by Natasha Boyd
I looked down at it, then back at him.
He was letting me go.
My breath left me. My stomach clenched, and I bit my lips between my teeth. God, I suddenly wanted to cry for some reason. Slowly I reached out with my fingertips, careful not to touch his hand, and took my phone.
Then I held out his to him. He took it.
Finally he took his eyes off me, nodded to Armand, and evaporated into the crowd.
32
Trystan
There's an uncharacteristic chill in the breeze tonight after the muggy heat of the last few days, and I savor it as I exit the cab and walk the cobblestone alleyway. I'm disappointed as I head to Emmy's little home from the club. There's no denying it. But a part of me also recognizes this is my pattern—losing myself in a willing female for a few hours to let go of the day’s stressors. It's not every day, I know that. It's not like I have a sexual compulsion, but when Emmy said she'd felt like I'd manipulated her the night before, it hit me hard.
In retrospect, leaving dinner at the Montgomery home and seeking out Emmy was in line with my MO.
Even if it was Armand who asked me to come and sort things out with Emmy, it still doesn't sit comfortably. She'd been right to turn me down. But shit, she was stunning. Watching her dance . . . I almost groan out loud again as I remember. Why had I thought Armand was gay? He said he was meeting a guy the other day and I just assumed. Which was weird for me, and I recognize it must have been wishful thinking back then. A few days ago felt like weeks.
I negotiate the courtyard and unlock the antique front door. I hit all the switches to blaze the place with light and avoid any cats or ghosts sneaking up on me. It strikes me that staying here this last night before I go back to New York feels like the last tie to Emmy. I no longer have her phone, and she doesn't have mine. I hadn't realized what an unspoken connection, a feeling of attachment, that had brought. The idea leaves me with a feeling of emptiness I don't like.
I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the dining room chair, grab a glass of water, and then reluctantly turn some of the lights off so I can head to bed.
When I get to the top of the stairs I see the cat, sitting with its black and white back to me, tail swishing as it stares at an empty corner of the bedroom.
Oh, fuck no.
I pull out my phone to ask Emmy what she does in these situations but then stop. My hand drops. It's going to seem like I can't take a no from a woman. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a sexually aggressive jerk.
Backing silently down the stairs, I eye the couch. There's a throw draped over the arm and the cushions look all right to sleep on. It's not ideal but it will have to do for now. It's not that I'm scared, I tell myself. But the cat is freaking weird, staring at an empty corner. I've seen the movie Ghost, I know the cat freaks out when it sees Patrick Swayze. Who's dead, by the way. Anyone would feel nervous. But I do feel like a bit of an idiot as I unbutton my shirt and take it off. My own phone is loudly silent and devoid of app notifications that I know Emmy disabled, and it doesn't bother me as much as I expect.
Perhaps having Emmy's phone detoxed me somewhat.
Turning on a small lamp, I slip off my shoes and socks and roam over to Emmy's bookshelf. I know she'd mentioned haiku, but I didn't realize what a fan of poetry she is. There's a well-thumbed book by someone named Rupi, so I pick it up. Under it there's a photo wallet. Curiosity gets the better of me and I pick it up. It probably holds a couple dozen four by sixes, though it's not full. I open it and almost laugh out loud at a teenage Emmy, braces and round cheeks. The pictures are faded, but there are some with her and an older couple and some with them and someone who I now assume is David, based on her Instagram. There are no pictures of her as a baby or anything. I turn to the next one and see Emmy at a graduation with the older couple. High school it looks like. Then there's nothing. I put the album down where I found it.
I take the book of poetry to the couch. Within minutes my eyes are heavy. The cat comes slinking silently down the stairs. Either the ghost is gone or the cat got bored.
Something jars me awake. I blink and realize I fell asleep. Reaching for my phone, I see it's after one in the morning. It vibrates in my hand as I look at it.
Suit Monkey: You awake?
Who the hell is Suit Monkey?
Who is this?
Suit Monkey: Emmy.
I laugh. Then change the contact to Emmy. You called me suit monkey?
