“Yeah, I’ve heard food critics talk about how NOT smelling the aroma of your food is the way to really enjoy a meal. The more pungent, the better.” I grab my very white trash-esque solo cup wine glass and bring it to my lips, trying to get past the Angry Orchard that’s inside it. It was, unfortunately, the only booze in the house, and I needed booze to make it through this soup, therefore I had no choice.
Emma sits back in her chair, grabs one of the cocktail napkins we bought, and dabs at her face. “It really is unpleasant soup, isn’t it? And what’s the crunchy thing in there? I’m all for texture in a meal, but I’m not quite sure what that crunchiness is.”
“No fucking clue. I took two bites and was done.”
She sighs and then smiles while she lifts up her hand, which is covered in red. “At least we got these bitchin’ oven mitts.” Lifting up my hand as well, the one that’s donning the other oven mitt—she made me—we high-five across the table.
“I can’t imagine ever topping such a prestigious buy. Not everyone can be as lucky as us,” I say, playing into her delusional purchases. I look over at the soybean candle we have lit and say, “I will admit, that candle smells damn good. It was a risky purchase, buying a candle without taking a sniff test, but your spontaneous purchase paid off.”
“So would we say I only had one dud for the day?” She nods at the soup.
I hold up my fingers. “Two, babe. Hummingbird mixer?” It’s the “centerpiece” of our weird dinner she threw together for us. In her words, she didn’t want it to feel left out.
“But it looks so pretty sitting in the middle of this ornate card table.” She pulls a Vanna White and shows off the table, motioning her arms around our mishmash of a dinner table.
“So ornate. I really enjoyed seeing warning signs of human digestion on the mixer container while I tried to suck down that soup. Made for an appealing atmosphere.”
She chuckles, turns the hummingbird mix to see the warning labels and cringes. “Maybe not the best, but,” she holds up her finger and says, “I have an idea. Take your drink and oven mitt over to the sofa and I’ll meet you there.”
“Are things about to get kinky?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.
“You wish.”
She clears the table, which I feel guilty about. There is a need inside me to take care of her, and clearing the dishes, although simple, seems like something I should help out with, but knowing Emma, she would snip at me if I didn’t do what I was told. Therefore, I pick my drink up off the table and head over to the sofa. The only light in the room is from the small chandelier in the dining room, but it makes for some great mood lighting.
I press my body against the armrest and lift my legs on the cushions so I’m spanning the length of the entire sofa. I place my oven mitt hand behind my head and wait. When Emma returns, she saunters over to me in her cute heart-covered pajama set with a spoon and a gallon of ice cream.
“Up for a different kind of dinner?”
“I’m always up for dessert for dinner. What flavor?”
“Chocolate chip cookie dough, the best kind.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” I pat my lap. “Have a seat, beautiful.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You expect me to just sit on your crotch?”
“Normal people call it sitting on a lap, but if you prefer to say crotch, we can lean that way.”
“It’s your crotch,” she replies with indignation before letting out a heavy breath, as if my request is borderline torture. Regardless, she straddles my lap before sitting down, and I didn’t miss the little smirk on her face as she did so.
She places the ice cream in front of us and holds out the spoon for me. Not wanting to prolong my dinner much longer, I remove the oven mitt despite her protest, snag the spoon, and take a big scoop and plop it in my mouth.
“Hey, I thought we were wearing the oven mitts.”
“It’s getting in my way of ice cream time.”
I take another bite and relish in the cold, creamy taste of the vanilla base. When I swallow, I notice Emma’s eyes trained on my throat, her lips wet from her tongue, and I can’t help wondering what’s going through that pretty head of hers.
“Want a bite?” I ask her.
She nods and licks her lips again. Despite her sitting on my lap, she’s still at eye level with me, which I enjoy because it’s like I can see straight into her soul, into her desires. Right now, without a doubt in my mind, Emma isn’t just thinking about ice cream.
