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This is wrong.
This is weird.
Why am I not fighting back?
His fingers dance around my entrance, and in one quick move, he shifts my panties to one side and they glide effortlessly inside causing me to suck a breath in and arch back while my body melts into him. His pace quickens and my blood begins to heat, my skin steaming in the cold water.
My body begins to act on instinct, succumbing to the fire in my belly that’s rising slowly and cloudi
ng any rational thoughts. With small but quick moans, my arms wrap around his back tighter, desperate to avoid eye contact while he continues to slide in and out.
The waves of the water allow my hips to sway freely, in sync with every thrust.
My stomach begins to flutter—the fire is beyond control—and is followed by a swirl that builds up and makes my whole body react. I’m sensitive to every touch and movement. Biting down on the tip of his shoulder I lose control, my teeth digging into his skin as the ache mixed with fire ignites on every surface of my skin and barrels through me in one explosive orgasm.
With my eyes closed, I ride the contractions that wrap around his finger and immerse myself in the pleasurable sensations that have overcome me. The rise and fall of my chest evens out, reality setting in as to what I’ve done.
What we have done.
I don’t have any words. I’m speechless. Incoherent.
Basking in an intense orgasm from just one finger.
The finger that belongs to the one man you vowed never to touch. And he vowed never to touch you.
So now what?
“I n-need to g-go,” I stutter nervously, embarrassed and looking for an escape.
“Emmy,” he calls softly, gripping me tightly in his embrace.
Squirming my way out of his grip, I muster every ounce of strength in my body and swim away as fast as I can, desperate to escape what’s just happened.
The water becomes shallow as I stand to run away, but I’m completely soaked with water and one other thing.
Guilt.
Chapter Five
“Reality is a cold hard bitch.”
~ Emerson Chase
Bang. Bang.
Thump. Thump.
The vocals are loud, piercing my eardrums while my eyes stare directly at the ceiling. The sun is peeking through the blinds, reminding me of another beautiful spring day. With summer just around the corner, the air has become warmer removing that morning chill.
It’s unusually warm this morning, my large bed socks becoming overbearingly hot. That, coupled with the constant pain in my head, leaves me frustrated and increasingly hostile.
After all these years, Dad hasn’t changed one bit. He prides himself on being an early bird, the kind of person who wakes at 5:00 a.m., and has done more in the first two hours than I could achieve in one whole day.
When we were kids, he would blast music through the house at 6:00 a.m. forcing us all up.
Today’s no different.
Mom used to complain, being a night owl like me. Yet, years of being married—to the most stubborn man ever—has her changing her ways. She hates to admit it, but she told me she gets more writing done first thing in the morning than she does at any other time of day.
