Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emmersyn
I’m perched on his lap, straddling him, my body pressing down on his very hard, rock-solid cock. His words still echo in my mind, reverberating through the haze of lust and desire that’s clouding my thoughts. His touch, his voice, the way he looks at me—it’s all too much, too intense. The heat between us is overwhelming, a fire that’s been reignited and is now burning out of control.
He misses his wife.
He misses me.
The real me.
My heart clenches at the thought, torn between the overwhelming need to be close to him and the cold logic that’s telling me to pull back, to protect myself. I can feel the steady throb of arousal between my legs, the way my body aches for him, my core practically dripping, desperate to take him inside me. I want it—God, I want it so badly I can hardly breathe.
But I know the risk. I know what happens when I let him in too far, when I let myself believe that this time it will be different.
Every part of me is screaming for more—for all of him. I want to lose myself in him, in the way he makes me feel. I want to forget about the walls I’ve built, the fear that’s kept me distant, the pain that’s always lurking just beneath the surface. I want to be his again, to give in to the longing that’s been tearing me apart for so long.
But logic has always been my savior, my shield against getting hurt again. And right now, it’s telling me to stay away, to keep those walls up, because I know how easily I can burn when I let them down. I know how deeply I can be hurt when I give him all of me.
I look into his eyes, seeing the raw, unfiltered emotion there, the need that mirrors my own. I want to trust it, to believe that this time it’s safe to let go. But I’m scared—scared that if I let him in, I’ll lose myself again, and I’m not sure I can survive that a second time.
The desire, the longing, the fear—it’s all tangled together, making it impossible to think clearly. I’m caught between wanting to dive headfirst into the flames and the instinct to pull back before I get burned. But I can’t move. I can’t make the choice.
So I just sit there, trembling on the edge, his hands on my skin, his words in my ears, his hardness pressed against me, and my heart caught somewhere in between.
“You’re fighting it, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Only bad girls deserve punishment. Do you deserve some spanking, baby?”
My mind betrays me, instantly conjuring up the image of him spanking me, his hand coming down hard on my ass while his fingers slide inside me, teasing me, pushing me to the brink. I can almost feel it—the sting of his palm, the way he’d play with me, how he used to push a finger deeper, maybe even teasing my ass, driving me wild until I couldn’t think straight.
And then, how his lips would follow, soothing the heat he’d left behind, kissing and nibbling my skin, making me shiver as he whispered promises of what else he was going to do to me. It’s how we used to play before everything went wrong, before the walls went up and we started pretending.
“Stop it,” I order, my voice shaky, trying to regain control. “Stop playing with my head.”
“I’m not playing, Em. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck happened to us and how to bring you back. We were happy, and then . . .”
He trails off, his frustration palpable. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. He’s right, and I hate it. I hate that he sees through me, that he knows exactly how to push all the right buttons. My body is betraying me, craving the very thing I know I should resist. But resisting him feels like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a paper towel.
I take a shaky breath, my resolve faltering as the memories flood back—how he used to take control, how he made me feel safe and wild all at once. The way he’d spank me just hard enough to make me gasp, then soothe the sting with his lips, his mouth trailing over my heated skin, his tongue teasing me until I was trembling with need. It was intoxicating, and it’s killing me to admit how much I miss it, how much I miss him.
But I can’t let him in—not all the way. Not again. If I do, I know I’ll lose myself in him, and that terrifies me. So I steel myself, even as my body aches for his touch, for the release I know only he can give me. I wish I could just let him take control, let everything go for once. But it’s impossible. If I do . . .
“How do I know that was real? You . . . us. I paid you to do it. You just got tired too fast.” My voice trembles as I say the words, my heart hammering in my chest.
I push against his chest, sliding off his lap and putting distance between us. The warmth of his body fades, leaving a cold ache in its place. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his face.
“It was the most fucking real thing I’ve ever had in my life. But I fucked up,” he says, his voice thick with regret. “I pushed you away, and I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had trusted you. But . . . you’d already done so much for me.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, confusion mixing with a flicker of hope in my chest.
“Do you know how many times your grandmother told me I wasn’t good enough for you?” He looks at me, his eyes clouded with the weight of those words.
I scoff. “Please tell me you didn’t start acting like an asshole just because my grandmother was talking shit,” I say, disbelief tinging my tone.