I scoop some ice cream out with the spoon and feed her a bite. I watch in fascination as her mouth closes around the spoon and sucks the ice cream off with a more powerful force than I was expecting. Hell, this woman surprises me every single day.
Sweet, motherly Emma— the girl I knew in high school and at our parties—is not in the house tonight. When it’s just us, there is this electric energy about her. It floats between us. Masked is the girl who holds back the hair of her friends. Disguised is the girl who warns us about using coasters, or the selfless girl who’s busying herself cleaning up after others rather than enjoying the moment. Instead, I’m graced with this lively spirit who is sucking me into her little world of sassy imagination. I want to get lost and live on nothing but her smile, her jokes, and her incredibly beautiful charm.
When I pull the spoon from between her lips, I watch her mouth expertly work the ice cream around, and when she swallows, all I can think about is what it would be like to see that sinister mouth wrapped around my cock, taking everything I can give her.
Eyes trained on each other, Emma takes the spoon from me, scoops a ball of ice cream and brings it to my mouth. I don’t break eye contact with her; instead I stare into those pools of blue, and open wide, letting her slip the spoon into my mouth. I close around the utensil slowly and pull the ice cream off. Her eyes widen and then turn heady when I lift the spoon vertically and lick the metal. Her spare hand that isn’t holding the spoon with me floats down her neck, her fingertips grazing her long column until they get to her collarbone. Oh hell. That’s sexy. And she has no clue.
I follow her fingertips with my eyes, watching how they graze tenderly across her skin. I imagine my tongue following the same route. When she starts to plunge her fingers down toward the buttons of her top, the pit of my stomach rumbles to life with heat and my cock starts to strain at the zipper of my jeans.
Expertly one-handed, she undoes the top button of her shirt, and then the second and third. Before she goes on with the fourth, she parts the shirt ever so slightly so I can see the swell of her cleavage. Her hair floats like a fucking cloud over her shoulders, cascading down to where her shirt is open for me. How can I not imagine what she would look like with just her hair covering her breasts? The image in my head makes me even fucking harder.
Not feeling like ice cream any longer, I take the spoon, put it in the carton, and set them on the ground next to the sofa. When my hands are free, I immediately grip Emma’s waist and reposition her on my lap so she’s a little closer and so her pussy is lined up perfectly with my erection. When I settle her down, she gasps, her eyes widening and her breath uneasy.
I bite my bottom lip and look down at her, nodding at her shirt for her to continue. A small smile slides across her mouth as she starts to unbutton the rest, button by button, deliberately taking her time, which I can appreciate because this girl is worth taking time with.
When she reaches the bottom, she doesn’t open her shirt, instead she leaves it so I can only see two inches of her soft skin peeking through. She leans forward and the fabric dips with her as she places her hands on my stomach and slowly works them under my shirt. Her palms feel like fire against my skin, igniting me with a sexual awareness I haven’t felt in a very long time. As she moves her hands up my stomach, her fingers inspecting every contour of my abs, she brings my shirt up with her until her hands are on my pecs.
Our breaths are heavy with anticipation, of the sparks kindling between us, of the built
-up tension that’s on the brink of detonation. My heart hammers rapidly under the palm of her hand as the air between us stills. Our souls connect in this moment. It’s as though we’re making a silent vow to one another that our friendship will never be the same, but what resides in our near future has the promise of parallel serendipity beyond anything we’ve ever experienced.
Chapter Seventeen
EMMA
I’ve realized two things: up until now I’ve never truly felt alive; I’ve never known the feeling of what it’s like to genuinely have an understanding of breathing, of the feeling of a human’s touch, of listening to the sound of a beating heart. But with Tucker, his eyes heavy with yearning for me, I can hear distinctly without question the beat of a human’s heart. I can feel the air I breathe pass through my lungs and pump through my veins, and the contact of skin against skin has never felt so real, so authentic, so utterly transparent. And secondly, what is about to transpire between Tucker and me will forever change me from the woman I am today. I know the minute he buries himself deep inside me, the familiar colors of this world will change, alter in a way that I will forever see differently. It’s inevitable with a man like Tucker Jameson.
