It’s been five months since we’ve met, five months to the day. Truthfully, I find it easy to be in love with Emily. She has blended so well into my world, charming everyone she meets with her naturally pleasant disposition. So much so that after five months, I plan on marrying her. Soon.
The hour-long drive home from visiting Maia and Jackson wouldn’t be so bad, were it not followed by my constant double shifts at the hospital and the incessant nagging from my mother to set a date for our wedding. Not to mention the compulsory visits to my piece on the side.
Emily leans over and runs her hand down the back of my neck. “You okay?” she asks, her wide eyes filled with concern.
“Just tired,” I answer absently. Her hand slides down my arm and rests purposely between my legs.
“Need some help staying awake?” she asks seductively. My Emily will do anything to keep me happy.
“The tone in your voice suggests you’re trying to put me to bed,” I tease.
In one swift motion, her fingers expertly undo my jeans’ button and zipper. I eye her as she moves towards me and quickly shift the BMW into cruise control, guessing that I’m going to need a free hand. My dick comes alive in her hand. One touch from Emily is all it takes. She holds me snuggly, all the while staring purposefully and directly at me. I avert my eyes back to the freeway. It’s fucking hard to concentrate, all of a sudden. I try to maintain focus, try to keep the car steady and us alive. Her head moves down and takes me into her mouth. The car veers to the left. I have never been fortunate enough to be able to think clearly during any form of fucking, oral or otherwise. Then again, I’ve also taught young Emily how to use her mouth very well these past months, so what did I really expect?
My hands grip the steering wheel, righting the car in my lane. She moves her lips gently up and down my shaft. I reach over to cup her right breast in my hand. She lets out a low moan as her lips work with more purpose against my solid dick. I swear to fucking God, I could live in her mouth.
“I’m pulling over,” I say breathlessly.
“No,” she answers with finality, looking up.
“Okay,” I breathe heavily, my free hand gripping her hair, gently shoving her back to the task at hand. Err, mouth. “Just don’t move those lips.” She slides back, resisting my efforts, and meets my eyes.
“We’re almost home,” she whispers. “Why should you have all the fun?” With my dick mercilessly begging for more, I floor the car in an effort to get her home faster. I’ll do just about anything right now to slide into her.
We finally make it to the apartment. We make it up the stairs. Hell, we even make it into the door. But we don’t make it any further. The second the door slams shut, I grab Emily and we crash into the entryway wall, our lips colliding with heated urgency. She pulls her sweater over her head, her perky tits making a very welcome appearance, and steps out of her jeans. Black bra, black G-string. She knows what I like. My lips find her neck hungrily and move down to her breasts, as my fingers find the soft folds between her thighs. Her body arches back in response. Clear submission to my touch. Hitching her legs around my waist, I slide into her, slowly at first, just the way she likes it. Except she feels so good, too good, as her legs clamp around my waist and her fingers dig into my back. Her breath is hot and ragged in my ear, one low, and satisfying moan to match my every thrust. Her hips grind more purposefully into mine. I thrust into her with finality, a loud grunt escaping my own lips. I have no idea if she came or not. I have my suspicions as to whether or not Emily actually comes any time I fuck her. But she doesn’t mention anything. So I don’t ask.
Emily cups my face in her hands. “One of the many reasons I love you,” she says sweetly.
“Funny, I was just about to say the same thing,” I tease.
“Whatever,” she smiles, waving a hand dismissively. “Now, do you think you can remove yourself from me so I can grab a shower?” she continues sarcastically with a coy grin.
I laugh as I realize she’s pinned to the wall by me and my dick. “Mmmm, and what if I refuse?” I ask. She unclamps her legs from my waist and slides out of the gap.
“Then I’ll just leave,” she says walking away, offering me a full view of her bare ass and barely there G-string.
I contemplate ambushing Emily in the shower, but realize after the testosterone has started to deplete, that I’m completely exhausted. I duck into the guest bathroom and take a quick shower myself before falling into bed. I vaguely hear Emily come out of the en suite bathroom later and barely feel her lay down next to me. I’ve become so accustomed to feeling her next to me, hearing her even breathing as she sleeps in my bed.
