Beauty and the Running Back (22 page)

“Of course we’re still on,” he says, glancing my way. “You
think I’d actually miss the chance to follow through on my promise to you? You
must be out of your damn mind, lady.”

“But then why—? What—?” I stammer, smiling despite myself.

“I had to feed Bob and Deb that house party bullshit,” he
explains, turning off onto the highway ramp. “They may be the two most
oblivious, self-centered people on the continent, but even they would have been
suspicious if their teenage son and daughter had announced they were going off
on a romantic seaside retreat together.”

“You know something Sawyer,” I say, beaming at his
brilliance, “You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

“Wish I could say the same for you,” he scoffs playfully. “I
can’t believe you fell for that whole thing.”

“Guess my heart is just too pure and wholesome for my own
good,” I kid, fluttering my eyelashes daintily.

“Or you’re just gullible as hell,” Emerson replies, cranking
up the radio and laying on the speed as we soar along the highway.

In a matter of minutes, my heart has been entirely mended.
Emerson had no intention of abandoning me after all, and certainly didn’t run
off and spread my secrets around school behind my back. But as happy as I am to
be back on track with him, a little part of me is worried about the intensity
of my reaction to the mere idea of losing him. His smallest action has the
power to send me soaring to new heights of bliss or drag me down to devastating
lows. I’ve never intentionally let someone hold that much sway over my heart
and mind. Never cared so much for someone to the point of trusting them so
fully.

I have every reason to think that I can trust Emerson not to
hurt me. But clearly, I’m having trouble putting any weight on that faith in
him. I can’t go into this half-heartedly. If I make the choice to trust him, be
vulnerable and open with him, then I’ve got to charge full speed ahead. The
quickest way to ruin this thing we’ve got is to hold back from each other. We
both risked a lot even telling each other how we feel. We’ve come so close to
breaking through each others’ iron-clad defenses. It’s time to lower the walls
once and for all.

As we race along in Emerson’s Chevy, I reach for his hand.
Without missing a beat, he gives my hand a squeeze, letting me know that I’m
safe and sound with him. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve known that all along.

And that might be the scariest part of this whole thing.

Chapter Seven

* * *

At least one part of Emerson’s story was true—we are, in
fact, spending the weekend at the beach. Only, instead of shacking up with a
bunch of other kids in someone’s rich parents’ beach house, we’re staying in a
tiny motel in a room of our own. I tease Emerson as we pull up to the place.

“A motel? Seriously?” I smile, grabbing my backpack. “Bit of
a cliché, isn’t it?”

“I can set up a tent on the beach if you’d rather,” he
shoots back, “But this place has HBO. So I hope you won’t mind if I don’t join
you.”

We get our keys from the front office, only drawing a
slightly suspicious look from the man behind the desk. But hey, Emerson’s
eighteen now, and has the ID to prove it. That’ll take a little getting used
to—the whole being able to do whatever we please thing. It may not be a huge
deal, booking a motel room of our own, but it’s cool all the same. It’s a taste
of adult independence, and damn is it thrilling.

Though not nearly as thrilling as what’s set to go down in
said motel room, that’s for damn sure.

We find our room at the end of a long line of doors. The
motel sits right on the edge of the dunes overlooking the Long Island Sound.
The spring air is just cool enough to be refreshing, and the sun is just
beginning to set over the water. Emerson pushes open our door, and we step over
the threshold together.

My reservations about staying in a motel evaporate as I take
in the space. It’s a quaint, simple room, well kept and cozy. I spot a deep
bathtub through the open bathroom door, a huge window with a view of the
sea...and a big queen bed right in the center of the room.

Seeing that big-enough-for-two bed makes this whole thing
real for me. I’m finally going to sleep with Emerson Sawyer. After all these
years of wanting him from afar, he’s right here beside me. We’re here with each
other. It’s almost too good to be true.

Don’t
think that,
I chide myself,
the second you think something’s too good to be true, it usually is.

“Well,” Emerson says with a smile. “I’m starving. You gonna
take me out for a birthday dinner or what?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” I roll my eyes, “Sure. Where do
you want to go?”

He knows a place nearby, and drives us over to get some
grub. It’s a tiny, seaside shack with maybe a dozen tables. The menu is heavy
on seafood and regional staples. There’s a warmth to the place that can only be
captured during the offseason at a sleepy beach town.

In short, it’s perfect.

We settle down into a table by the window and tuck into our
complementary basket of biscuits. The buttery, flaky pastry makes my eyes
flutter closed with pleasure. I haven’t eaten anything all day.

“How’d you know about this place?” I ask Emerson, perusing
the menu.

