Charlotte
“Emerson, are you joining us for movie night?” my mother asks as he helps carry all of Sophie’s gifts out to the car after the party.
My eyes widen. Emerson and I had pretty clear plans for his place after the party, so I shoot him a quick, but wordless, look that I hope translates into ‘just say no.’
To my utter dismay, he quickly replies, “I’d love to,” and my expression morphs into one that says, ‘what the fuck?’
But then he smiles, and I just don’t get to see that smile very often, and it’s such a nice smile.
“I’ll ride with you,” I tell him as Sophie and her two friends climb into the back of my mom’s sedan. And I definitely don’t miss the sly look on my mother’s face as I disappear with him toward the back of the lot where he parked his car. After climbing in, we watch my mom’s car drive away before he grabs me by the back of the neck and drags my face to his.
We kiss with the vigor of two people who’ve been waiting for this exact moment for hours. All of that stored desire comes spilling out in one very hot make-out session over the console of his car. His lips are merciless and demanding, devouring my mouth and barely leaving me without enough air to breathe. Oh well, I don’t need to breathe. I just need him.
His hands roam down to my breasts, but when I reach for the bulge at the front of his jeans, he grabs my wrist.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” He growls against my mouth.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“You want me to fuck you in the front seat of this car, in front of people passing by, so we both get sent to jail? Because if you touch it, that’s exactly where this is going.”
“Worth it,” I mumble, reaching again.
“Behave, Charlotte.” The use of my other name makes me instantly obey. Like ringing a bell, he can just tame me with one word and a little change in the inflection of his voice. And just like that, I’m his submissive.
Pulling away with a pout, I lean back in my seat. “You know, we really don’t have to go to movie night.”
“I know.”
“Then, why are we doing it?”
He reaches across the console and squeezes my thigh with his hand. “Because I like seeing you around your family, and I like your family.”
As he starts to drive away, I want to tell him that he’s just making everything worse. We’re supposed to be keeping this a secret, and we should be accepting that this will never work. It was just supposed to be sex.
When we reach my house, I tense in anticipation for the moment when he walks inside. I love our house, but it’s our family house. It’s a little bit chaotic on a normal day, but now there are three very excited teenage girls in it, and this is just not Emerson’s speed.
We meet my mom in the kitchen, who is busy making popcorn and snacks while the girls pile into the living room, picking out a movie. They agree on the Japanese animation, Spirited Away, honestly one of my favorites, but will Emerson appreciate it? I can’t seem to relax because I’m too busy worrying about if he notices the dirty dishes in the sink from breakfast or the pile of laundry still stacked on the stairs, waiting for Sophie to put it away. And my mom’s cockapoo won’t stop jumping on his leg, sniffing his jeans, and I just want to take him out of this place.
Then, I look at his face. And he’s smiling again. Relaxed and laughing with my mom, while she tells him some of her favorite ER stories, the funny ones, of course.
And suddenly, nothing makes sense to me.
All of Emerson’s praise, the way he tells me I’m so perfect and flawless and good…it was just him playing the part. None of it was real. And if it was, how does he feel about my real life now? None of this is perfect or flawless. It’s a mess. And normally I’m okay with that, but I can’t be Charlotte and Charlie to him. He was never supposed to see any of this, so why isn’t he running for the hills? How can I possibly go back to being Charlotte on Monday, when he knows what the real me is like?
After the snacks are made and the movie is cued up, the girls sit on the floor and my mom takes the recliner, leaving the couch for Emerson and me. He sits on the end, crossing his legs with one ankle on the opposite knee as he leans on the arm rest. He’s too hot to be in my living room. Way too fucking hot.
As we watch the movie, he seems genuinely enthralled, but I catch his gaze on me from time to time, as if I’m more interesting than the movie. At one point, he rests his arm along the back of the sofa, and I find myself leaning against him until we are actually cuddling with my mother only a couple feet away.
Like always, she’s asleep fifteen minutes in anyway. And once the credits roll at the end, the girls take off to Sophie’s room. Emerson turns his head toward me in the dimly lit room. I look back at him, and it’s so quiet and such an intimate moment, it feels almost surreal.
He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead.
Again, I hate him so much. Why is he doing this to me?