He shakes his head slowly. “No, but she was right. I’m not good enough for you, baby. You’re like this celestial being, and I’m just . . . I’m just a mere mortal. But in my mind, no one would ever get to know you the way I did, or love you the way I do. No one?—”
“You have to stop saying that you know me or that you love me,” I cut him off, my anger flaring. If he really knew me, he’d understand how much he hurt me. He destroyed me.
“When her stupid money offers and visits didn’t work, she began to threaten my parents and my career,” he says, his voice thick with frustration.
I freeze, my mind racing to catch up with his words. Confusion knits my brows together as I stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. “What?” The word comes out sharper than I intend, a mix of disbelief and anger lacing my tone. The idea of my grandmother—my own grandmother—doing something like that makes my stomach churn.
“She really wanted me to leave you,” he continues, his tone hardening. “She had my mother fired from her job when I didn’t respond to her threats. Then a lawyer—not Percival—showed up, offered me a big sum of money to leave you. If I did, they’d find a job for Mom, leave my family alone, and, well, I’d get the rest of what she thought I was owed.”
“I didn’t owe you anything,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intended .
“Your grandmother always assumed I would get paid more when the seven years were over—and I never corrected her,” he admits, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I never told her I wasn’t planning to leave you. She didn’t have to know that you were it for me. I had fallen madly in love with my wife.”
“That’s the money you used to pay me back when you left me?” I ask, the realization hitting me like a punch to the gut.
He nods, scoffing. “And I was still left with a big sum. She really wanted me out of your life, and I wouldn’t have agreed if it wasn’t for the fact that she would’ve had me kicked out of the Navy and destroyed my family.”
I swallow hard, a mix of anger and sorrow swirling inside me. “Fucking shrew. How dare she do that?”
“She thought she was doing you a favor. Your grandmother lived in her own world,” he says, frustration simmering in his voice. “I started to push you away, but then you . . . you lashed out so much, treating me like I was nothing. And things just spiraled out of control.”
“I overheard you one night . . . you were on the phone and said, ‘I’m just waiting for more money, and then it’s over, I’ll leave her,’” I say, the memory hitting me like a punch to the gut.
“Of course I reacted. Grandma had been in my ear, telling me how you were just using me—how everyone used us Langleys. That’s what happened with my father. The old daddy issues resurfaced, and I felt like I had to protect myself.”
“What really happened with your father? Charles, is it?” he asks, his tone softening with concern.
I nod, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Mom got pregnant when she was in college. She never really talked about it. Nobody knows who my biological father is. My grandparents wouldn’t allow her to be a single mother, so she had her pick of eligible bachelors.” I laugh, but it’s hollow.
“What’s funny?” he asks, confusion creasing his brow.
“Gertrude did something similar to me when she lied about not having money to pay for my college tuition,” I explain, the bitterness creeping into my voice.
“She lied?” he asks, leaning in a little closer, as if he’s bracing for more tea.
“Are you surprised?” I snort. “The woman didn’t want me running Langley Media. She wanted a man in charge and me just playing the role of a socialite housewife.”
“So you had a lot of men to choose from?” he asks, his voice tinged with skepticism.
“Losers like Charles,” I clarify. “They had trust funds, were set for life, but they always wanted more. They had this thirst for more but never the willingness to work for it. So, they had to marry into money.
“The point is that Mom married Charles to appease her parents. I found the contract between them. He agreed to accept me and treat me like his child. They paid him a generous amount for that, and he was a good father—until he got caught cheating publicly,” I say, my voice trembling. “Mom divorced him, he didn’t get a penny, and he made sure everyone knew I wasn’t his child. He rejected me every time I was close, called me names like ‘little bastard,’ and told me no one would ever want me. I was nothing to him.”
He reaches out to touch me, but I flinch. “Don’t touch me. I’m okay,” I insist, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.
“You’re not alone,” he says gently, refusing to pull back .
“I’ll talk to my therapist again. It’s just . . . I hate how Gertrude is still trying to meddle in my life—telling me who I should love, who I should be with, and how I should behave,” I say, my frustration boiling over. “There has to be something twisted about her insisting that I live with you for six months.”
He narrows his gaze, like a piece of the puzzle just snapped into place for him. Without a word, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out an envelope.
“What is that?” I stare at the envelope like it’s a ticking time bomb, or maybe some kind of cursed artifact straight out of a horror movie. I recognize my grandmother’s writing. What the ever-loving fuck? “Where did you get it?”
“Percival gave me this letter,” he says, his tone cautious as he hands it to me.
“You read it?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, why don’t we read it together?”