And even though I’m scared of this change, of the transformation I’m about to embark on, I wouldn’t back down for anything. Not for my friend, not for the protection of my heart, and not for the shelter of the imprinted marrow that runs deep within my bones. Because for the life of me, I can’t say no to this beautiful man, to his damaged eyes, to the carved jaw that ticks with his emotions, or the heart that beats quickly under the palm of my hand.
I want him.
I hope he wants me.
I want him to alter my life.
Does he want me to alter his?
I want him to change the colors of my world into a kaleidoscope of tangible, prickly, all-consuming awareness.
I hope he wants to be a part of me and my life of color.
“Emma.” His voice is husky, on the verge of breaking.
“Take me upstairs, Tucker.” Please.
His hands quickly button up the button that rests between my breasts, and then in one swift movement, he scoops me into his arms and takes me upstairs, leaving our little dinner party behind without a second thought.
With each creak of the stairs leading to his bedroom, my heart rate picks up. I’m excited. I’ve never felt this need, this . . . rightness. What will he feel like inside me? Will he be tender? Will he be rough and demanding? Will he compare me to . . . her?
No, I can’t think about Sadie right now. I can’t begin to think about what they might have had together. As attracted adults learning more about each other, this is different. What is between Tucker and me is different and I’m going to revel in the disparity.
When he reaches his bed, he relies on the light in the stairway to cast the only brightness in the room, leaving the area dim. To me, it feels romantic.
He places me on the ground in front of him and takes a small step back. Eyes still trained on mine, he reaches over his head to his back where he grabs his shirt and quickly tugs it off. I watch in fascination as each and every one of his chest muscles flex in the process, leaving me panting for a redo.
I’ve never seen a more gorgeous man in my life. From the messy style of his hair, to the thick scruff on his perfectly defined jaw, to the powerful, corded muscles that twist and twine over his athletic chest, he weakens me at the knees. I’m dizzy with lust.
Still looking me in the eyes, he unbuckles his jeans but leaves them on. I glance down for a second to catch a small trail of trimmed hair that leads to the waistband of his black briefs. I want to lick a path down that trail to what he’s hiding beneath those dark wash jeans.
When I return my eyes to his, the smirk on his face almost splits me in half. There’s no denying my attraction to him. He probably noticed that within the first two weeks we were living together. I’ve never been good at hiding emotions, most notably it seems when it comes to Tucker and his ruggedly handsome features.
He takes a step forward. I can feel a small shiver down my spine in anticipation of his touch, of his kiss, of his body moving flawlessly on top of mine. The space between us closes as he takes one more step forward. The heat emanating off him envelops me into a ball of desire as his hands unbutton my last button. His fingers trail along the edges of my open shirt, sending goosebumps along my skin and a shot of awareness straight to my sex. I’m so wet, even though he hasn’t even truly touched me yet.
“I want you so fucking bad, Emma.”
“Take me, Tucker,” I say on a whisper, hoping and praying his stalling has nothing to do with second-guessing. Please let him be ready.
He gnaws on his bottom lip for a second before both his hands trail a line over my collarbone until they push the shirt off my shoulders and onto the floor of his bedroom. His eyes are on mine for a brief second before they flick to my breasts. I don’t have to look down to know my nipples are hard. I can feel them tingling in awareness, yearning to be touched, sucked, licked. Yearning for him.
Tucker slowly takes me in, his eyes not giving him away but from how he’s running his hand over his rough jaw, I can tell he’s feeling the same way I am, nervous with a whole bunch of want.
“Fuck, Emma.” His hand glides over his mouth in awe. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
The compliment hits me hard, giving me a boost of confidence I desperately needed.
We are a separate entity from our past, from his past.
