Beauty and the Running Back (23 page)

“Here, here!” I laugh, touching the lip of my cup to his.
The fizzy wine tickles my nose as I take a sip, savoring the sweetness. “Thanks
for the booze, Dad,” I add, tipping my cup in the general direction of our hometown.

“Oh no,” Emerson groans, glancing down at my hands, “Tell me
you didn’t get me a book for my birthday.”

“First of all, what’s so bad about getting a book as a
present? That’s, like, the best present on the planet,” I reply, and before he
can protest I add, “Secondly, it’s not a book. It’s just
in
a book. Here...”

He watches as I peel open the well-loved pages. Somehow,
this feels nearly as intimate as what just went down between us on the bed. I
hardly ever show my sketchbook to anyone, yet here I am, flipping through the
pages as Emerson looks on. Sharing my art with someone has always felt
impossible, something that required far too much trust for me to be able to do.
But Emerson’s teaching me that trust isn’t something that’s off-limits to me just
because of my history. And I’m even starting to believe him.

“Are those all yours?” he asks, his eyes glued to the pages.

“Yep,” I reply, “All of them.”

“They’re amazing,” he says reverently, as I linger on a
drawing of a stylized, distorted landscape. “Please tell me you’re going to
major in art when you go to school in the fall.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I demur, “I might try and focus on
something a little more practical.”

“Fuck practical. These are incredible drawings,” he
exclaims.

“Well...who knows?” I allow, “It’s not like there are any
real jobs out there anyway, right? Might as well major in something I actually
like.”

“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emerson replies.

Finally, I come to the sketch I’ve been looking for. It’s
right at the end of the book, my most recent finished piece. Drawing a
steadying breath, I turn the sketchbook around and pass it to Emerson. His eyes
fall on the elaborate sketch and go wide. He drinks in the image for a long
moment before finally looking up at me.

“Is this...?” he asks.

“It is,” I assure him, smiling at his amazement. “It’s you.”

We study the drawing together. It’s a portrait of Emerson
I’ve been working on for weeks, since our first heated exchange at that party.
The drawing shows him in half-profile, staring with determined purpose from the
page. I’m really proud of how I was able to capture him, and I can tell he’s
impressed with the effort.

“This is how you see me?” he asks, his voice surprisingly
soft.

“Absolutely,” I tell him. “To me, that’s the essence of who you
are. Intelligent, strong, unwilling to back down from what you know is right.
From the things you want out of life.”

“Can I...Can I keep this?” he asks, looking up at me
imploringly.

“Of course!” I tell him, “It’s for you, Emerson. I want you
to have it, always.”

Placing the sketchbook down with great reverence, Emerson
leans forward and catches my lips in his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, running a hand through my hair.
“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”

I smile and lower myself onto my knees in front of him.
“Then you’re going to love this…” I say with my best seductive grin. I slowly
undo his belt and unzip his pants as he leans back, a look of utter disbelief
on his face. I can see the hardening outline of his staggering cock growing
down the inside of his jeans and my mouth begins to water instinctively. Oh how
I’ve dreamed of this moment.

My heart feels like its going to beat out of my chest as he
lifts his hips and I pull down his jeans and boxers, unleashing his throbbing
dick. It’s beautiful, I’ve never seen one up close before, and his is
absolutely amazing. I grab it reverently, without thinking, and lower my mouth
onto him, taking as much of Emerson into my throat as possible…

Chapter Eight

* * *

When the early morning light draws me back up from the
depths of slumber, I’m surprised to find that the bed beside me is empty. I
roll onto my side, peering around the hotel room for my missing companion. Even
after one night, the feel of waking up without him doesn’t suit me. I’m just about
to roll out of bed and go searching for him when the motel room door eases
open. Emerson appears on the threshold, carrying two cups of takeout coffee and
a paper bag. He sees me sitting up in bed and freezes.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Good morning to you too,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“No, it’s just...I was going to surprise you,” he says,
closing the door behind him. “Here—just pretend to be asleep.”

