Fragile Illusion: Stag Brothers Book 3

by Lainey Davis

  It's Emma's turn for busy hands, though, and I nibble at her neck while she searches my body, tracing the muscles along my spine and then yanking down my shorts. It kills me to separate from her body, even for a minute, but I draw back to get my shorts and my boxers down, kicking them across the room before I ease myself back on top of her.

  I hiss when she grabs hold of my shaft, her small hand wrapped fully around me at the root. Christ, I fit perfectly into her hot little hand. She starts to stroke me just right and I'm worried I'm going to cum in her hand. "Chezz," I tell her. "You feel so fucking good right now. Your hands are amaz--"

  "Thatcher," she says. I look her in the eye and she seems impatient.

  "Huh?"

  "Shut up and fuck me." Emma lines me up with her opening and she doesn't have to tell me twice. I sink inside her, letting out a deep groan as I fill her up. This is bliss. Emma is hot and tight, slick with need, against the bare, sensitive skin of my cock. She moans and moves with me as I slide, slowly, in and out. I think back to her words from my truck. I want someone to forget to be careful with me. I know now that she doesn't want slow and gentle. She wants fire, hot enough to melt ice. I look into her eyes, touching my forehead to hers, and I slam into her.

  "Ahhh! Yes!" she says, bucking her hips to meet mine. "Yes. Harder."

  You got it, I think, pounding her body, but I can't even find words to talk. Emma is so wet, so tight. I can feel her squeezing my dick and she feels like home. Emma starts moaning into my mouth as I slam her mercilessly. I brace my heels against the headboard for leverage and redouble my efforts. My dick rams into her and each time I think I've gone too far, she claws at my shoulders and yells, "More, Thatcher! Fuck me just like this. Now!"

  I start sweating, my weight balanced on my forearms. I look down and watch her tits jiggle with each thrust, and I feel savage. But Emma looks me in the eye with a fierce expression, and she's just as wild as I am. Her nails dig into my shoulders as she tries to pull me closer. She tilts her hips up against me, finding the friction she needs, until she starts pulsing against my cock. I can feel it before she even starts moaning that she's coming for me. Fuck, her face is beautiful when she comes.

  "I'm going to cum, Emma," I pant out, and then it happens. I see sparks. My balls draw up tight and I explode inside of her, hot jets spurting out endlessly until I collapse on top of her. I feel Emma still throbbing around me and I kiss her. She holds my face with both hands, moaning into my mouth until her waves of pleasure die down. This is so different, being with a woman I know and, well, someone I care about, even as a friend.

  "Holy shit, Stag," she says, breathing heavily. "I've waited my whole life for that."

  Exhausted, I lower my upper body to the side of her, stroking her hair and letting her hold me. "For what, Chezz?" I don't want to move. Ever.

  "For someone to fuck my brains out." Her eyes close. She's still breathing pretty heavy and I like looking down at the way her body moves as she breathes.

  "You had sex before me, though? That didn't seem like your first time…" Panic surges through me at the thought that I was just rough and rowdy with a virgin, but Emma shakes her head.

  "No. You misunderstand me. I've 'made love' before and had slow, gentle, boring-ass sex with men who asked me things like whether they should stop before I have an orgasm, because they were worried I'd have a seizure."

  "Hmmm," I just sort of make a sound of displeasure. That hadn't occurred to me, but from the tone of her voice she didn't really like that level of caution during sex.

  She wriggles out from under me and I feel a sense of loss when I slide out from her body. Emma props up on one elbow and traces a finger along the ink on my chest. "I'm saying thank you, Thatcher." She kisses my skin and the wet heat of her mouth makes my cock spring back to life. "Thank you for unleashing your inner beast."

  I laugh as she runs her hands along my body. I take her hand in mine and guide it toward my dick, now standing straight up against my stomach again. "Chezz," I whisper into her hair, "I'll get wild with you any time that you want."

  Twenty-Eight

  EMMA

  After a blistering round two of riding Thatcher's cock while grabbing the wrought-iron bed frame for dear life, I feel both thoroughly exhausted and utterly embarrassed that his family likely heard me shrieking and screaming. "They're all going to know we were fucking in here," I whisper, hiding under the sheet once the sex-drunk euphoria begins to fade.

