by Claire Adams
We take a minute and pull out a box of bandages and some triple antibiotic ointment. When Emma pulls out the alcohol, though, I start to get a little nervous.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“It’s for your cut,” she says. “We need to make sure it’s clean before we bandage it, otherwise it might get infected.”
“Isn’t that what that ointment is for?” I ask.
“It’ll just take a second,” she says.
I would much rather run at top speed into the side of a cement building than have alcohol poured on a cut. There’s a difference between dull pain and sharp pain, and what she’s about to do is on the razor’s side.
“I really think the ointment’s going to be enough,” I tell her.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of a little antiseptic,” she says. “Big, strong guy like you—that’s got to be pretty embarrassing.”
“Say what you want,” I tell her. “I don’t even care. That shit hurts.”
“You just got punched in the eye!” she exclaims.
“Yeah, and I think I’ve been through enough for the evening,” I tell her.
“Fine,” she says. “By the way, this is totally going in my tell-all: the story about how Damian Jones got into a fist fight with my dad, and then, when I went to tend his wounds, he cried like a little bitch.”
“Seriously,” I tell her, “I don’t care what you say. Just keep that shit away from me. I fucking hate that feeling.”
“It’s only for a second,” she says, and pulls a bag of cotton balls from the basket. “Now hold still. This will only take a minute.”
“You went from second to minute pretty quick, there,” I tell her.
“Oh, will you just shut up and let me take care of you?” she asks.
I’m still not looking forward to the sting that’s coming to me, but something in what she said hits me harder than Shane did.
I hold still and I hold my breath, waiting with absolute impatience for the pinprick of searing pain to be over.
“You’re going to need to stop squinting so hard,” she says. “You’re making it impossible for me to get to your cut.”
“Sorry,” I answer, and relax my face as much as I can. Emma’s laughing because that’s not a lot.
She gets some alcohol on a cotton ball, and before the thing’s even against my skin, I’m already wincing.
“You really need to relax,” she says.
“Sorry,” I repeat, and as soon as my muscles go lax, that cotton ball is on my skin and I can feel the sharp sting throughout my entire body.
“What is your deal?” she laughs. “You barely reacted when he hit you and now you’re all shriveled up because of a little alcohol?”
“My mom used to use it on me whenever I got the smallest scrape,” he says. “I always hated it.”
“You’ve never really talked about your parents,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “They’ve been gone for a while.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, finally pulling the cotton ball away from my face. She puts a small bandage over the cut.
“Come on,” I smile. “I know you’re a closet Damian Jones fan. You must have already known that.”
“I did,” she admits. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They were killed in a mugging,” I tell her. “The guy was going to shoot my mom and my dad jumped in front of her, but the guy just shot them both anyway.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“I’m just going to grab some ice,” she says, and heads to the freezer.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“After getting punched in the face, I would think it should be me to ask that question,” she says.
“My eye’s not so bad,” I tell her.
“I’ve been better, obviously,” she says. “I think it’s going to be all right, though. It can’t really be worse than what I was already dealing with.”
Emma’s got a couple of blind spots.
This can absolutely get worse and it’s probably going to before this is all over.
“You should probably keep the television turned off for the next few days,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I really don’t want to spend all my time worrying about what people are saying about me,” she says. “I could do without the speculation.”
She comes back, carrying a bag of frozen corn.
“Looks like I’m out of ice,” she says. “This’ll work just as well, though.”
“Okay,” I answer, and she sits down across from me, gently pressing the cold bag against my skin.
“I’m so sorry about all of this,” she says. “I wish he would just forget that he’s my father and just leave me alone.”
I reach up to take the bag, but Emma doesn’t move her hand when mine touches it.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “You just try to relax.”
She’s looking into my eyes—well, my eye, really, with concern on her face.
“I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to get away from that man,” she says. “When I was a kid, I’d hide or run to a friend’s house when things got really bad, but now… I don’t know, there just doesn’t seem like there’s anything I can do to get him to leave me alone.”
“Have you thought about just paying him off so he’ll go away?” I ask.
It’s not a good idea, but it is an option.
“I’m not getting sucked back into that,” she says. “I think Ben proved pretty clearly that a person who’s sucking money from you isn’t a person you can trust to leave you in peace.”
“Okay,” I answer.
She’s running the fingers of her free hand through my hair, and whether it’s the tenderness of the moment or the adrenaline of the last one, I’m starting to find myself incredibly turned on.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.
“I’m planning on locking the doors, unplugging the cable box, and throwing back a couple dozen shots,” she says. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”
“All right,” I smile. “You know,” I tell her, “you look beautiful tonight.”
She scoffs and says, “I look like shit.”
