As we get dressed and walk quietly out the back of the club, so we don’t have to face anybody, I wonder if Emerson knows what he’s doing to me when he says stuff like that. Home, as if it’s ours. While we had sex, he called me his. He told me he wanted to fuck me forever, which could have been in-the-moment sex talk, but stuff like this keeps going to my head.
I feel like I’m his, and Emerson feels like mine. I’ve managed to block out any and all thoughts of forever with him and what that would look like because we made a deal two weeks ago when this started that no one could find out. That we would take whatever we could get.
So the deal we made doesn’t seem to correlate with the way we’re acting now, and I wonder if he notices that too.
The ride to his house is quiet, but he holds my hand over the console as he drives, stroking my thumb softly as the radio plays quietly over the speakers. I can’t silence the questions in my mind, and I’m too afraid to bring them up. If I do and he tells me what he said was just sex talk and that we are just a mostly-secret fling, then it will crush me.
I realize what I want is ludicrous. Absolutely irrational and insane. Because I want Emerson to put me first, even before Beau. I want him to tell me he cares more about our relationship than the one he’s trying to repair with his son.
It stings to know that is impossible. I’m stupid for even thinking it.
When we reach his place, he takes me straight upstairs. We don't stop in his bedroom either, pulling me into his giant bathroom. There’s a glass shower, and with one hand still laced with mine, he uses the other to turn on the water.
Then, without a word, he begins stripping me of my clothes. His ministrations are slow and deliberate, as if I’m sick or hurt and he’s trying to pamper me. When he pulls my blouse off, he kisses the black-stained skin where the candle wax fell. When he releases my bra, he kisses the red marks from the clamps. And when he pulls down my skirt, he gently presses his lips against the spot where he bit me earlier.
They’re not heated kisses. He’s not trying to get me warmed up for more sex. It feels more like he’s trying to heal the hurt, and I want to tell him there’s nothing to mend. Nothing physical at least. But if he can quiet these voices of doubt and fear in my head, that would be great.
Once I’m naked, he opens the shower door and whispers, “Get in.”
Then he takes off his clothes and follows me. We stand together under the hot spray, letting it wash over us both. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rest my face against his chest. Emerson is tall enough that I can nuzzle myself against his neck, and I love how well our bodies fit together. He’s just soft enough to be cozy and strong enough to be chiseled. I seriously don’t think a man’s arms have ever been so inviting.
We stand like that for a while, and I bite back everything I want to say or ask. This moment is too fragile, and one word of apprehension could have it all crumbling down around us. What would happen to me after that? What will my life look like after Emerson Grant and the Salacious Players’ Club? I could never go there without him, could I? Date another man? Call someone else Sir?
It all feels so impossible now. More than impossible—unfathomable.
When I pull away and reach for the soap, he stops me. “Let me.”
I watch as he fills his palm with shampoo, lathering it into my hair, slowly and sensually. He washes my hair like I’m the most delicate thing in the world. Like I mean everything to him, and I close my eyes to ward off the sting from that thought.
God, I’d give anything to feel like the most important thing in Emerson’s life. To be his whole world.
When he rinses my hair, I gaze up at him. And maybe he sees the redness in my eyes, but he pauses, looking down at me.
And he doesn’t say a word.
I swear he can feel what I’m feeling and knows what I’m truly afraid of, but he doesn’t tell me everything will be all right or that he will keep me forever. He just leans down and kisses me against my lips.
Then, he runs his fingers through my hair, applying conditioner before lathering up a washcloth and gently scrubbing every inch of my body.
“None of this was what I expected,” I mumble as he gets on his knees and runs the washcloth with precise attention up and down my legs.
“What did you expect?”
“Well, I thought I was the one who was supposed to please you,” I say, running my fingers through his hair.
“You do please me.” He says it with such cool confidence, as if it’s obvious. I’m not quite sure how I please him. He’s already had to punish me twice, and I don’t feel like I do enough for him anymore.
“Then why are you the one on your knees?”
He gazes slowly up at me, his hands still on my ankle. “You think because I’m the Dominant that I can’t take care of you?”
“Sort of,” I reply with a shrug.
“But you’re mine to take care of, Charlotte.” He lifts my foot to his knees as he lathers soap bubbles under my arch and between my toes. “This relationship is a give and take, not a one-way street. Not to mention, when we are not in that Dom/sub mode, I don’t want you to submit to me. I want you to let me worship you and…”
His voice trails, and my heart hammers in my chest while I wait for him to continue. But he doesn’t. And my mind is left to wander and replay every word, trying to figure out where he could have been going with that.
When he stands up, I let him rinse the suds from my body, but when he begins to clean himself, I grab his wrist.
“You said it was a two-way street.” And I see him start to argue, but he stops himself.
He has to bend a little to let me soap up his hair, and it makes us both laugh. I let my fingers glide slowly through the sparse strands of gray and I try to remember what it was like when I thought Emerson was so much older than me. I mean…he still is so much older, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore. That gap in our ages once felt like a wall between us, but is now gone.
After rinsing his hair, I lather his body, taking my time to learn the curves and textures of his physique. This feeling of intimacy washes over me as I explore every inch of him, not finding a single spot I don’t love. The broad slope of his shoulders. The patch of hair across his chest and the small line leading down his abs. That delicious V-shape of his hips and the thick muscles of his thighs.
This is dangerous. Getting so accustomed to his body—too attached, really. People who just have sex don’t do this. They don’t look at another person’s hands and arms and back and think this is mine.
“You’re mine to take care of too, Emerson,” I whisper as I drag the washcloth down his legs.
I’m being reckless, but my filter can only be held back so much. I just want him to know that two can play at his game. If he thinks it’s fun to toy with my emotions, then I can toy with his too.
And as I drop to my knees, like he did in front of me a moment ago, he strokes his hand over my head. I gaze up at him, and I see a hint of tension there.
“When was the last time you let someone take care of you?” I ask.
I’m not blind. I can see the way his cock is hardening right in front of my face, but I’m not paying attention to that yet. I’m still looking up at him. I need to know if Emerson acts this way around every girl he’s with, or if I’m somehow different and if any truth rings in those sweet words he tells me.
“A very long time,” he mutters, stroking my head.
“I want to take care of you,” I whisper, and I hope he knows I mean it as more than just making him come in this shower. Call it wishful thinking, but I know I’m disguising my actual feelings under promises of sex.
He blocks the shower spray from me, letting it hit his back and cascade down his body. I set the washcloth down and run my hands up his thighs, each time stopping before I reach the top. His breathing picks up as he gazes at me.
“I should be the one taking care of you,” he says, without pulling me to my feet.
“Well, maybe I want to spoil you,” I say in a light, almost joking manner. “Maybe I want to make you so dependent on me that you never want to leave me. I want to be so good for you that you keep me forever.”