  "Chezz," he says, tugging my hair, "They already assumed we've been fucking. We're engaged, remember?" I roll my eyes at him. Sex was never supposed to be part of our arrangement. I rub my fists on my temples, trying to figure out how to get back on track to professionalism. If that's even possible. Shit.

  I rise from the bed, rummaging around the drawers for some clothes, and almost don't hear Thatcher ask, "What did you mean when you said of course you were on the pill?"

  "Hm?"

  "The way you said it, like I should know already. It's not like we had a lot of contraception chats when we got fake engaged…"

  "Oh," I say, plunking back down beside him on the mattress. "To be fair I was a little distracted by all the orgasms you were handing out at the time." He laughs, pulling my hand to his mouth and kissing my palm. I'm stunned by the gesture, by the gentle feel of his lips beside the scratchier sensation of his beard along my skin. I pause and enjoy what he's doing. So much for not mixing work and pleasure, I guess, I think, before continuing. "The tone was me feeling like I have no choices about being on the pill. There's a correlation between seizure activity and hormone levels in a woman's cycle," I tell him, waiting for him to cringe, but he just looks at me, listening. "So I take a pill that keeps the hormones steady all month long. It helps, along with my other medications."

  "I think all that shit is fascinating," he says, standing to put on his swim trunks. "The way they can know what might work to make your brain stop freaking out. Or whatever it's doing."

  I nod, and then remember my own question. "While we're talking, can I ask you something?" He looks up from his duffel bag, where he'd been rooting around searching for something. "When did you get tested?"

  "Oh," he says, biting his lip and looking out the window. "That was just last week actually."

  I frown, assuming he'd gone to the clinic with the intention of sleeping with me this weekend. "So you just thought I'd jump into bed with you? What ever happened to your best behavior, Thatcher?"

  He puts his palms up in surrender, saying, "Easy there, Chezz. Testing had nothing to do with you, although I never once let up hope that I'd convince you to sleep with me. Let's be perfectly clear about that." I make to leave the room, but he tugs on my arm. "I got tested because of my father," he says.

  Wow, I think, sitting back down. "Ok, tell me more about that."

  He flops next to me on the bed. "This whole fucking week, Emma. This whole fucking week has been so crazy. You had a seizure, I saw my fucking father, my agent got me a quarter million dollar project offer and--"

  "Holy shit, Thatcher! You didn't say anything!" I slap his chest. "We should celebrate!"

  He grabs my wrist mid-smack and pins my hand against his skin, and I can feel his heart racing. He's quiet for a minute, but says, "My father is dying. He won't get sober, so they won't put him on a transplant list. I started talking to the hospital about their living donor program." He looks at me, his grey eyes hard as steel right now. "That's when I got tested. For basically every disease that exists."

  "Thatcher," I whisper, struggling to adjust my body so I can reach out to him, offer some sort of comforting gesture. He seems almost startled by that, so I extract my hand from his and pull his head onto my lap, running my fingers through his hair. "That's a hell of a week." He nods, silent, pondering, but relaxes into my touch. I take a deep breath, feeling way out of my element with this. Things have certainly moved beyond our little quid-pro-quo contract. "I think you should tell your brothers you saw your father."
>
  I feel his body stiffen and I can literally feel him constructing an emotional wall between us. "I think you should stay out of my family business, Emma," he says, his voice cold. He rises from the bed and grabs a towel from the top of the dresser. "I'm going wash the sweat and sex off myself and then soak in the hot tub." And, in a few sharp strides, he's gone from the room.

  Thatcher avoids me most of the day. Not obviously, but I can tell by his subtle shifts away from me or the way he abruptly tosses in a joke to steer the conversation away from anything related to his family. I don't know why I feel like I should meddle on this issue. I guess I feel partially responsible for him even being in this position. He wouldn't have seen his father at the hospital if I had done what I needed to and slept rather than go to his brother's house. But then he'd never know about his father, a small part of my consciousness reminds me. Surely questions are worse than working through a painful truth.