Her hair is a bit disheveled from trying to pull me and her father apart, and her eyes are still a bit puffy from crying after the press conference, but I’m not lying when I say, “Really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so attractive.”
“Well, thank you,” she says, and pulls the bag of corn from my eye a moment. “How does it feel?”
“It’s not so bad,” I tell her. “The cold is helping.”
“That’s good,” she says, and her hand that was going through my hair is now rubbing my back. “I just wish life wasn’t so screwed up,” she says. “Wouldn’t it just be nice if people didn’t try to screw each other?”
“Depends on the usage of the word,” I joke.
“Clever,” she says. “Okay, not really, but it was the first word that came into my head.”
She puts the bag of corn back against my face, and I’m putting my hand on her upper thigh, saying, “I’m sorry all this is happening.”
“It is what it is,” she says. “Not much we can do about it but deal with it.”
“Yeah,” I respond, and just stare into her bright blue eyes.
I catch her gaze and she looks back at me with kind, loving eyes.
“You know,” I tell her, “it’s been a pretty rough day.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It really has.”
“I was thinking maybe I could take care of you, too,” I tell her.
“You’re the one that got the fist to the face,” she says and then stops, apparently having realized what I meant. “Oh,” she smiles.
My hand already on her leg, I start rubbing her thigh. She takes my other hand and puts it on the bag of corn, freeing both of her hands as she leans forward, and tilting h
er head far to the right, she leans in and kisses me.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” I tell her. “It’s not your fault. Like you said, it just is what it is.”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
I take the bag of corn from my eye and set it on the table, taking a quick glance at her skirt so I can plan the best possible approach.
“Lean back,” I tell her, and she scoots her butt forward on the chair and reclines a little.
My hands come to her knees and I work my way under the fabric and up her legs, coming out of my chair and getting to my knees in the process.
I lift her skirt a little and kiss her knees, the start of her thigh. My hands move up her legs and around back down again, and I lift my arms a little to raise the fabric enough to kiss her thighs, and I start to work my way up.
Her skirt bunches as I slip it up toward her waist, exposing her smooth legs and the black tanga she’s wearing under the dress.
With one hand, she’s running her fingernails over my back, and those fingers curl into me as I part her legs and kiss the area around her pussy. She takes a sharp breath when my lips meet her clit.
It’s hard to tell why, but there’s something a little extra erotic about going down on her in the kitchen, moving her skirt instead of removing it.
I guide my tongue over her nub and inch a finger inside of her wetness.
She groans softly in pleasure as I just revel in her taste.
“You’re really good at that, you know,” she says, with hardly any voice to her breath at all.
I would answer, but I’m a little busy at the moment.
Sure, I’m the one that got punched in the face, but big picture, I think with everything she’s been through today and the last couple of months with Ben and then with her father showing up, she’s earned a little relief.
That’s not to say that I’m getting nothing out of this; quite the contrary. As I move my tongue over her clit and finger her hot, wet center, I don’t know that I’ve ever been this turned on in my life.
The skirt is partially over my head as I adore Emma’s body, but she pulls it up the rest of the way, opening the space between her eyes and mine.
“I want you inside me,” she says, “but don’t take any clothes off. I’m really loving this whole clothed thing. I’ve never actually had sex with clothes on.”
I chuckle and tease her, saying, “Prude.”
“What?” she asks through heavy breath. “I’m a prude because I’ve only had sex naked?” she asks.
“Ironically,” I answer, “yes,” and I laugh.
“Whatever,” she says. “Now stick that fucking thing in me before I change my mind.”
I laugh, but I lift my head, though I keep my finger inside her, stirring her soft insides.
As I lean back, she leans forward and stands. I stand to meet her.
Our arms are around each other and I’m kissing her neck as she pulls down my zipper, and she moans a little as my finger is still inside her.
She slowly backs toward her countertop and, when we get to it, she hops onto it.
With the front of my pants open, she pulls me out from inside and casually pulls me by the cock, closer to her waiting slit. I move between her legs and right up to her and she’s rubbing my tip against her clit and she’s saying, “Don’t move—oh my God.”
She continues to use my bell end to pleasure herself, and she puts an arm around me.
“Like that,” she says. “Do you think you can manage?”
“I think I can manage,” I tell her and I take over, my hand guiding the tip of my dick against her bud, and her arms are around me hard and tight and she’s gasping for air.
“That’s it,” she says. “I’m almost there…”
With a sound that I’m not sure I’ve ever quite heard before, Emma comes harder than I’ve ever seen her come. Really, it’s quite the compliment.
She’s clutching at my back and I can feel a rush of warm wetness with my sex.
“Ho-ly sh-it,” she whines in a quiet, higher voice.
Her body is shaking and it all happens so fast that it takes me a minute to realize what just happened.
