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“Say please,” Emerson growls.
“Fuck you,” I say.
He rubs his cock across my opening.
I’m so flushed and horny I can’t think straight.
“Please,” I groan, and then, finally, finally, he’s inside me, piercing me deeply.
A wail rolls out of my throat. Trembling takes over my body.
It feels. So. Goddamn. Good.
I’m so filled. So full.
Emerson grunts with pleasure, then repeats the thrust, plunging deep inside me.
Deep... and deeper. And deeper.
There are no words. Only sensations. Only perfection heaped on perfection.
Our bodies were made for each other.
And his is showing mine just what it needs.
It’s only another minute before I’m coming, although Emerson isn’t done yet. Not nearly.
He moves me so I’m on my side and then starts plowing me again.
It feels fucking amazing.
Soon, I’m coming again, and his face is gritted with happy exertion.
Finally, he props my legs onto his chest, then, together, we come, crying out.
Afterward, in bed, we finish the rest of the dessert.
I’m so warm, so cozy, so happy. Emerson’s strong arms are around me, chocolatey-blueberry goodness in my mouth.
Afterward, we lie there.
“This time is going to be different,” Emerson says quietly when he does finally speak.
My heart leaps.
Because maybe it was just one instance, but still, Emerson told his brother about me, about us... so that’s something.
Not nearly enough to prove that he meant what he said, or even to set us sure on the right path. Not yet, anyway. But it’s something.
I can feel myself dozing off, but I force myself upright. “Want to check out the balcony? If we stay here, I’m definitely passing out.”
Emerson’s response is to rise and, with no warning, pick me up.
“Emerson!” I squeal.
His smirk is the definition of unrepentant. “If I let you go, then you’d put on clothes.”
I giggle as he carries me to the glass door, then out onto the balcony. “And I suppose what I want doesn’t make any difference?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Emerson places me carefully in a hammock, then gets into the one next to me. At first, it seems to bend my body at a whole bunch of odd angles, forcing its will on me. But then I relax and let go, and I find the hammock forming itself to me as it gently rocks me back and forth.
With the angle I’m at, I have a gorgeous view of the darkening greens of the rainforest and the final splash of orange-yellow on the horizon.
What is it about being around Emerson that makes me hyper-aware to my surroundings at the most unexpected times? It’s like finally finding glasses with the right prescription.
Is it love?
Or is it just a relaxation, a loosening?
Because when I think about it, my fear of being alone, of being one of those sad, lonely old women you feel sorry for, for as long as I’ve been single, it’s been there, lurking, like the black dog Churchill spoke of.
Of course, in being single, there’s the freedom and the possibility as wide as the sky and as numerous as the cute guys I see every day, but I’ve never quite reached the state of ‘single bliss’ all the magazines, self-help books, and the odd well-meaning acquaintance always promoted. Even months into it, while there was something fun and sassy about going to movies or restaurants alone, or going home instead of hooking up, I still couldn’t be quite at ease with the thought that this is all it is and ever will be.
Maybe, once I stop worrying so much about the things I have so little control over, I can notice how very beautiful this world is.
Like sunsets aren’t just nice screensavers or good photos. They’re vibrant, real things.
“I’m glad I chose this,” Emerson says.
“Me too,” I agree.
“I knew it’d suit you,” he continues, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “The other room had an infinity pool, but I know how you like your hammocks.”
I chuckle and shoot him a surprised glance. “That one time I was on the hunt for one in my apartment, you remembered?”
He shrugs. “The infinity pool was more Insta-worthy, but I know that’s not your style.”
My smile is rueful. “You never know, I could’ve changed.”
Emerson shoots me an appraising sidelong glance. “Do you even have Instagram, Wynona?”
“My business does,” I admit. “Business necessity. But me, myself? Nah. I used to, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I spent a bunch of time looking at pretty people with pretty lives and a bit of time wondering why mine wasn’t the same. It’s insidious, that, a kind of unfocused jealousy. I deleted it after a few months.”
Emerson nods, squeezing my hand absently. “It gets to the point where you do things to have something to show and tell other people about, not for the enjoyment of doing them.”
I nod too. “I heard a quote once, about pictures you take on vacation, that I’ve never forgotten. That years later, it ends up that practically the only things you remember about those trips and times are the pictures. Your memory gets lazy, relies on them like the only benchmarks it has.”