“Emerson...” I moan.

“Come on,” he pleads, turning his back to dump the contents
of the bag onto the dresser. “For me. Please.”

I flop back onto the bed and pull the covers over my head as
Emerson futzes with something across the room. I hear the click of a lighter,
the crinkling of the bag, and finally Emerson saying, “OK. Open your eyes.”

Pulling the covers down ever-so-slightly, I feel my heart
melt into a puddle of goo in my chest. Emerson is walking toward me with a
little makeshift breakfast in bed. There’s my coffee, some creamers, and a
blueberry muffin with a couple candles in the shape of a 1 and 8. He places the
tray in my lap with great ceremony, humming the Happy Birthday song.

“Go on. Make a wish before it gets all waxy,” he instructs
me.

I glance up at him, wondering what on earth
else
I can wish for now
that he’s barreled into my life.

I wish
that this all works out...
I think to myself.
Somehow
. I blow out the candles, and Emerson
sits down next to me on the bed, his own coffee and muffin in hand.

“What did you wish for?” he asks.

“I’ll tell you...if it ever comes true,” I smile.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Happy birthday, Abby.”

“Thank you,” I say, peeling the wrapper off my muffin.
“Adulthood is off to a pretty great start, don’t you think?”

The day only gets better from there. After I treat myself to
a long, hot bath and get dressed for the afternoon, Emerson and I head down to
the beach for a long walk. We take our time, talking all the while about our
pasts, our ideas, our notions about the future. Emerson’s planning on going to
college, eventually. But probably not this year. I’ll be starting school in the
fall, of course, but we don’t talk too much about that part—the
never-seeing-each-other again part. Maybe we can find some way around the
distance, if this whole thing doesn’t go up in flames. But we’ll be
step-siblings tomorrow, so maybe it will be better to stay away after all.

We don’t talk about that too much, either.

There’s a little town center with shops and cafes down the
shore a little ways, and Emerson lets me take my time window shopping. I’m not
much for designers or labels, but I love vintage and handmade things. There’s
one store in particular that I go nuts for—a local artist’s shop that’s chock
full of gorgeous, eclectic jewelry and handicrafts. I fall in love with one
piece especially—a slender silver ring the bears a single pearl. It’s so
elegant, so simple...and unfortunately out of my price range. But still, a girl
can dream.

We spend the day wandering around the sleepy beach town,
grabbing ice cream and coffee later on, sitting on the sand together, daring to
dunk our toes in the still-icy water. I field a few texts from Riley, who
claims “I told you so” right when I let her in on the real nature of my and
Emerson’s beach escape.

“Remember protection,” she texts me, “And call IMMEDIATELY
AFTER, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

“I promise to call you the second I get off,” I reply,
“Maybe even during, if you’re lucky.”

“Do not play with my emotions, lady,” Riley warns me.

Though I’m more than excited for the night to finally
arrive, I do feel a slight nervousness starting to trip me up. I haven’t really
been with a guy since what happened with Tucker all those years ago. Even
though my memories of that night with him are hazy, I start to worry about
flashbacks, or even just bad vibes. Obviously, Emerson is nothing like Tucker,
and tonight will be nothing like the night of my assault. But still, I can’t
help but be a tiny bit anxious.

Tonight’s dinner is even more delectable than the last.
Emerson takes me to a little Italian place in town with the best pesto I’ve
tasted...maybe ever. After we’ve polished off the last bites of birthday
tiramisu, it’s time at last to head back to our room. As if sensing the hush of
anticipation, Emerson cranks up the tunes on the way to the motel. The Postal
Service serenades us all the way back, and I hurry to throw on some Iron and
Wine from my laptop the second we’re back in the room. Awkward silences aren’t
so terrible when Sam Beam croons over them, it turns out. Emerson and I both
shuck off our outer layers, and he moves to open up a second bottle of
champagne.