“Blake!” I hear Emily’s faraway voice shout the next morning as I struggle to open my eyes. I glance over at the clock. 5:30 am. Too fucking early to be awake. Emily hands me a cup of hot, black coffee.
“What would I do without you?” I ask.
She looks down at me adoringly. “Hmmm, let’s see. Well, for starters, you would have to make your own coffee and wake yourself up. Beat off regularly—”
She checks the items off on her fingers with a grin. I place the coffee on the bedside table and grab her around the waist, pulling her down on top of me.
“Oh, hell no, you have to get dressed!” she says, swatting at me. “And I have to do my penance today.”
“What, why?” I ask, confused.
“Your mother invited me to brunch.” Emily says it politely, but I know she hates these little dates that my mother insists on having with her. Emily tolerates her for my sake, and my mother does the same with Emily. We’re all just too polite to say anything.
“I’m sad for you,” I say, only half joking.
“Sure you are,” she laughs. “You’re just happy that it’s not you.”
“Guilty,” I retort climbing out of bed and walking over to the closet.
“What do I tell her?” Emily calls, perched on the edge of the bed.
“About?” I ask, sifting through my dress shirts.
“The wedding plans, the date,” she answers wearily. “You know I don’t want to commit to a date yet, and the last thing I want to do so soon after the engagement is immerse myself in bouquets and boutonnieres.”
I walk over to her. “Tell her whatever you feel comfortable with. Tell her tomorrow if you like, since I have no problem marrying you tomorrow at all, or next year, or the year after.” I kiss her forehead gently. “Don’t let her bully you.”
Emily deserves a wonderful mother-in-law. She is a dream daughter-in-law. But she has my mother. The woman who looks down her nose at everything and everyone. The woman who will never accept Emily as her equal or view her as an appropriate choice for her son. Not that her neurotic maternal behavior doesn’t have its perks. It irks her to no end that Emily insists on working at a beauty salon down the street. Or that she refuses my mother’s offers to pay for her to start her own spa, or go to college to study anything at all. Still, Eliza Carson persists in her attempts to turn Emily into the next social standout. I know my mother, and she must like Emily to some degree; otherwise, she would have swiftly eradicated her from my life already. She certainly wouldn’t have offered her blessings on our recent engagement. Eliza Carson will eventually be won over completely by Emily; everyone is.
“Pray for me,” she says with a pouted lower lip.
“You don’t need my prayers,” I say. “You can handle her.”
The ride to the University Hospital of Brooklyn wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for the seemingly ever-present New York traffic. I grab another coffee down the street before settling into the BMW for the tedious trip. Just as I’m about to veer into the traffic, a call comes through on my display. “What’d I forget?” I ask, sure that it’s Emily.
“Me, asshole!” My cousin Chayse’s voice blasts through the car’s Bluetooth system.
“Aww, fuck,” I say, rubbing my forehead. I had completely forgotten that I agreed to pick him up this morning. My father got Chay
se a job in security at the hospital after he found it nearly impossible to find one, owing to his prior prison record. My mother barely acknowledges his existence, being that he’s the son of my father’s aunt. Still, he did stay with us for a long while after his mother passed away, so he’s more of a brother than my real brother ever was to me. “Why can’t you walk? It’s like fifteen minutes,” I ask.
“Because it looks much better to arrive in a BMW,” Chayse retorts sarcastically.
I smile despite my tiredness and annoyance. Chayse is my favorite family member, by far. He just doesn’t give a fuck. I like that. I can relate.
I roll down my window, and the balmy fresh wind rushes at me, instantly waking me up. What should have been a seventeen-minute drive actually takes almost forty-five with the current traffic. I pull up outside Chayse’s apartment block, and he jogs down the stairs. A few women walking by turn to look. One exiting his building gives him the finger. Must be last night’s conquest. Chayse is a ladies man, and not surprising with his copious tattoos, piercings, and ever present five o’clock shadow. I have a few tats too, but Chayse? Not to mention the body he managed to sculpt during his year in jail. I guess prison doesn’t give you much else to focus on. I used to envy him. I still do. Freedom is a wonderful impossibility in my life.