“My dad used to take me here when I was little,” he replies,
looking out the wide front windows toward the docks. “We’d come out fishing
early in the morning, then stop here for lunch before driving home. It’s not
fancy, but it’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

His face takes on a cast of sadness as he talks about his
dad. It occurs to me that I barely know anything about Emerson’s father, or
what happened to him. I try to open up the conversation as delicately as
possible.

“Does he still live around here, your dad?” I ask carefully,
reaching for another biscuit.

“In a way,” Emerson laughs roughly. “I mean, he’s still in
the state. Or should I say,
In
State
.”

“Your dad’s...incarcerated?” I ask, pausing in my one-woman
biscuit-scarfing contest.

“You don’t have to be so formal about it,” Emerson replies.
“He’s locked up. Has been for most of my life.”

“Wow...” I breathe, unsure of what to say. “That’s...so
rough. I’m sorry.”

“I’m pretty used to the arrangement by now,” he says. “But
thanks.”

“Do you mind if I ask...I mean, you don’t have to go into
it...” I fumble.

“No, it’s OK,” Emerson replies, “You’ve told me so much
about your past, it’s only fair that I be open with you too.”

We pause our conversation long enough to place our orders
with the young, friendly waitress. Once she’s taken our menus away and left us
alone once more Emerson takes a breath and begins.

“My parents got married pretty young,” he tells me, “For a
while, they really were happy. They never had much in the way of money, but
when you look at old pictures of them, it always looks like they’re having a
blast. It wasn’t until they started trying to start a family that things got
sort of...complicated.”

“Complicated how?” I ask.

“Complicated in that it didn’t work for them at first,”
Emerson goes on. “They kept trying to get pregnant without any luck. Their
doctors told them that fertility treatments, IVF and all, might help things
along. The problem is, those treatments cost money, and my parents didn’t have
any. But they were hell bent on having a kid, so my dad—Peter—decided to get a
little creative with the whole money-making thing.”

“And when you say creative...” I prompt him.

“I mean he started selling drugs to make some extra money,”
Emerson says bluntly. “Nothing major. Just weed, mostly. And it worked,
too—they were able to rake in enough extra cash that IVF was suddenly on the
table. My mom was finally able to get pregnant with yours truly. Which was all
well and good, until I was eight or so. That’s when the dealing finally caught
up with my dad. He wasn’t just
selling
the drugs. Both my parents had already started having issues with substance
abuse by then, and my dad got in a really nasty car accident while under the
influence that brought everything out into the open. He went away, my mom got
worse, and I was left to take care of it all. I did, too. I have been since I
was eight. I mean, it’s because they wanted me so badly that they started down
that road at all. It only seems fair, you know?”

“Emerson,” I say softly, reaching for his hands across the
table, “You know that none of that is your fault, right?”

“Oh, sure,” Emerson shrugs, “I know that. In theory. But
it’s hard not to feel kind of obligated to them now, no matter how badly they
mess up.”

“I know what you mean,” I nod, “I feel the same way about my
dad. Like, since he lost mom, I always have to be there for him, even if he
barely gives me the time of day.”

“Look at us,” Emerson laughs, “A couple of bleeding hearts.”

“I guess so,” I smile.

Our bountiful plates of food arrive—crab cakes for Emerson, vegetable
pot pie for me—and we dig in eagerly, plowing through every bite of buttery,
flavorful goodness. We even go in for a couple slices of blueberry pie to top
things off. I’m surprised we don’t roll out of the restaurant at the end of our
meal.

By the time we make it back to the motel, we’re happy,
sleepy, and more than a little handsy. My every nerve sizzles with anticipation
as Emerson unlocks our motel room love nest and walks in before me. He flops
onto the soft queen bed, and I tentatively ease myself down next to him. The
whole being-alone thing is still so novel for us that I find myself feeling a
little shy. Emerson can sense that I’m still getting my bearings, so he just
lets me curl against his side there on the bed. His arms close around me as I
press my back against his chest. We drift into a post-dinner nap, the sound of
the waves cocooning us as we lay there.

Even in half-slumber, I can feel my body responding to
Emerson’s. Our chests rise and fall together, our limbs shifting to accommodate
each other. It’s so simple, so easy. Like we were built for each other. By all
rights, I should be feeling so much pressure and anxiety about what we’ve
promised to give each other this weekend. But I’ve never felt more at peace.

I don’t know how much time goes by before I turn myself to
face Emerson there on the bed. His blue eyes ease open as I lay my head next to
his on the pillow. Our mouths twist into matching grins as he runs a hand along
the curve of my waist, and I rest my hands on his chest. Without a word, he
brings his lips to my neck, kissing me slow and deep. My back arches as his
lips move down my throat, across my clavicle, over my chest.

My blonde hair is splayed across the pillow beneath me as I
writhe blissfully at his touch. I run my fingers through his tousled chestnut
hair, tugging him closer toward me. As I press myself flush against his body, I
can feel that he’s growing harder by the second, just from kissing me. God,
that’s hot.