“Thanks,” I tell him, accepting a cup of champagne and
taking a generous swig. “Just let me freshen up a little, I’ll be right out.”

“Take your time,” he tells me, his eyes lingering on my
face. He can tell something is a little off, but is nice enough not to say
anything outright.

I duck into the bathroom, drinking down the rest of my
champagne and studying myself in the mirror.

“You can do this,” I whisper, coaching myself through my
nerves, “You’ve wanted this for years. Since before anything even happened with
Tucker. Emerson is amazing, and he cares about you, and...and...”

“Everything OK in there?” Emerson asks at the door.

“Yep!” I reply, my voice an octave higher than it usually
is, “Totally fine!”

“Abby,” he says, in a voice that tells me he knows the
truth, “Do you want to talk?”

Sighing, I turn and gently pull open the bathroom door.
“Come on in,” I say, trying to play off my embarrassment as I turn and sit on
the edge of the tub.

“So. What’s going on up there?” he asks, glancing up at my
head. “Tell me.”

“I’m just...It’s...” I stammer, blushing as I try to string
the words together. “We’ve been talking about this all week. You know. The
thing
we decided to do
today...”

“Oh, I know all about the
thing
,”
Emerson smiles.

“And I still really want...the
thing
to happen,” I stumble ahead, “But I’m
sort of out of practice. I’ve only ever done this once before, and that wasn’t
such a great experience. And I know it won’t always be like that, but you
actually know what you’re doing, and—”

“Hey, hey,” Emerson says, wrapping an arm around me. “It’s
OK, Abby. I understand completely. You don’t have to keep anything from me, you
know that.”

“I guess I do,” I say quietly.

“Look,” Emerson says, taking my face in his hand, “I’m crazy
about you, Abby. And I always will be. Now, because this world is a shitty,
unfair place, we don’t have always. Because tomorrow, our parents are swooping
in to fuck everything up. We only have tonight. But I would rather miss out
entirely on having you than force you into anything you don’t want to do. OK? I
want you to want this as much as I do. And if any part of you isn’t interested,
or is uncomfortable, then we don’t have to do anything. Just tell me what you
want.”

I bring my hazel eyes to Emerson’s, amazed by his
level-headedness. He’d pass up on having sex on the only night we actually can
out of respect for me. I know, in this moment, that I can trust him. And to be
honest, I think I knew that all along. I’m ready for this.

“What I want,” I tell him, my voice dipping low once more,
“Is for you to kiss me now.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Emerson’s lips brush against mine, softly at first. We warm
to each other in an instant, leaving our cups of champagne by the wayside as
our kiss becomes more earnest, more searching. I wrap my arms around his broad
shoulders, digging my hands into his chestnut hair. He slips an arm around my
waist, pulling me to him. Emerson lifts me into his lap, cradling me against
his hard chest as our tongues glide and glance against each other. The taste of
him is more intoxicating than any champagne I’ve ever tasted.

“Take me to the bed,” I whisper, kissing down along his
throat.

I feel Emerson slip an arm under my knees and effortlessly
pick me up. He’s a solid foot taller than me, and probably about 75 pounds
heavier, so I might as well be a feather in his arms—or so he makes me feel. In
a few quick strides, he’s carried me out of the bathroom and over to the queen
sized bed. Just as I’ve imagined it a thousand times, he lays me out across the
bedspread, drinking in the sight of me with his blue eyes. Only this time, it’s
better than what I’ve imagined.

Because this time, it’s
real
.

“Undress me,” I tell him, “I want you to.”

Emerson kneels before me on the bed, his gaze burning with lust.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse, “I love it when you tell
me what you want.”

He lifts the black cotton tee shirt up over my head, and
shucks off his own flannel. Catching my wrists in his hands, he pins them up
over my head and lowers his body on top of mine, kissing me from the neck to
the space between my breasts. He flicks open the clasp of my bra and closes his
teeth around the edge of one cup, glancing up at me with a devilish wink. I
feel a deep throb of need between my legs as he tugs my bra away with his
teeth, then pulls the white tank top up over his head and immediately lowers
his full lips to my chest.

