Emma
“Truly, Emma. Is beer an appropriate beverage before dinner? A lovely Chablis is aerating in the kitchen to pair perfectly with the artichoke and blue crab dip your mother made for us to eat before our entrees.”
I paused with the beer partway to my lips, holding back a snarky remark about the dip and my lactose intolerance before lowering the bottle and sitting it on the dining room table. My mother’s sigh broke through the uncomfortable silence, and I held back a smirk as she grasped the bottle beside me and took a sip.
“Honestly, Harold, could you at least wait until we finish the appetizer before harping on Emma? It’s bad enough that she’s hardly here anymore.”
Dad grumbled under his breath, finishing his scotch as Mom gave me a reassuring smile and pushed the beer closer. I grasped the bottle, letting the cool condensation seep into my warm hands.
This was the same nonsense I dealt with at the academy. Only this audience shamed me for my drink of choice and relationship status. My mom played the role of mediator as best as she could, but the harder Dad harped on my apparent flaws, the more belligerent—and buzzed—I got.
I knew that was an unhealthy way of handling things, but my dad just had this way of making me feel three inches tall. Maybe it was because he constantly reminded me that I was fired from my last job, or perhaps because it took him three rounds of golf to convince the headmaster to give me that provisional contract.
Never mind that the job offer was before Dad played golf with him—not that he’d admit I did something without his influence. These dinners were supposed to be about enjoying time with my parents. I was the only kid left in the state and tried to make family a priority. But the stuffy atmosphere and stilted conversation left me desperate for human contact where I could be myself.
Like with Bev and the Hansen brothers.
They welcomed me into the fold, flaws and all. I could go to Bev’s house wearing sweatpants and with peanut butter in my hair, and she’d laugh before passing me a glass of wine. If I had attended their family dinner, I’d have had my fix of good, wholesome family time and be better equipped to deal with the prolonged exposure of my father.
“Of course, Dorothy. It’s just hard not to be reminded that our oldest had been made a partner at his firm by the time he reached Emma’s age.”
“Honestly. Harold—”
My father held up his hand, silencing my mom, who huffed and crossed her arms. “Is it too much to ask that you prioritize obtaining a respectable position within the community, Emma?”
“Unless you’d forgotten, Dad, I had a very well-respected job at one of the finest universities in South Carolina.” I stressed the word had, clenching my teeth to keep my temper in check.
“How could I forget? When you consistently bring it up instead of moving on and focusing on what you could accomplish at Cresswell?”
I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white, willing my father to stop talking before we both said things that couldn’t be taken back.
“Brad Davis was an upstanding member of society and a tenured professor at that university, Emma. You should have been honored to be his teaching assistant.”
I knocked my almost empty bottle to the floor before standing and watching it roll under the table. My pulse roared in my ears, and my vision blurred as I gripped the table’s edge again, closing my eyes and taking two deep, steadying breaths. Perhaps this was my fault for downplaying the entire situation.
No. Nope. I was the victim and will not be shamed for that or anything else that occurred.
When the bright, flashing colors stopped their insistent pulsing behind my eyelids, I opened them, focusing on my father through the tears that threatened to cascade down my cheeks.
“Professor Bradly Davis was nothing more than a predator. A piece of pond scum, too good to be digested by the lowliest of one-celled creatures. He came on to me—without cause or provocation—and insinuated part of my duties was to service him.”
“I’m sure his words were misconstrued—”
“Stop it! Stop making light of what happened. He was fired less than six months after I was, and still, you somehow twisted the situation to make it seem like I had it coming.”
“Emma—”
“No. I am finished trying to prove anything to you. Not that it would matter. Nothing I do matters to you. Not even when that real estate mogul helped the paper break the story of his behavior, and five other girls came forward with similar stories to mine. That didn’t make a difference. It was still my fault I was let go from the university. You still had to come to my rescue, even though I got the interview and provisional contract without your help.”
I wasn’t sure when the tears started, but I wiped furiously at my face, shaking off my mother’s arm. She gripped me more firmly, running soothing circles along my back. I took comfort in her touch, knowing she wasn’t the issue. The entire fiasco with the disgraced professor wasn’t truly the issue, either.
It was him—my father—refusing to accept me as I was. He needed to tear me down and build me to fit into this pretty little box of his design. The perfect daughter with her straight blonde hair and size four waist who only needed a husband and her daddy to take care of her.
Not me—with my frizzy hair and pouchy stomach. My loud mouth and high alcohol tolerance. The eldest and middle child played the game—but not the youngest—not me.
“I’m done, Dad. Done with you belittling me. Done thinking my life is wrong because it isn’t what you want. Done spending time with you when your sole purpose of our time together seems to be how to make me feel the worst.”
“Oh. Sweetheart. How had I not seen how unhappy you were?”
“No. Don’t do that, Mom. I’m well aware of my issues, and they are my own. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty.”