Chapter 2:
Emily
Lounging across the bed on my stomach this morning, I took in the beautiful sight that was Blake Carson. My very own walking contradiction. I watched him inspect his perfectly ironed shirt, obsess over finding the perfect tie to match it, and finger his expensive designer suit appreciatively. Then there’s the real Blake, the one I am so in love with, with his left shoulder and half of his back covered in intricate ink, his toned and sun kissed body blessed with a perfect ass. His hand came up to rub his freshly shaved, angular jaw as he inspected his perfectly groomed, golden brown hair in the mirror. His low set eyebrows furrowed as he looked upon his reflection, making his deep brown eyes seem so much more enchanting. Wrapped in a towel from the waist down, I observed leisurely as he slipped on the shirt and buttoned it to the second to last button from the collar, as always. And just like that, contradiction. Tattoos now covered, he had transformed into the epitome of a handsome, respectable future doctor.
After donning his suit and slinging the tie casually around his neck, he leaned over the bed and kissed me. Softly and sweetly at first, then with more need. More passion. I had pulled away reluctantly upon seeing his warm eyes bore into me with their familiar lusty glaze. He had no self-control. I often wonder how he got to be so perfect. And how I had managed to win his heart.
I walk into the kitchen and pour myself my second cup of coffee this morning, after Blake leaves for work. Ideally though, I would prefer to throw back a few tequila shots in preparation for brunch with his mother. I’m sure the woman hates me with an absolute passion. Not that she believes that anyone is good enough for her precious baby boy, but I am certainly the last candidate she would have backed for the position. A country girl from Cuba. Not Cuba the country, but Cuba, Missouri. Plus, I’m a beautician by trade, whose family only makes it to the obituary section of Cuba’s local paper, a far cry from the society pages of The New York Times.
In fact, in the last five months that Blake and I had been together, the closest thing I had received to a compliment from her was that she was ‘proud of me for dressing with some class,’ a sentiment that had nearly floored me. Until she added, ‘for a change.’ I hate the way she looks at me, like a war-torn orphan who needs saving, a new hairdo, and to be educated on the First World’s societal expectations.
Standing in the full-length mirror an hour later, I inspect my outfit. High-waisted navy blue pleated pants with matching kitten heels, and a silk, champagne colored blouse. I turn my head to examine my perfect chignon bun. Let’s see if I meet her standards this time. Honestly, I tolerate these meetings only for Blake’s sake. I hope he appreciates it.
I’m convinced that Eliza Carson never brunches in the same place twice, because every time we engage ourselves in this little game of torture, I have to navigate my way to yet another one of New York’s opulent, chandelier-toting restaurants. This time, thankfully, the restaurant is only a few blocks away, so I decide to forego the cab and walk. If I’m honest, when I left Cuba, I was fascinated by the bright lights and big city atmosphere. I wanted to be a part of this amazing metropolis. New York was a dream, one that myself, my one suitcase, and the meager amount of pennies in my pocket had rushed towards with fantastic hopes and plans. Now that I’m here, I find the city to be pretentious, irritatingly concrete, and claustrophobic. I look up and miss the sight of a clear blue sky, or stars unobstructed by buildings at night. I’m sure they are still up there. But they’re hidden by a thick layer of smog. Still, it’s better than being in Cuba. At least here I have Blake. There, I’m all alone.
A painful memory surfaces as my feet pound against the asphalt of the pavement. The last memory I have of my whole family. When I was fifteen, before my mother passed away. Before my father had immersed himself in his work as a truck driver, leaving my younger sister and I home alone for days at a time. Always with food, but never company. Then he died six months ago. My sister had moved out with her boyfriend about a year before that. So, being that I was an orphan, my sister was nowhere to be found, and Cuba was a one-horse town, I sold our modest family home and used what little profits that came from the sale to venture out to the wonderland that is New York City. But I quickly realized that I am a simple girl, who enjoys simple things, in a city that celebrates grandeur and extravagance. A city that parties hard and takes no prisoners.