Emmy: Sorry. But if the suit fits . . .
I wish you were here. Immediately I wish I could unsend it. It's my sleepiness that's causing me not to think straight.
There's a knock at the front door and I sit up straight, suddenly wide awake.
Is that you or the ghost?
I head to the front door.
Emmy: The ghost I guess.
I swing open the door and Emmy is standing there, her red hair tumbling wildly over a shoulder. Her mouth twitches, and her blue eyes dart nervously to the side and back.
I guess I'm at a loss for words because I stare at her, tracing her from top to toe with my eyes. She's changed into an oversized T-shirt, yoga pants, and silver flip flops. Her toenails are no longer pink like her bikini picture I notice, but turquoise. Not that I expected them to be the same as in the picture.
She drags her eyes away from my chest and then types into her phone, her lower lip nervously pulled between her teeth.
Emmy: I couldn't sleep.
My insides have clenched tight, and I have a rock in my throat. Whatever it is I'm feeling, it's unfamiliar, but it's definitely okay. I grin. I think. I can't be sure.
I step back and to the side, silently asking her to come in.
She dips her chin, her gaze lowering as she steps past me. She smells like piney shower wash and not like I imagined from her sheets. She must have showered the sweat off her after the club. That makes me sad for some reason.
Inside, she takes in the couch setup and the book of poetry on the ground. The bang that must have woken me.
Of course, a low rumble starts up as the cat realizes she's home and slinks out of nowhere to noodle around her ankles and purr loudly. She crouches and scratches it between the ears. "Hey, buddy," she croons, and I realize it's the first time I've heard her speak in real life.
"What's his name?" I ask.
"Tuna," she says. "If you ever smell his breath, you'll understand."
"If it's anything like the smell that comes out the other end of him, I do."
She laughs softly.
"Can you ask him if the ghost is gone from upstairs?" I grin.
She stands. "Is that what this was about?" She motions to the couch and blanket with an amused expression.
"He was staring at the corner of your bedroom, by the window."
"It was probably a mosquito. He watches them like Mr. Miyagi watches flies."
"Oh." I reach up and grab a fistful of my hair. I do believe I feel nervous.
She licks her lips and types something into her phone.
Emmy: Is it okay that I'm here? I can go.
Shit, no. "Don't leave," I say aloud. I'm not sure what to do though. The tension between us is only going one way, but a part of me doesn't want it to. I want to hold on to this feeling forever. This dance on a knife’s edge. A world full of possibility. It's intoxicating.
Emmy's cheeks fill with heightened color.
Emmy: So do you only talk dirty over the phone or can you do it in real life too?
I exhale sharply as arousal detonates low and deep, carving its way down through my body and possibly branding me permanently. For a smartish guy it takes me more seconds than it should to penetrate she's propositioning me.
"Get upstairs, Emmy." My voice is low and rough to my own ears. My legs feel weak.
Her face flushes a deeper red and God, I wonder if she flushes all over her skin. She turns slowly and moves to the stairs. I start after her, and she squeaks and starts sprinting, taking the stairs two at
a time.
I race after her.
She's stopped, facing the bed. But then she turns, chest heaving, eyes shining with laughter at the chase, and kicks off her flip-flops.
I walk to the window and lower the blinds and then snap the bedside light on, bathing us in a warm glow. God, my heart is pounding so hard, I can hardly breathe. I want, and I don't want this so badly.
"Jesus, Emmy." I run a thumb over my bottom lip. I'm lost. Everything seems so monumental. So confusing. "I'm leaving to go back to New York tomorrow," I say.
She nods though something flickers over her expression. "I know."
I'm starting to feel like this was a bad idea. That I might start something I can't finish.
Or won't finish.
"You don't want to do this, do you?" she asks, looking disappointed.
I blow out a breath and stuff my fingers in my jeans pockets to keep them from reaching for her. I do. I want it so badly. I'm selfish like that. "Come touch me. Put your hand on my chest, Emmy."
She hesitates, and I wait. Then she steps up close. After a beat, she lifts her palm and lays it right in the middle, touching me for the first time. I want to close my eyes with the relief of it but can't take them off her.