I leaned into her touch as she tilted her head like she was seeing me for the first time. I almost buckled under her gaze but made myself stare as the tears continued to fall. This wasn’t her problem to fix, but I hoped she’d see the determination in my eyes and be a better advocate than half-hearted comments toward my dad, whose face resembled an overcooked lobster.
Some part of me hoped that standing up to him would inch me higher on his respect-o-meter, but the logical portion knew this conversation had been years in the making. Perhaps I should have carried notecards to ensure my top ten concerns were addressed.
“But I am finished feeling guilty for my choices. I love my life, my friends, and my job—even though the conditions can be a little out there. Conditions, I know, Dad, that you helped instigate.”
I sighed, pinching my nose and closing my eyes to stop the flow of tears. “I’m going to get going, I have an early morning.”
I didn’t bother picking the beer bottle off the floor but was tempted to grab a biscuit from the basket in the center. Times of high stress like this required vigorous exercise—or carbs.
Maybe a mixture of both.
I shook my head, grabbing my purse from where it hung on the back of my chair and turning toward the front door. There were no words of apology or calls to stay. That made it better—almost. Not having to justify how I feel or sit through an awkward, stilted conversation.
Things would be back to normal after a week—or they wouldn’t. This entire three-minute conversation could irrefutably change the relationship for the better or worse. Regardless of what happened in the future, I needed this—for me.
“Wha—” I said aloud, turning the radio down in my car and looking around. I didn’t remember getting into the vehicle or driving—too engrossed with replaying the argument to focus on anything but my thoughts. What did it say about me that, on instinct, I found myself outside of Miller’s house?
Was I that predictable, seeking comfort in the easiest place? The place I knew I’d be happy?
This wasn’t fair to him—showing up on a weekday with enough emotional baggage to fill an airplane hangar. Still, my feet carried me to the door, and I wrung my hands, shifting my weight from foot to foot before knocking. The noise sounded like a thunderbolt, even though I knew the sound could barely be heard above the warm summer breeze.
Panic set in, and I chewed the inside of my cheek, holding my breath and giving myself to the count of three before making a run for my car. One foot had turned in preparation for that when the door opened, light streaming into the darkening evening.
Damn, he looked good. It wasn’t his handsome features that had me sucking in a breath and filling my lungs with the humid summer air. It was something uniquely him—comparable to how you’d feel coming home after a long day. You’d step into the foyer, slip off your shoes, and breathe, letting the tension melt from your shoulders.
He was that feeling for me.
His smile calmed my racing heart, and his presence soothed the tension in my chest.
I longed to close my eyes and bask in him, but the way his brows furrowed and his eyes crinkled, he looked like he was confused by my sudden appearance. I hoped he’d be happy, welcoming me with a broad smile and open arms. His pinched expression worried me, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if he wasn’t alone.
No. Don’t do that.I pushed the words out of my head as fast as they had flitted inside.
“Oh. Hey, Emma. What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
I took him in, starting from the top of his head and letting my eyes trail down to the rough stubble of his jaw. Down I went over the tightness of his black T-shirt and the gray sweatpants that sat low on his waist. My gaze stopped on his bare feet, focusing on how his big toe was slightly shorter than the toe next to it.
It was ridiculous, me being here while I held out for a future that may never happen with some guy I didn’t know and hadn’t met. The opportunity might never come—the possibility was very real that I’d never find someone, always being the third wheel while my friends found happiness. While Miller found happiness.
My thoughts returned to why I found myself on his doorstep. Was I a user, someone who used the other person until something better came along? Did he think that of me? Was he right? Was I just waiting for something better?
No.
I should go. Yes. Leave. Hightail it back to my lonely little apartment with my lonely little apps and pretentious cat, slowly scrolling until I got that panic-inducing beep that meant I matched with someone.
“Hey. You okay over there, pretty girl?”
He reached toward me, resting his hand gently on my elbow as he led me inside and leaned closer to shut the door. His face came within millimeters of mine, and I breathed in, taking in the spicy scent that was uniquely Miller. The calming notes of black coffee and juniper flowed around me like a balm to my frazzled nerves, and I relaxed, resting my cheek on his chest.
His arms wrapped around me, cocooning me in their warmth, and my earlier sadness faded to something manageable. Miller accepted my life for the beautiful train wreck it was, embracing my flaws as much as he did my other traits.
Allowing myself this relationship—joy, closeness, and physical contact—was easy. Much easier than ten thousand other decisions that plagued my days. This—he—gave me the motivation to continue even when it felt like the darkness was suffocating.
I tugged on his shirt, lifting my head as he wrinkled his brows and ran his fingers along my jaw.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” His voice was gentle, making my breath catch in my throat and my voice hitch.
I didn’t have the words to tell him what had happened—there would be time for that later. Now, I needed to feel him surround me. His hard body pressed against mine, chasing everything else away.