I suck in a huge breath as he wraps his lips around my taut
nipple, his hands roving down my torso all the while. The tip of his tongue
flicks against the hard peak, sending a rush of sensation to the tips of my
fingers and toes. My head falls back against the bed as he sucks on my breasts,
and I’m so distracted that I almost don’t notice as he eases the skinny jeans
down off my legs.

“You wore them,” he grins, sitting back on his heels to
admire my choice in panties.

I look down at the black lace thong barely covering my most
intimate flesh. It’s the same pair I was wearing that night at the party, when
we finally let each other in on how we really felt, if not out loud. That night
seems like eons ago, but it’s only been a matter of weeks. Look how much can
change when you’re honest about what you really want.

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” I whisper, letting my
legs fall open before him.

“Appreciation doesn’t even come close,” he growls,
unbuckling his belt and tugging down his own jeans.

The rise in his black briefs can’t be contained. He’s hard
as a rock for me, and absolutely huge. Emerson loops his fingers through the
band of my thong and slowly, reverently, eases it down my legs. I lay before
him, utterly naked, the cool air playing against my slick sex. With his eyes
locked on me, Emerson tugs down his briefs, letting me see him in all his
glory.

For a moment, it’s all we can do to stare at each other.
Emerson kneels over me, his cock standing at full attention for me. I drink in
the sight of it, thick and throbbing with want. Without thinking, I bring my
hands to his hard length—I need both to grab hold of it. Emerson groans as I
kneel opposite him, working my hands all along his cock. Taking my lead, he
lays back on the bed as I continue to stroke him, feeling him get harder in my
hands. As his head hits the pillow, I can’t wait any longer. I bring my lips to
the round, shapely tip of him and close my lips around it.

His eyes scrunch up in bliss as I take his cock into my
mouth, running my tongue along his tender shaft. I work my mouth along him,
using both hands to keep a firm grasp. I love the feel of him as he fills up my
mouth, the taste of him as he pulses for me.

“Abby,” he gasps, reaching for me, “I need you...I need...”

“Tell me,” I breathe, breaking away before running my tongue
all around his bulging head. “Tell me what
you
want.”

In reply, I feel his hands close around my hips and tug me
up toward him. I let him guide me, not knowing where this is heading but not
caring too much either. With firm hands, he turns my body around so that I’m
facing away from him. Before I can ask what he wants me to do, he’s tugged my
hips back toward his face, lying out beneath me.

I cry out in delighted surprise as he brings his mouth
swiftly to my sex, licking along my wet slit from below. My back arches with
pleasure as the tip of his tongue finds my rock hard clit, and I groan as he
wraps his lips around it. His cock is standing tall, harder than ever and far
too delicious-looking to let be. As Emerson flicks his tongue across my aching
clit, I lean forward and take him into my mouth as voraciously as ever.

We work each other into a frenzy, giving and taking as much
as we can possibly manage. How can something feel so illicit and so natural all
at the same time? I suck hard on Emerson’s cock as I feel myself teetering on
the edge of orgasm. He must be able to feel it in me, because he takes out all
the stops. I feel him slide two strong fingers into me as he licks along the
length of me. His fingers pulse against that tender spot inside of me as the
tip of his tongue flicks against my clit.

And just like that, I’m a goner.

I come hard as he laps up my desire, the room spinning
around me. As the orgasm shudders through me, Emerson rolls me onto my back. I
sprawl out beneath him, wide-eyed with blissful wonder. Wordlessly, he reaches
into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulls out a condom. Ripping open the
package with his teeth, he can scarcely keep his eyes off of me. He rolls the
condom down his pulsating length, and it finally hits me: this is really
happening. His eyes are blazing as he lowers his taut body to mine. Wrapping my
ankles around his tapered waist, I moan as I feel his swollen head pressing
against my wet sex. This is it. At long last.