His lips continue to caress every inch of skin they can find
as he slips his hand beneath my gray sweater. The touch of his hand is cool
against my flushed skin as he trails up my flat stomach, the tips of his
fingers brushing against my ribs. I hold my breath as I feel him reach around
my back and unclasp my bra with a flick of his wrist.

“Someone’s had a lot of practice with bra clasps,” I tease
breathlessly.

“What can I say,” He grins, “I have very capable hands.”

He finally brings his lips to mine as he cups my breast in
his hand, running his thumb ever-so-lightly over my hard nipple. That slight
touch sends a pang of desire straight into my core, radiating out through my
entire body. His tongue glances against mine, and I kiss him back, deeper and
more urgently with every passing moment. I feel his hand skirting along my
torso as I let my own fingers trail down the hard, rippling line of his abs. He
groans softly as I trace the length of his stiff member through his jeans.

I take a deep breath as Emerson pops open the button of my
jeans. Pulling me close, he slips his hand between my jeans and panties. My sex
is aching for his touch, and I can’t help but let my knees fall apart,
spreading my legs wider for him. His fingertips brush against the thin panel of
cotton covering me, already wet with desire for him. I grab onto handfuls of
bedding as he pushes aside my panties and rests two strong fingers against my
throbbing sex.

“Emerson,” I breathe, my head falling back against the
pillow as he traces a long, slow line along my slit. I can’t form any other word
besides his name, whisper it over and over again as he strokes me, parting me a
little deeper each time. I bury my face in his chest as he roves along my sex,
laying those two expert fingers against the hard nub of my clit.

I’ve never been touched like this by a guy, never gotten off
with anything that wasn’t battery-operated before. For the briefest moment, I
worry about whether or not I’ll be able to come with him. That is, before he
starts tracing long, slow circles around that bundle of nerves, rubbing with
just the right amount of force. A sweet, aching pressure starts to build in my
core as he picks up the pace, rubbing and flicking my clit in a way I’ve never
felt before. My back arches as he goes on, switching up speed and motion just
at the right moment, never leaving me hanging for a second. My mouth falls open
with wonder as I reach my tipping point. I’m right on the edge of spilling over
with pleasure when he says:

“Come for me, Abby.”

And I do, a shudder of bliss rolls through my body as I
clutch onto him with all my might. I’ve had orgasms of my own creation before,
but never have I come with another person. And certainly not
for
another person. Spent,
I fall back against the bed, my chest heaving. Emerson lays down beside me,
resting a hand on my stomach.

“Holy shit...” I breathe, “I think you’ve killed me.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs, “Nothing turns me on
like seeing you let go. It’s the sexiest thing, Abby. You have no idea.”

“So then...are we gonna...?” I ask, glancing down at his
gorgeous body.

“Nope. We already decided on tomorrow,” he grins
mischievously, “That was just to hold you over.”

“What?!” I exclaim, “But—”

“We’re sticking to the plan,” he says firmly. “Tomorrow,
when you’re no longer a The Younger Woman, it’ll be a different story.”

“Ugghh,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Guess you
have a lot more will power than I do, then,” I tell him.

“I like the thrill of the chase,” he grins.

“Hey,” I say, with mock sternness, “Don’t torment me, now,
or I won’t give you your real birthday present.”

“You got me a present?” he asks, seeming genuinely touched.

“It’s nothing, really,” I reply, wanting to temper his
expectations some. “Just...I thought you might like it, so...”

“Well, come on then!” he exclaims, sitting upright, “Show me
the goods!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a grownup now or something,
Emerson?” I shoot back, feigning impatience as I swing my feet over onto the
floor. Really, I think his enthusiasm is downright adorable.

“Nah. I don’t plan on being a grownup anytime soon. Being a
legal adult isn’t going to change that,” he declares. “Hey, we should drink to
that.”

“Drink?” I ask, as I grab my backpack off the floor.

“I know your dad just keeps this stuff in the house for
company,” Emerson goes on, snatching up his own overnight bag, “So I figured he
wouldn’t mind if we pilfered some. Dude had, like, twenty bottles in the
basement. How’s
that
for willpower?”

I watch as Emerson produces a bottle of champagne, and can’t
help but giggle.

“How fancy of you,” I say.

“What? Doesn’t champagne in a motel room just scream class
to you?” he shoots back, searching around his bag for an opener.

“Or something like that,” I say, my fingers finally closing
around the sketchbook I’ve been hunting for. I pull out the thick, weathered
book as Emerson pops open the bottle and pours us each a Styrofoam cup of the
bubbly.

“Here you go, Ma’am,” he smiles, handing me some champagne.
“To not becoming grownups until they literally force us to,” he says, holding
up his cup.