News traveled fast in a small town. Margo ranted about how a friend of a friend of a daughter of a co-worker of Jerry's had seen the whole thing. This looked bad on Jerry. On the family. The company had wasted a scholarship, as Emma would most likely be expelled.
“We're done,” Margo groaned, finally sinking into a seat at the end of the sofa. “We're just ... done. You need to get out.”
But ... we had a deal ...
Emma didn't speak it out loud, but Margo apparently shared her gift. She could hear the words in the silences.
“And fuck your deal,” she growled, then she threw a furtive glance at the hallway. “I've been doing some research, little girl, and I have three words for you: statute. of. limitations. And as for anything else? Prove it. He won't believe you – he listens to everything I say. So get the fuck out of this house.”
This was really happening.
She stared at her mother.
Holy shit, this was really happening.
Margo was kicking her out. After years of taunting and torturing and abusing. Of taking advantage and manipulating. Of breaking and ruining and destroying. All Emma had asked for was a place to stay. Just a little longer. She wouldn't breathe a word of their past to Jerry, so long as she could stay. Margo had gotten on her feet, Emma just wanted the same. A couple more months, six max, and she could've left on her own. Could've obtained freedom on her own terms.
This was going to happen sooner or later. I should've known. The universe doesn't deliver a man like Church without consequences. I just didn't realize I'd have to pay up so soon.
6
Emma walked across the living room and stood in front of her mother. In front of the thing that gave birth to her. Margo smirked up at her, her hands primly folded in her lap. Emma felt her bottom lip tremble and she reached out her hand, gently stroking her mother's hair.
“Momma,” she breathed a name she'd never once used for her mother. Margo's harsh smirk faltered. Fell away.
“It's for the best, baby,” she insisted, taking a fortifying breath. “You'll see. Pack your things, and I'll have Jerry take you to the bus station.”
Emma's hand smoothed down to the back of her mother's head and got tangled in the dry, over-processed hair. She blinked down into brown eyes that looked nothing like her own. She did notice, for the first time ever, that she and her mother had the same nose. One thing in common between them. Just one.
One too many.
She slapped her mother across the face, just to pay her back. It felt so good, though, that she slapped her again. And again and again and again. She kept her fingers knotted in Margo's hair, holding her head in place, and she put all her weight into each open handed swing.
Margo screamed and kicked and swung at Emma, but it was no good. She was sitting down, her daughter was standing up, the advantage was clear. So Emma kept swinging away and let all of her damage pour out.
“ ... ugly soulless piece of shit filth disgusting die just die you're dead already ruined before I was born everyone will know everyone already knows disgusting disgusting why can't you just die ...”
Emma wasn't sure how long she stood there screaming and slapping. She was aware of hands grabbing her arms, trying to pull her away, but they couldn't. She kept hitting, her nails catching the side of Margo's cheeks and scratching her. Then arms were around Emma's waist, picking her up off her feet and trying to carry her away. She just gripped tighter on Margo's hair and dragged the woman off the couch, all while hitting her in the back of the head.
When did I become so violent?
Jerry finally got his arm around her slapping arm and he pinned it to her side. After that, it wasn't hard for Margo to wrestle free from her grip. She pushed herself up and fell back into the couch, shouting and pressing her hand to her face.
“You bitch!” her mother shouted. “You horrible bitch!”
“Paul!” Jerry's voice added to the cacophony – Emma was just howling, still struggling to reach Margo. “Paul, get out here and help!
Church appeared at the end of the hallway. His eyebrows were raised a little, but other than that, he still looked the same. Like he was bored with the whole situation. He glanced down at Margo, who was clearly gearing up to get on her feet and charge her daughter. Then he looked at Emma, who was throwing all her weight around, trying to get free from Jerry and charge her mother.
He took three steps across the room and grabbed Emma's arm. He didn't have the trouble his father'd had – he was able to yank her up against him and hold her tight, squeezing her until she couldn't hardly move. Jerry hurried to his wife and collected her off the floor. She put up the pretense of a fight, glaring and cursing at Emma as she was moved towards the front door.
“I'll take her out for a while, calm her down,” Jerry assured everyone. Sweet, sensible, fucking ridiculous Jerry. “It'd be best, Emma, if you weren't around when we get back. We'll figure something out, I'm sure. I'm ... I'm sorry.”
Church held onto her struggling form until they heard the car pull out of the driveway. Then he let her loose.
“Oh my god!” she yelled, walking in a wide circle. She raked her hands through her hair, then down her face. Was shocked to realize she was crying. “Oh my god.”
Church didn't say anything, just watched as she zipped around the room, cursing and yelling. She did another circuit of the living room, paced through the kitchen, did a tight circle around him, then made a beeline down the hallway.
“Fuck her. Fuck her,” she cried. She hated crying, hated feeling weak and small. Hated feeling that way especially in front of Church. He was walking behind her, but she ignored him and went into her room. She started throwing things around, looking for the perfect item.