I thought I was early, until I walked into the restaurant and was quickly ushered to a table that held a waiting Eliza Carson.
“Emily,” she says curtly with a plastered-on artificial smile.
“Eliza,” I say, leaning in and giving her a short and uncomfortable hug.
The first few moments are bearable. They always are. We order our meals and an uptight looking waiter lays the napkins across our laps. Blake’s father, Dr. Carson, is such a warm and lovely man. I can’t imagine how he’s stayed married to this exacting woman for such a long time. Then again, her family comes from old money, and lots of it, so I suppose that helps.
“So,” Eliza says taking a sip of her sparkling water. Here it comes. “How’s the wedding planning going?” she asks with a sickly sweet smile.
There it is.
“We haven’t actually given it much thought,” I say. “Blake’s been very busy at work, as have I.” As have I? Dear God, I’ve developed snob-speak!
“Oh honey, it’s not nice to live in sin at your age,” she says.
Sin? My age? First of all, the demon Lilith has no business preaching about sin, and secondly, I’m only twenty-one. That’s hardly geriatric!
“We have spoken about it, but we haven’t put any solid plans into place just yet,” I say sweetly.
“I’m surprised that you are willing to wait so long. Blake is hot property in this town. I’d want to make it official soon, if I were you,” she says with a snide smile. “You never know, someone may snatch him right out from under you.”
“With all due respect, Eliza, Blake loves me, and I’m sure he would never allow himself to be snatched,” I say, as sweetly as I can manage.
“Well, when I was speaking to Charlotte—” Eliza begins, leaning in. Without fail, every fucking time. Every time she sees me, she has to bring up this ex-girlfriend of Blake’s who she considers to be oh so wonderful. Obviously she’s not though, since he’s with me now. Eliza’s head is now too close to mine. Her nearly black hair pulled back mercilessly into a tight bun makes her face seem so much more angular and harsh. “She said that Blake did have a bit of a roaming eye. At least consider getting yourself a proper education, dear. Especially while you have Blake’s money at your disposal to do so.”
“I don’t really care about Blake’s money,” I say, maintai
ning my manners as best I can. “And I can’t imagine Blake’s eyes wandering away from me,” I add confidently for good measure.
“You’d be surprised,” she insists. “You should always keep your eyes and ears open, as a woman. Not everybody has the same ethics that you and I do.”
Ethics! What a laugh. The world has never possessed a less ethical soul than Eliza Carson as far as I’m concerned.
“Eliza, I appreciate your advice. I really do. But Blake and I are happy, and I trust him. So there is no reason for you to be concerned. But I’ll be sure to consider your opinion.” Not fucking likely.
“If you say so,” she says quietly. “But you would be remiss to delay marriage for too long.” She gives me a small smile. For the briefest of moments, I get the sense that those last words of hers are layered with hidden meaning. Meaning that I just don’t understand. I hate dancing around a subject like that.
Thankfully, the food arrives moments later, and the need to chew trumps the need to speak. After we eat, Eliza stands up elegantly from her chair and says her goodbyes. I follow her out, and watch her driver open her car door. She doesn’t offer me a ride anywhere. Barely waves to me as the car pulls off.
I made a promise to myself that I would remain unaffected by this woman. Today, however, today she had gone out of her way to affect me. And I had allowed her to. I begin to walk to work, angry at myself. Angry because I have let her do something that I vowed would never happen. I let her sow a seed of doubt in my mind about Blake. That was the sole purpose of brunch for her, and I had played right into her perfectly manicured hands.
In reality, Blake could do better than me. He was rich, well on his way to an amazing career, handsome, and extremely sweet and charming. What woman wouldn’t want a man like him? It just baffles me that he chose me.
Deciding not to spend of the rest of the day wallowing in misery and driving myself crazy with suppositions and what ifs, I made it a few blocks over to the beauty parlor. The whooping and hollering of my jovial coworkers is exactly the sound I want to hear when I swing open the glass framed door. My boss, Janie, with her pleasant disposition and massive size F breasts, shoots me a what the eff kind of look.
Scared of Forever (Scared #2) Page 2