“Kiss me,” I said, my voice strangled and weak as his hand continued its gentle caress. “Please.”
He growled, and I felt down to my core the raw desire behind the sound. One hand traveled along my back to grip my neck while the other tightened on my hip, almost like he sought to merge our bodies completely.
“Is that what you need, baby?”
I whimpered, nodding as he tickled the back of my neck before gripping my hair—hard. He tilted my head where he wanted it, searching my face, making me wonder if he was holding his breath before he lowered his nose to my hair and breathed in.
The sound was filthy. This rattling intake of breath and then his slow exhale sent goose bumps racing along my exposed skin. The hand on my hip slowly crept lower, then repeated the pattern until his fingers dipped underneath my green plaid pencil skirt, running over every part of me he could reach as my breath hitched and my core clenched around nothing.
The hand fisting my hair lowered, sneaking underneath my blouse and over every divot of my spine, a wicked smile on his face as he bent low enough to drag my earlobe between his teeth. I made myself breathe, counting each inhale as he became intimately familiar with my neck.
“Talk to me. What do you need, Em?” he whispered, walking us backward until his knees hit the couch. He sat down, taking me with him. My legs spread wide, and my skirt hitched higher as the hand under my blouse tugged me closer. I complied with his unspoken request, holding my arms above my head as he pulled the constricting garment off.
My bra came off next, and I heard his heavy pants as he stared at me, letting his hands caress my arms. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back and moaning. I’d always been self-conscious about my small breasts, but the way Miller’s breath hitched and how his eyes dilated gave me the confidence I rarely possessed. I pushed my chest forward as he pinched my nipples, rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger.
His rapidly hardening cock flexed against my hip, the layers of fabric keeping me from feeling him completely. His hands moved to my elbows, and he pushed, drawing me forward so he could capture my nipple between his teeth. The hot suction of his mouth was perfect, and when he used his other hand to knead the breast not in his mouth, I saw stars.
I needed more.
Putting a hand on either side of his face, I brought him closer so I could fully seat myself in his lap and rock against his cock while not letting his mouth break away from my chest. This rumbling growl filled the space, and my chest purred as he encircled the bud with his lips. I slid my hands into his short hair and tugged, moaning as he drew back. His mouth and my chest we shiny with spit, and I whimpered, pushing my panty-covered pussy against his cock.
“Dirty fucking girl,” he hissed, tightening the grip on both my nipples. The corners of his mouth tilted up as he watched me, already out of my mind with sensation. A choked gasp left my lips as he let go, the blood flowing back to my nipples, making my entire body shake.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?”
To drive the point as much as I needed his touch, he bit my collarbone, letting his teeth dig into the flesh, then soothing the sting with his tongue.
“What made you think you could ever live without my hands on your body? Just. Like. This.” Each word was punctuated with a nip or lick until the entirety of my chest was riddled with goose bumps and red, raised flesh.
My fingers grappled for purchase on his shoulders, tugging at the material of his shirt until he felt pity for me and pulled it over his head.
“Are you getting there already?”
His hands moved to my ass, and he dug his fingertips into the soft flesh, working me back and forth against his cock.
“You want to come just like this? Soaking my pants with that desperate little pussy? I want to feel it, baby.”
He helped me move, spreading his legs and adjusting his hips so that with every pass of my pussy, his cock nuzzled against me. I pulled him close, too far gone to care about how desperate I looked, writhing on him. With one last gasp, I fell forward, my vision exploding in a Technicolor rainbow as I came—and came.
This orgasm was soul-shattering, setting each nerve ending on fire and my body clinging to the only tangible force I cared about—Miller. He held me as I shuddered, shamelessly rubbing myself against him until I was wrung dry and a sheen of sweat covered my body. I slumped against him as his fingers trailed up my spine and brushed my hair away from my neck. My skirt was too constricting, not letting me feel him like I needed to, and I tugged on the side zipper, huffing that the fabric wasn’t cooperating.
“Are you ready for more?” he asked, that gravelly voice rumbling along the nerve endings in my body. He set me aflame, and my sluggish, post-orgasm brain lit up like a Christmas tree with the prospect of his touch.
I lifted my head from his chest, pressing swift kisses along his collarbone and to the side of his mouth. “Yes.”
“Then say it, good girl. Tell me.”
My core clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled, as I whimpered, framing his face with my hands to kiss him thoroughly. He tasted like spearmint toothpaste and sweet coffee—comforting, warm, and making my lower belly tighten with arousal.
“Miller. Touch me. Please.” My voice was quivering and desperate.
“Oh. You’ll know I’ll touch you, Emma. I’ll touch you until you forget everything but my name.”
I buried my face in his neck as he grasped my waist and stood, tucking my legs firmly around him as he strode to the bedroom, hopefully, to deliver every filthy promise that passed his lips.