by Banks, R. R.
He shrugs. “She's not a kid anymore, Brice,” he says. “She's a grown adult. Same as you. If you two, as consenting adults, come together after more than a decade apart – whether she was a little kid the last time you saw her, or a forty-year-old woman – the only thing that matters is that you two are happy with one another. That you two are comfortable together.”
“Well, we're not anything just yet.”
“Right. You're playing the long game.”
“Exactly.”
“Like I said before, don't let it run too long,” Pete warns.
I just need to be patient. Let Emma come around on her own. The way she fucked me, and the look in her eyes afterward told me she wants more than just a one-night stand. She pushed me away when we were done, but I could see she was reluctant to do so. She wanted to hold on to me just as much as she wanted me to leave – maybe even a bit more.
She's going to be a tough nut to crack, but there is something about Emma that draws me to her like a moth to a damn flame. It's unlike anything I've ever felt before in my life, and the idea of – as Pete puts it – settling down, would normally send me running for the hills. But, the thought of being with Emma, and only Emma, doesn’t scare or bother me at all.
In fact, the idea is entirely appealing.
* * *
“Jared. I'll call them in the morning,” I say.
“You said that last time we talked.”
“I had a funeral to go to,” I say. “I left you a message and told you that.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, Brice,” he says. “Anyway, let me know what you find out.”
“Yeah. Will do.”
I disconnect the call and lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. The clock reads nine-thirty, and I groan. Nine-thirty and I'm beat. Jesus, I'm getting old. I remember the days when I could pull an all-nighter, and still have the energy for classes and practice the following day. Now, I get home, finish up any leftover work in my home office, take a shower, and go to bed.
The days of wild, all-night parties are long past me now. I'm getting soft in my old age.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I punch up what I'd been researching before Jared interrupted me with his call. I'm on the Long Beach Times Daily website, an idea starting to take shape in my head. I'm looking for articles by Emma Simmonds, just to see if what I'm thinking is even plausible. Or worth the sort of investment I'm thinking of making.
As I scroll, I'm appalled by how bad this website is – and the fact that it hasn't been updated recently. The articles I'm looking at are all from a week ago. At least. Whoever is running the digital arm of the paper is doing an amazingly shitty job at it and needs to be fired.
The only light on in my office is the one on my desk, most of my office remaining in shadow – just how I like it. I sip from the mug of coffee again, clicking through, shaking my head at just how shoddy the website is. I'm not even that tech savvy, but I can tell you this thing sucks.
After a considerable amount of digging – too much, if you ask me – I finally find some clips with Emma's byline though, and spend the next hour reading through them. I'm not a writer myself, but even I can see what an enormous talent Emma is. She crafts her stories in a way that pulls you in, and somehow manages to make the mundane seem fascinating.
Emma was consigned to mostly routine stuff. Police blotter garbage, mainly. Personally, I think they wasted her talent. With her level of talent, she deserved to work on more hard-hitting pieces. Articles that would have drawn in new readers and kept them coming back for more.
Of course, that's my uninformed opinion, but as a reader – and in theory, the demographic the paper should be aiming for, Emma's work kept my attention. Kept me glued to the page and reading more and more.
I look at the picture of Emma that accompanies the article. It's nothing special, just the standard headshot. Even in that though, her beauty shines through. As I look at those dark eyes that seem to be peering back at me, I think back to the night we spent together in her father's kitchen.
I recall the heat and passion, the desire and fire between us. How her body felt pressed to mine. The musky scent of her – the taste of her. I recall the feeling of being inside of her. In my head, I hear her voice echoing. Her moans, her cries. I can feel the way her body trembled as she came.
As I think more about Emma and her tight little body, my cock begins to strain painfully against my pants, begging for release. I look around and see a towel I'd used at the gym earlier draped over a chair. I quickly grab it and unbuckle my pants, sliding them down a bit, as I take my seat again.
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes, imagining Emma is walking through the door to my office. She's wearing a short black dress – short enough that I can see the tops of the stockings she's wearing. It's got thin straps, and a cinched waist, making her full breasts look even more round and tantalizing.
Her heels click against the hardwood floor as she makes her way over to me. Her long dark hair frames her cool porcelain skin, and her dark eyes are bottomless. Sensual. And filled with pure lust.
I grip my cock firmly, squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth as I picture Emma falling to her knees before me. She takes my cock from me, gripping it tight. A small smile plays upon her lips as she slides her tongue up and down my thick, hard shaft, her dark, sultry eyes never leaving mine.
I gasp as I imagine Emma taking me into her mouth. Fantasy Emma tightens her lips around me, gripping the base of my hard cock, and starts to work her mouth and hand in concert with each other, stroking and sucking me off at the same time.
I press my head back hard into my chair, pumping my cock furiously, as I picture Emma sucking and stroking me. The growl that bursts from my throat is low and deep, as I work my cock – all the while picturing it's Emma working it for me. Imagining the feel of her delicate hand wrapped around my shaft, the feel of her mouth tight around it, almost makes me blow my load then and there.