Ah. There it was. A gift to herself, back when they'd lived in a bad area of Chicago and she'd wanted some protection. It was called a fish thumper – because it was used to thump fish when they were reeled into the boat – and looked like a small, aluminum, baseball bat, about the length of her forearm. She spun it around in her hand, feeling the weight of it. Good enough. She yanked her hair up into a ponytail and strode back out into the hall.
This time she glanced at Church, who was looking at her with some interest, but only a little. Then she kept moving, heading straight into Margo and Jerry's room.
It was so ugly. Floral bedspread that had somehow escaped from 1993. Shitty needle points hung on the wall – Margo claimed she'd made them, but Emma knew they'd been purchased at a Goodwill in Des Moines. A fake diploma from a fake cosmetology school was in a frame above the bed, and a picture of good ol' Jer and Margo at their wedding was next to it.
They'd gotten married in a VA rec hall. A ping pong match had been happening on the other side of the partition. The justice of the peace had gotten nailed with a ball during the vows and Emma had laughed so hard, she'd been asked to leave.
“Perfect,” she whispered, marching up to the night stand and raising the bat.
She never got to swing, though. It was painfully ripped from her hands. She cried out and turned around. Church had her weapon of destruction and was looking at it intently, as if he'd never seen one before. She held out her hand.
“Give it back.”
He didn't respond. Just carried the bat out of the room. She gaped after him for a moment, then ran out of the master suite after him. He was standing near his bed, still staring at the mini-bat.
“Fuck you!” she shouted, and she planted her hands on his chest and shoved.
He didn't move, which just made her angrier. She shoved him again, then hit him.
“Do you have any idea? Do you!? Do you know what I've gone through for her? What she's put me through?” she sobbed, shoving and hitting, hitting and shoving. “Jesus, the things she said to me. The things she let them do to me. I just wanted to leave on my own terms. Why couldn't she let me leave?”
Emma fell away from him and her back landed hard against the wall behind her, next to his door. She press
ed her hands over her face and screamed. She couldn't stop. The monster was out now, and she wasn't sure she could put it away again.
She felt rather than heard movement, and when she looked up, he was standing in front of her. The bat was gone. She grimaced and tried to push him away, but he just got closer.
“You don't get it!” she yelled. “Just fuck off, leave me alone, go away. Can you hear me in there, Church? Are you listening? Go away!”
He didn't go away. He leaned down and kissed her, which just made her sob harder. She growled and shoved at his chest hard enough to move him, to break the kiss. She kept pushing him, slapped him across the face. Screamed at him to let her go. Slapped him again.
The next time he kissed her, the dam really broke open. She sobbed into his mouth and held onto his t-shirt for dear life, pulling him as close as physics and their clothing would allow. Their tongues swirled together, dancing, fighting, all of the above.
When he'd successfully sucked all the oxygen out of her lungs, he finally pulled away. She panted and gasped and looked up at him. He was breathing hard and staring down at her with an odd expression, one she hadn't seen on him. He was curious. He lifted a hand to her face and she flinched, but didn't move away. He pressed it against her head and smoothed his thumb over the trail from a tear. Wiped it away. Then he lifted his hand and examined his thumb for a moment before putting it in his mouth.
I'm inside him now.
What happened next, she thought, could best be described as insanity. They were kissing and biting and tearing. His shirt was gone and she didn't even remember pulling it off him. Her blouse was ripped open, buttons scattering around them like confetti.
Yay! She just loved a party!
His hands were everywhere, they were a part of her. Squeezing her breasts, yanking at her bra, giving up on it and moving down to her shorts. He actually snarled as he jerked on them, jerking her hips away from the wall so the material could slide to the floor. She was still wearing panties, but he couldn't see what he was doing because her tongue had to be inside him again. So while she kissed him, he introduced his fingers to the inside of her.
He wasn't gentle. He dove into her the same way he'd cut into the tomato. Forceful and aggressive. Wanting something even willing fruit couldn't give. She cried out and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Begged him for more. Begged him to never stop.
“Don't ever stop.”
He'd just gotten his pants undone when she pushed him away. He stumbled backwards and she followed, helping him shove the denim past his hips. When he fell into a seat on the bed, she went right with him, straddling his lap.
Normally, Emma liked to play. She'd tease and nibble and lick and suck, touch and laugh and tease some more. Examine and memorize. Possibly, even, worship.
But she wasn't here to play. She was here to take communion. To save her soul. To have divine intervention.
Church understood what she wanted, what she needed, because they'd always understood each other without words. Her cheap cotton panties were gripped between his fists. Another growl and they were shredded down one side of her hip. Pushed aside. Ignored completely.
Stupid cotton, who does it think it is, anyway?
She touched him once. Just once, as she raised herself up on her knees. Her fingers danced down taught skin and smooth veins, and she almost smiled as his eyes fluttered shut. Almost.
He was beautiful in all the ways that counted, and it was the palm of her hand that smoothed its way back up his length. There was a lot to work with, they would be having a lot of fun together.
Just not tonight.
“Yes,” he breathed while she held him in place and slid down on top of him. Such a simple word for such a momentous occasion.
Why am I still crying?