Her hand is soft and cool. I imagine my skin feels heated and feverish to her, my heart beat heavy and loaded.
"Of course, I want this," I manage and revel in the feel of her hand on me. My palms itch to return the gesture. To feel her skin, the texture of it, the weight of her breasts, the tightness of her nipples. "You have freckles," I whisper as I stare down at her perfect skin, and her blue eyes go deep, dark.
"You have gold in your eyes," she says, surprised. "I thought I'd see silver."
"Are you sure about this?" I ask. I want her so much. I want to sink my hands in her hair, to touch her everywhere, taste her everywhere. And I want to not think about tomorrow, about what it will be like between us after we've exorcised days of foreplay.
"We're overthinking it," she says and cocks an eyebrow. "At least, you are. Don't." Her palm on my bare chest starts a slow descent. She licks her lips. "I'm sure. Really sure. I promise."
My stomach muscles tense, and I narrow my gaze on her saucy expression. My cock is aching against my jeans. I feel as if I have to remember how to breathe as her hand slips lower.
33
Trystan
Emmy in the dim light of her bedroom, her hair wild about her shoulders and eyes bright, is absolutely stunning.
"But you realize I'm staying the whole night, right?" she says.
"What?"
"This is my bed, and I'm not giving it up. Can you handle that?"
Her hand makes it to my groin and curves around my erection through my jeans.
"As long as you can handle that," I choke out in a half laugh.
"The general? He feels impressive, I'll admit. But"—she lifts a shoulder—"it's what you do with him that counts. You don't want him to be overshadowed by your massive ego."
I snort with laughter, my shoulders shaking. Then before I overthink it, I sink to my knees.
Emmy catches her breath at my sudden move.
I start at her ankles and run my hands up the outside of her legs, over her yoga pants. My fingers reach her thighs and continue under her oversized T-shirt, and my eyes flick up and hold her gaze as I reach the waistband, my fingers curling in against her warm, soft skin.
Her mouth parts. Her hands slip into my hair and scrape my scalp. "Your hair is so soft," she whispers.
Goosebumps break out across my body.
And I start to pull her stretchy pants down her legs, hoping to hell I've taken her underwear too, if she's wearing any. Closing my eyes, I inhale, getting a mainline hit of her scent. My next breath comes out as a groan, and I yank the pants down over her feet, and she frees one then the other, gripping my hair for balance. In the bunched material I see a scrap of pink. I’m frantic and crazed by the thought of her, the smell of her. My skin feels too tight for my body.
My hands race back up her legs.
"Trystan," she says on a shocked breath as I push her T-shirt up and feast my eyes on her.
"Your natural hair color, you never did confirm it for me," I say on a rush, pressing my nose against her. I risk a flick of my tongue, hitting slick salt and making her gasp. "God, your taste." Then I'm grabbing her around the legs and lifting, tossing her back onto the bed.
"Impatient, are you?" She's laughing but her voice is shaking.
"You have no idea." My voice isn't much better. I grab her ankles and urge her onto her stomach. "Your arse is spectacular." I crawl up her body, my hands skimming, my mouth sliding up to a firm, round butt cheek. I grab and squeeze and can't help the open-mouthed kiss and nip of my teeth.
She squeals.
"God, I love your body." I groan and push her T-shirt impatiently up her back. She helps me and pulls it over her head, though its trapped beneath her. My fingers nimbly unclasp her bra, and I push the straps apart. Suspended on my hands and knees over her, I drop my mouth to her back, running my tongue up her spine, gratified as goosebumps break out. Her skin is salty, and her breathing is hard. I know if I slip my fingers between her legs she'll be soaked. What did she say last night? Warm. Slippery. I groan in remembrance. God, a few flicks of the buttons on my jeans and I could be sinking inside of her. The thought is overwhelming, and I grit my teeth.
But there's something I need to do first.