In my mind's eye, I see her stand up before me. There's a salacious smile on her lips as she hikes her skirt up to her waist, showing me that she's not wearing any panties.
I groan as I recall the way I'd filled her up. Remember how fucking tight she was. Reveling in the memory of her wet, warm pussy. My dream Emma starts to ride me. She bounces up and down, taking my cock deeper into her with every thrust.
“Fuck,” I grunt as I keep pumping my cock.
Electricity courses through my veins as I picture Emma riding me hard. Riding me how I like it. In my mind, I grip her ass and smack it hard, drawing a surprised yelp, followed by a moan of pleasure from her.
The sound of her voice, crying out in pleasure echoes through my mind, and I recall the feel of her flesh against mine. I feel my cock throbbing in my hand and know I'm not going to last much longer.
“Emma,” I groan. “Fuck, baby.”
I feel the pressure building inside of me as my balls begin to tighten, and I squeeze the base of my cock as I keep pumping away. My fantasy Emma impales herself on my cock hard, taking me as deep inside of her as I can go, and holds herself there. She throws her head back and moans – and that's it for me.
I cry out and grab the towel as I start to come, covering my cock as it starts to pulse and throb. I grunt as thick streams of hot come shoot out of my cock, splattering all over the towel and my right hand.
I gasp and lean forward in my chair, my breathing ragged, my heart beating like I just ran a marathon. My face is flushed, and I feel beads of sweat dotting my brow.
Damn. That was intense.
I look at the mess I’ve made of myself and shake my head. Grabbing the towel, I wipe off my hand, then drop it to the floor. I’ll take care of it after my pants are back on.
“Mr. Kelly?”
My blood freezes in my veins, and my heart practically stops dead in its tracks. I look up at the doorway and see Martha, my house manager, standing in the doorway. There's a look of uncertainty – or perhaps embarrassment – on her face as she stands
there, staring at me blankly. I don't know how long she's been there. I have no idea what she saw – though, judging by the mortified look on her face, she saw plenty.
Realizing that I'm still sitting there with my cock hanging out of my pants, I quickly scoot closer to the desk, trying to hide it. Yeah, nothing to see here at all. I was definitely not just jerking off.
Martha's an older, conservative, straight-laced woman. She's been with me for many years now and has probably seen some crazy shit, but always has the grace to never mention it. And I'm not a man who's easily embarrassed, to be honest. Martha's seen me naked before, and it doesn’t faze me a bit.
But, something about having her walk in on me – or at least, having her walk in knowing what I was just doing – makes my face burn bright and hot. It's like having your mom walking in on you while you're masturbating.
“Yes – Martha,” I say and clear my throat. “I didn't know you were here.”
Honestly, she looks as embarrassed as I do – which tells me she knows exactly what I was up to – and that only adds fuel to the heat in my face. She clears her throat, doing her best to maintain her composure.
“I had some things to finish up,” she says. “I was just stopping by to see if you needed anything before I left for the night?”
“Uhh – no, I think I'm fine. Thank you,” I say quickly. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “I'll be in around eleven or so.”
Great. Now she feels the need to announce when she'll be in, just to make sure I know when to avoid rubbing one out. Like I need to make a masturbation schedule or something.
“Great,” I say. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
She leaves without another word, but I hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway and soon, she's practically sprinting for the front door.
Jesus. I'm going to have to fire my house manager because I can't look her in the eye ever again.
Chapter Twelve
Emma
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Marina asks as she embraces me tightly.
I hug her back fiercely for a moment, then step back and dab at my eyes. “I'm okay.”
I've been home a couple of weeks after cleaning up my dad's place, and this is the first chance we've gotten to see each other. It was nice spending some time with my brother but sorting through our dad’s life and packing it into a bunch of boxes was depressing as hell.
We sit down on my couch, and she takes my hands in hers. As sad as it is, and as bad as my heart is still broken, I'm starting to feel a little better about things. While I was up there, I visited his grave every day. I said everything I wanted to say – and everything I should have said – while he was alive.
But, getting it all out was – cathartic. At least, in a way.
I miss my dad. I'm pretty sure I’ll always miss him. But, one of the lessons he taught us, made sure to ingrain in us, is that we can't spend our lives mourning the dead. Yeah, we can miss our loved ones – and we'll always carry them in our hearts – but we can't stop our lives for the dead. They'll still be dead, and your life will have stopped for nothing.
He was very much the keep on and carry on, and always seek your happiness type – and I guess that's rubbed off on me in a lot of ways. Like my dad, I can usually find my way out of the darkness pretty quickly. Or, at least, I try to.
Marina gets up and walks into the kitchen, and comes back with two bottles of pear cider. She hands one to me as she sits down again. I take a long swallow, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my throat.
“So, how did things go up there?” Marina asks. “Your texts were kind of random and all over the place. Something about a guy named Brice?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “A lot was going on.”
She gives me a soft smile. “So…who is he?”
I sit back on the couch and let out a long breath, my head instantly filled with memories of that night. As I think back to what we did, and how amazing it felt, I feel my cheeks flush, and a tightness in my belly.
