Mirabelle demanded and flicked on the foyer light. Her satin robe billowed behind her as she rushed down the stairs.
Amelia locked eyes with Emory. A question for the ages, neither had an answer or knew what game they played, nor did they truly understand the rules. Emory answered on both their behalf with a one-shouldered shrug and wiped the blood from his nose.
Mirabelle surveyed his busted face and tutted with a click of her tongue.
“You two are unbelievable. I’ll get some ice.”
When the whisper of her slippered feet disappeared into the kitchen, Emory exchanged another look with Amelia. Guilt fragmented her features, and she looked primed to apologize, but Emory cut her off at the pass.
“Go to bed, Amelia,” he said, more capitulatory than commanding, and shut the front door.
Defeated, she retreated up the stairs as silently as she’d descended, and Emory returned to the parlor. He stuffed a tissue in his nostril to stop the blood. The droning pain burned as much as it ached and began to spread across his cheeks.
Emory eased into the armchair, mindful of the blood staining his hand and the glass shattered on the floor. Liam shuffled in from the hall of photographs. He chomped on an apple and eyed the tissue hanging out of Emory’s nose.
“Where’ve you been?” Emory asked.
“Book club,” Liam said and smacked on another bite. “What happened to you, tough guy? Get into a bar fight or something?”
Before Emory could answer, Mirabelle hurried in with a bundle of ice wrapped in a dishtowel.
“Let’s hope she didn’t break it,” she said and thrust the towel into his face.
“Careful.” Emory took the pack and wriggled his nose to assess the damage. The bone didn’t crackle, and the pain was present but bearable.
Liam shook his head and laughed. “Ah, sweet Amelia. Happens to the best of us.”
“I doubt Francisca ever clocked you.”
“No, but we were married almost twenty years. I’m sure she wanted to.”
Mirabelle cut Liam a sidelong stare and might’ve laced into him about encouraging Emory’s “bad behavior,” as if it was his fault. She didn’t, but instead turned to Emory and pointed toward Amelia’s bedroom upstairs.
“You are losing control with her.”
“I’m losing patience, not control.”
“Look at you!” Mirabelle flung a hand at Emory holding the ice pack to his face. “This girl’s got you on your knees and twisted up in knots. You are coming undone.”
He had no recourse to deny it. The house kept secrets, but not that well. The others had heard the arguments and bore witness to Emory’s foul moods. But he had bodies buried in the walls too, the things he’d deny if they were ever exhumed.
He walked an ever-narrowing path between lust and loathing, and while he might not need Amelia, he wanted her; wanted her warmth and her smiles, her lips pressed to his, her body curled against him as they slept.
It wasn’t just about sex. He craved her affection. As the days wore on, his frustration deepened and not because she harbored secrets, but because the harder he tried, the more the rift between them grew.
“Figure it out,” Mirabelle said and headed for bed.
After she left, Liam sunk into the sofa and set his apple aside.
“Miri’s right. Amelia’s gotten under your skin. You need to stay the course.”
“That’s not the issue. I’ve been banging my head against the wall for a week straight. I’m frustrated. I want movement, progress. I need intel to act, but I’m tired of waiting.”
The ice clacked as Emory pulled the towel from his face. He rubbed a splotch of blood staining the terrycloth.
“What if she’s telling me the truth? We don’t know what else was in that folder. It could’ve been filled with fluff. What if she doesn’t have what we need?”
Days ago, he’d briefly considered the possibility. Too blinded by anger, he’d dismissed it outright. The logic crystallized as Emory said it out loud. Amelia wasn’t a master of resiliency, nor had she brilliantly crafted a charade of innocence. She withheld because she had nothing to give.
“That was always a risk,” Liam said. “I thought she admitted she saw something, though.”
“She did, but what if she doesn’t understand what she saw or forgot?”
Liam snickered. “How could she forget?”
Until then, Emory hadn’t considered how trauma erased memories in nonsensical ways. He remembered only snippets of his mother before she died. Like a damaged picture book, grief tore out the pages at random and time ravaged the rest. Perhaps it was doing the same to Amelia.
“She’s been through a lot.”
“We’ve all been through a lot. She doesn’t need to understand what she saw. She needs to tell you, so you can understand.”
Emory shook his head. “I think we’re too far gone for that. Even if she remembers something, she sure as shit won’t tell me now.”
“Time heals all wounds, even hers,” Liam said and collected his apple as he stood.
Fingers steepled beneath his chin, Emory peered up at him. “I don’t know. I may have shit the bed on this one.”
Liam patted Emory’s shoulder the way his father used to. The gesture bid him to listen hard to the wisdom that followed.
“You and Amelia need a breather. Cool off on her for a few days. She’ll come around.”