As he pulls away, he whispers, “Want to show me your room?”
A small laugh escapes my lips. He’s joking. Except, he looks like he’s actually waiting for an answer.
“Why don’t we go back to your place? I can stay the night.”
He strokes my cheek. “I want to see your place.”
“But it’s a tiny pool hou—”
His finger presses over my lips. “Show me.”
Without waking my mom, the two of us tiptoe out of the living room and toward the back door. I can’t stop thinking of what a bad idea this is and trying to recollect if I put my dirty clothes in the hamper or if they’re still scattered across the floor.
As we reach the door of my studio, he crowds me from behind, wrapping his hands around my waist and kissing my neck. God, does he think we’re going to do it in here? On the same queen-size bed I’ve had since I was fifteen?
The minute we walk in, he starts looking around, as if he’s actually appreciating my space.
“It’s not much,” I say.
Taking me by the hand, he pulls me to his body and kisses the words straight out of my mouth. He tastes so good, and I want everything about this moment, just not here.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asks, locking me in his arms.
“I’m not nervous…I just…”
“Do you think my age bothered your mom?”
“Are you kidding? My mom is the coolest. Now if my dad had been here…” I say, imagining my dad flipping out at the idea of me with a man a couple years younger than him. Good thing he’s never going to find out.
“I figured. How old are your parents anyway?”
“I’m not going to answer that question,” I reply, grabbing his face and pulling him in for another kiss. Regardless of how nervous I am, my body lights up from his touch, eager to have more of him.
But every time I try to pull him to the bed or the door, he stands his ground. Instead, he starts looking through the framed photos on my bookshelf.
Pictures of me…as a teenager.
“Oh God, please stop,” I cry, trying to push them down, but he fights me.
“I want to see.” Naturally, he wins, overpowering me as he browses them all.
When he lands on a picture of me and Sophie when we went to Disneyland as kids, I turn to ice.
“This is cute. Who’s this?” he asks.
In the photo, Sophie was six, and I was twelve. Instead of the blue hair she has now, it was cropped short. With a blue Olaf T-shirt, shorts, and light-up sneakers, I understand why Emerson had to ask who it was in the picture. Because when he looks at the photo, he sees a little boy.
And I can’t lie to him.
“That’s Sophie,” I reply, taking the photo down and staring at it.
I tense, waiting for his reaction. I think maybe he will ask questions or avoid it all together because it makes him uncomfortable. Instead, I feel his arms wrap around my middle, his lips pressing to my ear.
My eyes stay on the photo, and I let myself go back to that day in my memory. “Our mom and dad took us for her birthday because she was obsessed with Frozen. Obsessed. A detail she will deny to this day because, of course, now, it’s super cliché.”
He laughs against my ear.
But the happy memory sours for me. Because years later, when Sophie changed her name and came out to my parents, it sparked a chasm in my family—one she unfairly blames herself for.
“You’re very protective of her,” he mumbles like it’s something brave or commendable. Like doing the bare minimum, loving someone unconditionally, is so great.
“I have to be. He left us because…” I swallow. God, I don’t want to cry, not here in such a good moment, and definitely not in front of him. But something in the way he squeezes me tighter makes me feel safe, like I can bare my soul without vulnerability.
“I don’t understand how people can be so bad at love. How could he hurt his own kids because of his own selfish ignorance? How can you claim to love someone and hurt them so badly?”
“That’s not love.”
I turn my head to look into his eyes. This same brooding man who scowled at me when I read his palm suddenly knows about love. Because of course he does. I’ve seen the way he works to get Beau back in his life, the way he beats himself up for what he’s doing with me.
“I see the way you are with her, how amazing you are with your family, Charlotte.”
I quickly shake my head. “No, I’m only doing what I should—”
Cutting me off, he takes me by the face and pulls me close. “Stop it. Stop selling yourself short. I bet your mother and sister don’t think that. I’m sure they think you’re just as amazing as I do.”
Heat floods my body, turning everything in me to mush. Emerson Grant thinks I’m amazing.
“I’m a mess,” I argue. “Look at where I live. I’m clumsy and forgetful and messy…”
His lips press against mine as he mumbles, “You’re perfect.” Then he pulls away and stares at me sternly, his voice taking on a darker, edgier tone. “Now, stop arguing with me.”