  I bring my concentration back to the room, where everyone is hanging out and talking. Juniper and Ty picked up their marriage license. She starts telling a story about not having had parents and how that affects her when she's giving a health history, whether she's at the courthouse or registering for the Olympic team. I think about the tradeoffs for having parents that were involved in every, single aspect of my life. My mom was always so worried about my health that she never let me do anything. Always chaperoned every trip, said no to every slumber party invite until those faded away, and told me I was too fragile for every single after school activity, saying they'd all either stress me out until I had a seizure or else risk me getting hit in the head, triggering a seizure.

  Over dinner of grilled steaks and roasted potatoes with corn on the cob, Tim startles the room by asking me about my medications. "I’m sorry," I tell him, looking up from my food. "Can you ask again?"

  He dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "I was wondering who your neurologist is and whether you're participating in any new trials for epilepsy." Everyone stares at him, because Tim has never casually asked me a question. He shrugs. "My college alumni magazine had an article about some new research for seizures."

  I nod. "My doctor is Dr. Khalsa and yes. Everything I'm on now has been part of his research, since I started college." I tell them how my big act of defiance against my parents was applying for a room and board scholarship so I could live on campus and finally get out from under their thumb. Once I moved into the dorms, my roommate, Nicole, learned about my epilepsy and dragged me to the student health center. She'd read a case report for one of her intro classes, studying Dr. Khalsa and the business angle of the medications he developed. I look around at all the Stags and Juniper and they're fascinated by what I'm saying. Not concerned or pitying--interested.

  It's been so long since I've told anyone about my condition--not since human resources when I got my job. I'm really not used to people who don't flip out and treat me like I'm some fragile flower about to wilt.

  So I keep talking, blushing a little bit as I explain that after my seizure at Alice's barbecue, Dr. Khalsa invited me to try a study for medical marijuana. Thatcher perks right up at that. "I forgot about that, Chezz." He waggles his eyebrows at his family. "Now you really know why I'm marrying this girl."

  I shake my head. "I can't share with you. That'd be unethical--and illegal. I haven't decided if I'm going to do it, anyway."

  Tim nods, contemplating. "I wonder what the ramifications are for medical marijuana use for, say, professional athletes…I mean it's legal in this state for certain conditions…" Alice swats his hand and tells him to stop thinking about work while we're on vacation.

  As she rises to clear the table, Tim stands to help her. I meet Thatcher's eye and try to signal that I think he should tell his family. "Tell them," I whisper. "They deserve to know."

  Thatcher's gaze turns dark and he shakes his head, his eyes holding me to silence.

  Twenty-Nine

  THATCHER

  We all swim in the lake again after dinner, but Emma keeps her sexy ass as far away from me as she can. I know she's pissed that I'm not telling my family about finding Ted Stag on his deathbed, but fuck if I'm going to bring that up two weeks from my brother's wedding. He should be focused on his bride, on starting a life and a new family with this woman.

  I sigh and think back to fucking Emma this morning. I'm not used to the idea of sticking around--I do not do relationships with women--but I definitely want to go at it again with her. I need to get her to stop being mad at me first. Maybe knowing we have an expiration date makes sex with Emma feel more comfortable. Not comfortable. Explosive. Searing. Addictive. Fuck. I'm forced to float on my back in the water and stare at her, remembering the look on her face earlier when I made her come with my tongue and, later, my cock.

  Juniper wants a Sushi Go rematch after the sun sets, but I try to send signals to Emma to wrap things up early so we can go to pound town again. She seems oblivious, and kicks my foot away when I try to stroke her calf with my bare toes. I was kind of a dick to her all day, but I know I can make up for it. I make a point of rattling the ice in my glass, making eyes at her over the top, but she scowls. All right, enough of this shit.

  "Emma, can I talk to you for a second?" I rise from the table and head toward our room.

  "I'll be back in just a few minutes," she says, not moving her eyes from her hand of cards. "I'm about to kick Tim's ass again."

  I feel myself getting angry, and that just pisses me off further. This is why I don't get into relationships, damn it. I don't understand what's pissing her off right now, but I know it all definitely changed since we had sex. I kick the bedpost in our room, yelping when my bare foot connects with the iron. I'm hopping around howling in pain when Emma comes in, crossing her arms and looking pissed off.