"Turn over, Emmy." Up on my knees, I slip my arm under her torso to help her, and she turns between my legs, freeing herself from her T-shirt and bra. Her red hair is streaked across her face, and I gently brush it off her flushed cheeks. It's all I can do not to let my eyes drink from the sight of her glorious pale breasts topped with pink nipples. She'd told me they were pink last night, and I'd imagined them, but nothing prepared me for how gorgeous she is. I pull my gaze back up to her face with huge effort. Her eyes are open, honest, dark with arousal, and they look from my eyes to my mouth.
Hands grip my biceps.
Her lips are parted, and I reach up and run my fingertips over her full bottom lip. It's pale pink, matching her nipples, and fitting in with her makeup-free face.
"Your mouth," I whisper. "It's fucking stunning."
I've inhaled her scent, made her come, made her laugh, heard her cry, and had a brief taste. But I've never kissed her mouth. I guess we've done everything backward.
I move slowly, dropping my face closer until our eye contact has to break. It feels monumental to kiss her for the first time. Grazing my lips slowly across hers, I repeat the action, soft, sliding.
Her hands squeeze my arms. Her lips open more, moving over mine in response, beginning to close and open softly, repeatedly, as if tasting me. Deciding. Then firmer like they were always meant to move with mine.
It's a game of parry and retreat, of languidly taking our time, reveling in the sensation of our lips together, and I could play it forever. But I want more, and I lick her pouty bottom lip on my next pass, getting a hint of sweetness and mint. On a sigh, her lips part and her tongue slides against mine.
The action detonates a new, fiercer wave of need through me, causing a desperate sound I've never heard before to rumble through my chest. I open my mouth farther. Dip into hers deeper. I take and taste, my tongue and my lips moving faster, thirstier, one hand holding her jaw, the other keeping my body elevated and at bay when all I want to do is slam myself against her, into her.
But she's taking from me too. Her hands are no longer holding my arms but are on my head, and she's grabbing on to me like I might take my mouth away. I have no intention of ever stopping. Kissing Emmy is delicious and addictive. It's decadent and desperate. Kissing has never been so necessary. A part of me wishes we could do nothing but this.
But every move of our mouths slips us gradually from discovery to greed. Feeding a fire. A hunger without end. And before long I can't keep my body from settling over hers. The feel of her skin against m
y bare chest is incredible, and we both moan at the contact. Apparently it's not close enough because she presses up against me, her hips moving against my erection.
Aware I'm still in my jeans and could hurt her, I reluctantly slow down, my mouth moves over her jaw and neck, and I bury my nose against her neck and breathe in. The elusive scent of an exotic flower and a hint of vanilla is now my drug of choice, breathing it in is what I do now, I decide. My nose follows it down between her breasts. I inhale, moving over her skin until it's too much for me not to lick a tightly budded peak of her breast.
"Oh God, Trystan, that's so good." She gasps and thrusts her chest forward, needing more. I gladly oblige, nipping, pulling, filling my hands and my mouth, sucking at the stiffening flesh.
Hot hands move over my back and shoulders, and their jerky movements tell me Emmy is as desperate as I feel.
I thought I'd take my time with her, taste more of her, get her ready, but within minutes she's whimpering, begging. "Please, Trystan. God, I need you inside me."
"Thank God." I grin, pinning her with my gaze.
She's flushed and panting hard.
"I want you so damn much. I didn't plan for this to go so fast," I admit. "Actually I didn't plan on it at all."
Her hands move down my sides and push me to roll over so she can reach the button of my jeans. "Me neither." She laughs. "You're like freaking kerosene."
Between the two of us, we manage to get my jeans undone and shoved down my legs. She sits up and uses her feet to push them the last little bit and then tugs on the waistband of my boxer briefs. Rolling onto my back I drink in the sight of her undressing me.
Christ, her tits are spectacular. Perfect. I want to remember this moment forever.
"Thank you," she says, making me realize I've spoken aloud. "Oh, Trystan." She sighs as she reveals my cock. It's stiff, swollen, needy, and it bucks under her hungry gaze. "The general really is impressive." She smirks, and then my eyes slam shut, and I arch as her hot hand closes around me and squeezes.