Instantly, my face relaxes, and the stress slides off my shoulders. I set the picture frame on the shelf as I step into his arms. “Yes, Sir,” I reply.
“I’m going to make you forget every bad thing you’ve ever said about yourself. And if I catch you saying anything self-deprecating, you’ll be punished. Understand?”
There’s a tremor under my skin, from fear or from excitement, or maybe I’m just caught up in this moment and everything he’s saying to me. I quickly reply with a head nod.
His hands cup my face as he arches a brow and tilts his head down toward me. “Your words, Charlotte.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl,” he whispers, his forehead pressed against mine. Then he smiles, and it feels as if the scene has come to an end, and we’re just us again.
As he brushes my hair back, I stare up at him, trying to navigate this place we’re in. What are we? Does he feel what I’m feeling because, right now, my heart feels so incredibly full that it’s terrifying. Someday, Emerson will leave me, either because the novelty has worn off or because his son has made his way back into his life and there’s no room for me there. I know it’s going to hurt like hell when that day finally arrives, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for it.
Almost as if he can sense the erratic fear-laced thoughts running through my head, Emerson kisses me hard. Suddenly, I’m lifted off my feet and carried to my un-made queen-size bed. With my legs wrapped around his waist, he crawls down the center, placing me on the pillows.
“We really don’t have to stay here,” I stammer. “We can go back to your house—”
His lips trail down to my neck as he grinds himself between my legs, knocking all of the rational words and thoughts straight out of my head. I let out a breathy moan.
“You like that?” he mutters against my skin.
“Uh-huh.”
“Want me to do it again?”
“Yes, please.” I sigh.
Laying his body over mine, he grinds his hard length against me again, sending a shot of arousal through my body. Something about that action, the way his body moves, the promise of sex, has me in knots, and I moan again.
My legs are locked around his waist as he kisses my collarbone, trailing downward to my chest. Lifting my shirt at the hem, he swipes it over my head.
“Tell me what else you want, Charlotte.”
I freeze. Dirty talk? I can’t. Just the idea of saying the words out loud has me tensing.
His movements stop, and he sits up, leaving my skin craving his.
“I’m waiting…” he teases. From this angle, his large body hovering over me, hard and intimidating, makes me think I’m dreaming. I want him. I want him to take control, to bring me pleasure, but also to use my body to seek his own. And yeah, there are a million things I could think of that he could do at this very moment that I would love, so why can’t I express them?
What am I afraid of?
My hands cover my face. I can’t believe I’m about to say this…out loud…to my boss…to Beau’s dad.
“Charlotte…”
“I want to watch you,” I blurt out, my voice muffled by my hands.
“Watch me do what?”
“Ugh…” I groan. This is humiliating. But he literally told me to tell him what I want, so that’s what I’m doing. Before I can continue, he leans down and peels my hands from my face.
Taking both of my wrists in one hand, he holds them above my head, pinned to the pillow.
“Charlotte, listen to me. You are a smart, beautiful, confident woman. You don’t need me to tell you what you want. I want to hear it from you. You deserve pleasure just as much as I do, and trust me, I want nothing more than to hear you utter the dirtiest words, and then I want to do whatever it is you say. So say it.”
I’m staring up at him, my eyes filled to the brim with lust. Goddamn, this man. I’m fucked. Ruined forever because there’s no chance in hell I’m ever going to find a man my own age who can talk to me like that, make me feel the way he does.
“I want to watch you touch yourself.”
“Try again,” he says, peering down at me with an arched brow.
I have to make it dirtier. God, why is this so hard? “Stroke your cock for me.”
“Not bad, but I think you can do a little better than that.”
His voice gives me confidence, so I grind my hips upward as I say, “I want to watch you fuck your fist until you come all over my chest.”
His face is only inches from mine, and his eyes widen when my words come out. Jesus, I can’t believe I just said that.
“Fuck, that was hot.”
Letting go of my wrists, he sits up again. Kneeling between my legs, he keeps his eyes focused on mine as he unbuttons his jeans.