“Well, I’ve never done that before,” she says, as her hands tense and go lax more slowly now.
“How did it feel?” she asks.
She giggles. “How did it look like it felt?”
“Fair enough,” I answer, and just once more, I run the head of me over her clit before I ease inside of her. She’s so wet that I’m all the way in on the first push.
Female ejaculation is a wonderful thing.
Inside her, now, I’m off in my own little reality.
Everyone says they know when they’ve met someone special because the same things will feel different and everything just gets unexplainably better. To tell you the truth, I always assumed it was one of those lies people tell themselves, but as I move in and out of Emma, all of our clothes still on, I can’t remember ever being so thoroughly gripped by pleasure and affection.
“You feel amazing,” I tell her, and she kisses my lips hungrily.
“I’ve never come like that before,” she says. “I think we’re going to have to try doing that again before we’re done.”
The amateur move is to immediately agree and go right back to what brought her that feeling, but one should never underestimate the power of surprise.
Her shoulders are resting back against the cupboards, and I’m pulling the top of her dress down to expose her breasts, one and then the other.
She clutches her breasts in her hands and looks up at me as if to say that she’s ready, and so I pull out and masturbate her with the tip of my cock.
“Ohmygod,” she says, pitching forward, and sooner than I would have thought possible, she’s coming again.
The floor is wet around me, and I’m trying to keep my head.
“You know,” I tell her, “I’ve never been with anyone who could do that.”
“You know,” she says, “I had no idea that I could.”
I smile and kiss her on the cheek, and as she pulls away, just that look on her face full of nothing but pure enjoyment, absolute satisfaction, fills me up in a way I’ve never experienced, and before I know it, the words are just coming out, “I love you.”
“You…what?” she asks, looking up at me as if I just used a phrase with which she’s entirely unfamiliar.
I’m just a deer stuck in the headlights.
Chapter Fifteen
Flashing Lights
Emma
He said he loved me.
If it’s any consolation, he looks like he regrets it.
“We’re still just starting out,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I guess I just got wrapped up in the moment.”
“I don’t know what it is with you,” I tell him. “First, you break up with me because you don’t think you can deal with a relationship, and now you’re dropping the L-bomb when I’m trying to get thick and juicy?”
“I really don’t know how to respond to that,” he says.
I laugh and pat him on the chest. “It’s not that big of a deal,” I tell him. “If I had the chance to get with me, I’d probably be saying it, too.”
“It’s nice to see that your ego hasn’t suffered from the event,” he says.
“Did you mean it, though?” I ask. “That’s the question.”
There are all sorts of ways to turn the screws on him for this.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think I don’t love you,” he stammers. “I’m just not sure if I’m where I do…yet.”
Do I love Damian Jones?
Before I got to Hollywood, before I got my first acting job, back when all of this was just my teenage wet dream back in Who Gives a Shit, Illinois, I would have immediately responded, “Yes, I love Damian Jones.” The problem with that is that fan love and real love are very different thing
s.
The only people who really can’t tell the two apart when they’re right up close are the ones who end up stalking and…
“What ever happened with your stalker?” I ask. “You never did tell me about that.”
“She still calls,” he says. “I’m thinking about changing my number.”
“I thought you would have done that by now,” I say. “How long has she been calling you?”
“A few weeks,” he says, and puts his palms over his eyes, “a few months, I don’t even know. It feels like a long time.”
“So why wouldn’t you have changed your number already?” I ask.
“I like my number,” he says.
I snort. “You would rather have a stalker, a crazy woman with an unhealthy, possibly dangerous obsession with you, continue to call you at her leisure because you like your phone number?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “that and…”
Whatever it is, it seems like it’s really embarrassing. I probably shouldn’t pursue it any farther.
“That and…?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “I don’t know. I guess I wanted her to still be able to call in case the police wanted to, like, trace her number or something.”
I’m putting my breasts back into my top and I’m curled forward, laughing.
“Yeah,” he says, not nearly as amused as I am, “that’s about what the police said. Apparently they care a lot less than I thought they did.”
“You’d think they’d take a celebrity stalker a lot more seriously in a place like this, huh?” I ask.
“Really,” he says. “Anyway, are we good?”
“About what?” I ask.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’m just trying to be breezy. Not knowing how I’m going to respond, that seems like the appropriate response.
“You know,” he says, “about what I said earlier.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “I’d forgotten about it, to be honest.”
“So you wouldn’t say that you feel anything like that for me?” he asks.
What are you doing here, boy?
“I think that we’re still learning how to be with each other,” I tell him. “I am very attracted to you—ensorcelled, really. I just think that people should be in a relationship for a pretty substantial amount of time before they start talking about love and diapers and crayons and snot all over the place and the dog’s chewed up everything, you know?”