When she was fully seated on his lap, she felt like she couldn't breathe. His dick was causing a communication delay between her brain and ... everything else. She held onto his neck for dear life and willed the shaking to stop.
“It's okay.”
She realized he was whispering to her. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. No, not staring. Looking. He was actually looking at her for once. He had soft eyes, sort of bedroom eyes. In repose, they looked bored. When he was smiling, like he was now, they looked flirty. Naughty. Sexy.
“Nothing is okay,” she whispered back, and he chuckled, then ran his teeth over his bottom lip. She almost died.
“No,” he agreed, smoothing his hands over her back. “but that's the best part. When he got to her shoulders, he started pushing at her shirt, so she let go of him and let it fall to the ground. “When something isn't okay, it's in its purest form. It's moldable. Changeable. It can get worse, or it can better. It can evolve.”
Holy shit. Who knew philosophy could be so sexy? While he removed her bra, she experimented with lifting her hips. Both of them groaned, and the sound coming out of him almost killed her twice over.
It was too much. She was still crying and she couldn't breathe and she was over flowing with him and she could not stop shaking.
“I think,” she gasped for air. “I think I need you right now, Church.”
He nodded, and suddenly she was on her back. He dropped her hard on the mattress, startling her, and gave her no time to get her bearings. Just rammed into her, all hard length and driving force. She screamed and her hands went to his chest, clawing at his skin. His perfect skin.
“I think you've always needed me,” he grunted, slamming into her again and again, over and over, forever and always. “It just took you this long to realize it.”
“Yes,” she agreed, having no clue as to what he was saying. “Yes, yes, yes, all of it, yes.”
Sweet jesus, he was incredible. He'd been keeping this all to himself? Not. Possible. And yet, how could he possibly share it with anyone else? He was perfection in a body, and he'd just thrown it away on someone like Marci MacIntosh.
Pain lanced through Emma's heart. She hadn't even known Marci and Church had existed when they'd had sex, and she still felt betrayed. She dug her nails in deeper, wanting to draw blood from him. Wanting to see it again.
He hissed in pain, then stopped moving long enough to grab her wrists. He forced them down against the mattress, stretching her arms out above her head, then held them down with one hand. He squeezed them painfully together while he continued thrusting into her.
“Holy shit, Church,” she was shaking for entirely different reasons now. His free hand was on her breast, holding it in a tight grip, then he lowered his head. She cried out when she felt his teeth on her skin.
The bed was screaming and the walls were shaking and she was pretty sure the earth was moving. The bedroom door was wide open, Jerry and Margo could come back at any time. Wouldn't that be a perfect end to her day, to be caught fucking Church.
Wouldn't that be amazing.
The punishing thrusts slowed down. He rolled his body against her, sacrificing violence and speed for depth and build up. Both were equally good, in her opinion, but having them back to back had caused her brain to short circuit. She was babbling and she was smiling and she was crying.
“I have waited,” he was sighing in her ear. “A long, long time for you, Emma.”
It was the first time he'd ever said her name. She hadn't even realized it till that moment. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but it was. Hearing something so personal, something that belonged only to her, coming out of his mouth ... well. It wasn't hers anymore, was it? It belonged to him now.
“Church,” she whispered his name through chattering teeth. “Please ... I can't anymore ...”
“Good,” he said, slamming his hips against hers once again. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and felt the trembling start in her thighs. “I've been wanting to see this.”
“See ...” her voice trailed off as she sought out words.
“What you do ... every night ... when you think everyone is sleeping .. and you're thinking of me,” he grunted
. “I've made you come a dozen times already. Now I want to experience it in person.”
Oh, he knew. Of course he knew. Did he sit against the wall and listen to her scratches? Listen to her soft moans? Stand outside her door? Did he touch himself? He did, she was sure. All this time they'd been apart, and they'd already been fucking each other.
What a waste.
She came with a shout, her back arching off the bed, her arms straining against his hold. His mouth was once again on her breasts, seeing as how she'd offered them up so nicely. His thrusting became chaotic. Enraged. Menacing. Her orgasm intensified and when she started to scream, he covered her mouth with his own.
When he finally came, there was no warning, no heads up. He just buried himself inside her, as deep as he could go, hitting that spot that somehow made pain feel like pleasure. He let go of her arms and instead held onto her hips, keeping her as tight against him as possible. She gritted her teeth and bore it, the tension causing her body to writhe and twist in his hold.
By the time he was done, she was halfway to another orgasm.
They were both on the brink of suffocating in the open air. He collapsed next to her, laying on his back, one of his hands on his chest. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, gasping for breath.
Emma's eyes were open, and she stared at the ceiling, her arms still stretched out straight above her head. Her legs still stretched out wide below her waist. After a second, she finally glanced down the length of their bodies. Her ruined panties had some how shaken free of her leg and she was completely nude. Church, however, still had his pants wrapped around one ankle.
Jesus, if that's how he performs with one leg caught up in something, I really will die next time.
She licked her lips and went back to staring at the ceiling. She'd finally stopped crying.
“Are you okay?” she panted.
She wasn't looking at him, but she could tell he'd opened his eyes.
Church. Page 8