  "What the hell is with you, Emma?" I hiss, sitting down to rub my foot.

  "What the hell is with you, Stag? You give me the silent treatment all day, refuse to tell your family that you're thinking of giving a major organ to your father, and expect me to keep this secret from them all?"

  "You have no problem keeping the fact that we barely know each other and are pretending to be engaged a secret," I whisper-yell at her. "I gave you the scoop you needed to keep your job, and now you have the access you need to my family for these other articles, so mind your fucking business. Play your part."

  Her eyes flare at me and she puffs out her cheeks. I can tell she wants to deliver an earful, but is trying to contain herself. We stare at each other for a few minutes until she says, "I'd prefer it if you slept on the floor tonight."

  "Fine!" I throw all the pillows from the bed down onto the braided rug on the floor. I yank off my shirt, grab the quilt from the trunk at the foot of the bed, and flop my ass on the carpet. She huffs out of the room, I guess to finish her card game, and I pretend to be asleep when she comes back a few minutes later.

  I close my eyes and listen as Emma gets herself ready for bed. She turns off the light and we listen to each other breathe until I eventually fall asleep.

  In the morning, Alice sends us off with a huge cooler of snacks and sandwiches, as if it's a six-hour drive to Emma's parents house instead of an hour and a half. Tim tells me to give Senator Cheswick his best and I grit my teeth when he asks if I can slip him Tim's card. Emma looks fucking amazing in her fancy dress for this country club party. She's even wearing pearls. She looks me up and down--I told her dark jeans and a button down with wingtips is the most I'll nod toward that square lifestyle--and I can't tell if she approves or not, but she sniffs and hugs Alice and Juniper.

  Ty gives her a high-five, then pulls her into a hug. I stand leaning against my truck with my arms crossed while the five of them act like they've known each other a lifetime, and are parting ways forever more. "Emma," I say, "We don’t want to be late for your sister's thing."

  She waves and climbs into the truck, her good mood fading as the door slams shut. After a few minutes of driving, she says, "Ok, we need to mak
e a plan for today."

  "I plan to deflect every question to you, Chezz," I tell her, shifting into fourth gear and letting the sound of the tires on the highway drown out her voice. By the time we pull into the party and I toss my keys to the valet, I think there can't possibly be anything colder than Emma's mood. And then, of course, we encounter her parents.

  Thirty

  EMMA

  "I accept your apology, Veronica." After the nightmare at the country club, Thatcher dumped me and my things on the curb and peeled off in a snit. All I want to do now is sink into a hot bath and then go to bed. "Yes, I understand that you had planned this announcement with Logan a long time ago. I never intended to upstage you. Thatcher and I were trying to keep things quiet until after his brother's wedding, like I said."

  From the second we arrived today, my family picked at Thatcher. To his credit, he smiled and politely deflected every barb. I flush with pleasure again remembering my mother asking him where she might have seen his "little creations," since he's an artist. Thatcher smoothly asked her if she'd ever heard of the Museum of Modern Art. Did it with a straight face, too. She fluttered her hands around and promised to look him up later.

  But Veronica threw an absolute fit. She grew louder and louder, hissing and screaming that I sprung some edgy, artist fiancé on the family on purpose just to detract from her big moment with Logan. And my father chimed in that he didn't think my "engagement" was a good tactical move for his re-election campaign. The wait staff actually had to come to our table and ask Veronica to keep her volume down.

  "Veronica," I interrupt her asking me if it's absolutely necessary for Thatcher to wear a nose ring to her wedding. "I have a meeting with my neurologist in the morning, so I need to get some rest." Talking about my neurologist always gets my family to shut up immediately. They hate that they didn't select this doctor for me from their approved list of big names, but they do begrudgingly recognize that his help has improved my life dramatically. We hang up the phone after she offers another half-assed apology for letting her manners slip away in public. Because, of course, in private the other Cheswicks think it's fine for my family to judge people and make decisions about my love life based on how it looks for my father's campaign. I set an early alarm and flop angrily into bed, wondering how I'll smooth things over with Thatcher.