“Take yours off too,” he commands. I quickly unfasten my shorts, and shimmy them down my legs. After his jeans are unbuttoned, he drags down the zipper. But before he pulls his shaft out, he snaps the elastic on my thong. “These too. Let me see you.”
After everything we’ve done together, why am I so nervous about being naked in front of him? I strip them off anyway, unclasping my bra next, so I’m lying in front of him, sprawled out on my bed, naked in the dim light of my bedside lamp.
He moves to pull his dick out, but he stops. His hands run from my hips all the way up to my breasts, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at my body. His gaze filled with awe as he devours me with his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask playfully, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses each of my breasts, making my back arch and my brain forget my own name.
“So, you want to watch, huh?” he asks, lifting up.
Pulling down his jeans, he finally pulls out his cock, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I mean, I’ve never really admired a dick before, but something about Emerson’s is perfect. Made only more perfect by the way his large hand wraps around it, sliding from the base to the head, and squeezing the tip.
With his hungry eyes on me, he licks his palm, getting his hand nice and wet before stroking himself again. I’m squirming against my sheets with need as I watch him.
I shift my hips and bite my lip. “Do that again,” I whisper.
I feel so dirty. I can’t believe I asked that and I can’t believe he’s doing it, but since that moment in the hallway, I’ve gotten a taste of liberation, and it’s so good. This feeling of freedom to be sexual and feel good and not bad about that is so addicting. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel this way with anyone other than Emerson, so I’m going to savor it for as long as I can.
His chest heaves as he moves his hand, keeping his on me as he jacks himself slowly. Liquid heat pools in my belly, and I struggle not to rub my thighs together, no matter how much I want to.
“Faster,” I whisper in a breathy plea.
He picks up his pace, and I watch his mouth fall open as he does, his eyes hooded with lust.
“Touch yourself,” he barks, taking my hand and guiding it to my open legs. When my fingers graze over my clit, the desire grows stronger. He watches my fingers as I slide them through my wet folds and circle back to my clit. He’s practically hypnotized by the movement.
“Fuck yourself,” he says, and his fist jerks faster.
As I sink two fingers deep inside me, we groan in unison. Then, I begin to pump in sync with him. “I want to come all over you, Charlotte.”
“Do it,” I reply. I’m dragging my pleasure out, and I know once I’m ready, I could easily come right along with him.
His free hand drags down my hip to clutch my thigh tightly in his grip, and I can tell he’s forcing himself not to come. And more than anything, I want to watch his face when he does let go and unloads all of that pleasure onto me.
“Do it, Emerson,” I cry out. “Come all over me.” Right on cue, he lets out a heavy grunt, dragging the tip of his cock along my belly as warm jets of cum paint my skin. His expression is perfect, half agony and half euphoria.
A few hard circles around my clit, and I come undone right along with him. Biting my bottom lip, I tilt my head back and let the sensation take me away.
Then, he’s kissing me again, dragging my face up to meet his. I latch desperately onto his neck and tangle my tongue with his.
“Fuck, that was incredible. You are incredible,” he pants against my lips.
We both collapse against the mattress, coming down from the high. He jumps up and disappears into my small en suite bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm wet washcloth that he uses to gently clean up the mess on my stomach.
When he returns to the bed, I expect him to button up his pants, kiss me goodbye, and leave. What I don’t expect is him dropping his pants, draping them over a chair, and flicking off the bedside lamp as he crawls into bed next to me.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“What does it look like?”
“You really don’t have to—”
“Charlotte,” he snaps in a deep authoritative tone that shuts me up.
There’s a shred of moonlight peeking in through the window of the pool house and it’s just enough light to make out his features on the pillow next to me. His eyes are open as he stares back at me, his hands caressing my hip and back under the blanket.
And I try to remember if I ever felt as close to Beau as I feel with Emerson right now. I’ve been telling myself it’s just sex. I’m open with him and it makes me feel closer to him, but what if it’s not just about the sex? What if it’s more than that?
“What are you thinking?” I whisper again as my eyes get heavy and he pulls me closer.
I nuzzle into the comfort of his broad chest and heavy arms as he presses his lips against my ear. Maybe I’m already dreaming because I can’t believe the answer that comes out of his mouth.
“I was thinking that I don’t deserve you.”