Leaving me topless without his touch, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my pajama pants and slips them down my legs, exposing nothing but a red thong that matches the hearts on my pajamas. A low groan travels up his throat as he takes me in. He links our hands together and helps me step out of my pants. I kick them to the side with my shirt so they’re out of the way. Releasing one of my hands, he slowly spins me around, stopping me when my back is toward him.
He stops me and grips my shoulders tenderly until he slides his hands down my arms, to my ribcage where his fingers barely graze the side of my breasts. I take in a sharp hiss of a breath from the contact, my core heating up with every touch. Slowly, his hands glide down my sides until he reaches my hips. His body presses flush against mine, and his lips find my neck where he lightly kisses me and whispers, “Your ass is so fuckable, baby. I’ve dreamt of this ass. I’ve had visions of punishing this little ass, of biting into it, claiming it as mine.” His lips dance across the space between my neck and shoulder, sending chills all over my body.
He slips his hands under the thin strap of my thong and pushes it down, leaving me bare to the cool night air.
Behind me, I can feel the roughness of his jeans against my legs, and the sensation of my burning skin against his pants sends a wave of yearning through my body.
Hands still on my hips, he leans his head forward and brings his lips from my shoulder up the column of my neck to my ear where he whispers, “I knew you were gorgeous, Emma, but fuck me, you naked makes me want to worship every inch of your body.” He nips at my ear. “Combine that with your heart and your mind? I’m drowning in desperation for you.”
Does he know I feel the same? That his heart is just as kind, that his mind turns me on, that his protective instincts make me want to never leave his side?
While he kisses my neck, his tongue peeking out every once in a while, his teeth nipping at my skin, his hands move to the front of my body, his palms spanning over my stomach. His touch is warm, demanding, and all I can do is lean my head back so I’m resting on his shoulder.
“What do you want me to do to you, Emma?” His voice brushes against my skin, making my nipples even harder if possible. His hands go higher to the point where they rest right below my breasts.
Everything inside me is pounding with need, a throbbing craving taking root in my center, vibrating through my bones, reminding me just how turned on I am.
“Everything, Tucker,” I gasp when he ni
ps at my neck. There is no doubt that will be a mark tomorrow.
“Tell me what you want.” His lips are right next to my ear again, his teeth tugging on my earlobe. The shy side of me clams up. I’ve never been approached like this during sex, being asked what I want. It’s always just been given to me, sometimes with less finesse than desired.
Helping me out, he whispers, “Tell me, Emma. Do you want my hands plucking these tight nipples of yours? Do you want my thick fingers sliding into your wet cunt only to be followed by my tongue? Do you want me to bend you over this bed and spank that delicious ass of yours until you cry out in pure ecstasy? Or do you want me to spread you across my bed, hands held above your head, while I slowly pulse in and out of you until you can’t take the languid strokes of my thick cock inside your tight pussy any longer?”
My breath escapes me, my mind is a whirl of yeses, a mash-up of please, God, let this happen and holy shit I want him to fuck me immediately. I want to scream yes to everything but I’m speechless, unable to voice my opinion from the ball of need clogging my throat.
“Not going to answer? Fine, baby, but that means I get total control.” Within a second, he has me spun around, facing him. My hands fall to his chest for support. His muscles flex under my palms reminding me of the sexy and strong man he’s become. He lifts my chin and says, “Don’t want to tell me what you want, then you’re at my mercy. Can you do that? Give me total control?”
I swallow hard and my voice sounds miles away as I speak. “Is that what you want?”
He shifts in his stance and cups my face with his hands. “I want to make you come until you pass out.”
I can’t help it. I swallow hard again. “I want that too.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t take a second for me to catch my breath before he’s laying me down on the bed and parting my legs so he can position himself over me. Still with his jeans undone, his hair slightly askew, and a heated look in his eyes, he places his hands on either side of my head and lowers his mouth to mine where he gently parts my lips with his tongue.