Marina looks at me, curiosity in her eyes, so I spill it all. I tell her everything – from how I felt seeing him at the funeral, to what happened with Mark, to what happened at my dad's place. Through it all, Marina's eyes grow wider and wider, and her mouth falls open into a perfect “O.” When I finish, she sits back, a stunned, but amused expression on her face.
“Wow, Em,” she says. “That's not what I expected.”
A rueful chuckle bubbles out of my mouth. “Yeah, that makes two of us.”
“Is this the Brice –”
“Yeah, that's the Brice.”
“From when you were a kid?” she presses. “The pro quarterback?”
I nod. “Yeah. That's him.”
She whistles low, but the broad smile on her face betrays her true feelings – which makes me blush harder. I know what she ultimately wants to know. The question she wants to ask. I'm just hoping she doesn't.
“I've seen pictures of him,” she says. “He is smokin' hot.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I guess he's some big-time sports agent now,” she says. “Worth a boatload of money. At least, that's what the papers say.”
“I can confirm that he's loaded,” I say. “The man has money. No question about that. He's got a private jet. That's how he got to my father's funeral. On his own jet. Who does that?”
“Rich people,” she says and laughs. “Damn. He’s rich and hot.”
I nod. “That he is.”
“How is he in bed?”
And there it is. I laugh, my face burning so hard, I'm surprised it hasn't literally burst into flames.
“I'm guessing by how hard you're blushing, it was pretty damn good,” she says. “Either that, or it was horribly awful?”
“Oh no,” I say. “It was – amazing. Utterly amazing.”
“Details!” Marina shrieks. “I need to live vicariously.”
“He was just so – commanding, I guess is the right word,” I say. “I can't even tell you how much that turned me on. I'm so used to indecisive guys who don’t know what they want. Not Brice though, he just – he just took me.”
Marina and I share everything, so without getting too graphic, I fill her in on the highlights. As I’m talking, I realize that as commanding and dominating as he is, Brice is also a very generous lover. He definitely valued my pleasure above his own and did whatever he could to make me come, again and again.
My body tingles with the memories of what we did together. I can practically feel him inside of me, his rough hands running all over my body. The memory of his kisses, his touch, and that glorious cock of his, flood my body with incredible sensations all over again.
I snap back to reality, realizing I haven’t finished sexy storytime with Marina yet. “By the time he left, I was exhausted. My legs were practically shaking.”
“That sounds amazing,” Marina says. “Damn, I'm jealous. To bag a guy like that –”
“I didn't bag him,” I say. “It's not like we're a thing now.”
“Why not?”
“He's not the kind of guy I should get involved with,” I say softly. “I'll only get my heart broken. He's a player, Marina. The kind of guy who has a different girl on rotation every night. Do you really think I can compare with the supermodels he dates?”
She eyes me for a long moment. “Is that what he wants?”
“Obviously,” I say. “You've seen the pictures in the tabloids.”
“And you should know, better than anybody, how the tabloids twist the truth,” she says. “They make things up to sell papers. You know that.”
I take a sip of my cider and chuckle. “Yeah, that's what he said.”
“And you didn't believe him?”
“I didn't have a reason to believe him, no.”
She takes a long swallow of her drink and gives me that look of disapproval I know so well.
“What?” I ask.
“Did he give
you a reason to not believe him?”
I stare at her with my mouth hanging open. “Seriously?” I ask. “I told you what he did –”
“Babe, that was more than a decade ago,” she says. “He was a stupid punk kid, I'll give you that. Do you really think he's the same person? Did he seem like that guy to you?”
“You and my brother,” I say, shaking my head. “You both seem to think he's gone through this amazing transformation. That he stepped into some machine and had the arrogant asshole stripped out of him somehow.”
She laughs. “You know I love you, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Here we go,” I say and giggle. “When you start a sentence with that, I know you're about to start explaining why I'm wrong.”
“I'm not saying you're wrong,” she says. “I'm just offering a different point of view.”
I drain the last of my bottle and carry it into the kitchen. I throw it in the recycling, pull two more from the refrigerator and carry them back into the living room. Twisting off the top, I drop it on the coffee table, and take a seat.
“Okay,” I say. “Lay it on me.”
She finishes her drink and opens her next bottle. “Well, is it possible, that you're letting all of your old feelings color your view of who Brice is now?”
“Well – duh,” I say and laugh. “What other way can I possibly view him?”
“As a new person,” she says simply. “I mean, it's been more than a decade, Em. Nearly two. You're not the same person you were then. Why would you think that Brice is?”
“He's given me no reason to think he's changed.”
“Because you've not given him the chance to show you,” she says. “You're so locked onto who he was, that you're not giving him a chance to show you who he is.”
I scoff. “He showed me who he was already.”
She nods. “From what you've told me, he's shown you that he's protective of you, will put himself at risk to keep you safe,” she says. “And oh yeah, he's a generous and incredible lover, who puts your own pleasure above his own. Doesn't sound like an entitled, arrogant asshole to me.”