Beauty and the Running Back

by Colleen Masters

  “What...for?” I ask, digging my heels in ever-so-slightly.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a pretty decent cook,” he replies, “Let me make you dinner. We can call it a belated double-birthday celebration, since our other attempts at celebrating got...derailed this weekend.”

  Dinner at Emerson’s apartment? That sounds an awful lot like a romantic evening to me. And though I know it would be wise to take this whole thing slow, I just can’t resist him tonight. Who am I kidding—when have I ever been able to resist Emerson Sawyer?

  “OK,” I smile, “Lead on, Iron Chef.”

  * * *

  We swing by a fancy high-end grocery store on the way to Emerson’s apartment so he can gather his ingredients. I can’t help but smile wistfully as I think of the last time he cooked for me. There was so much sweetness and sorrow wrapped up in those few fleeting weeks of our younger years that any thought of them is bursting with remembered sensation. Of course, it’s not like this reunion of ours has been without its emotional moments.

  “Here we are,” Emerson says, drawing to a stop on a gorgeous block lined with cozy cafes and classy boutiques. He leads me up a set of stone steps and unlocks a door there.

  “This is where you live?” I breathe, glancing over my shoulder at the cosmopolitan block.

  “Sure is,” he says, holding the door for me.

  I expect to walk into the lobby of an apartment building, a ground floor leading off to a bunch of different units. But as Emerson nudges open a second door and steps through, I feel my jaw drop. The entire space inside is an open, spacious loft. This entire building is his. I’ve watched enough house-hunting reality TV to know that this is easily a multi-million dollar property—and this isn’t even his only place!

  The impossibly high ceilings vault above a perfectly-arranged interior. There’s a huge, sparkling kitchen, a sunken living room, and an enclosed bedroom off the main space. Huge, towering windows take up the entire wall opposite us, and lead off onto a private terrace. The design is mostly minimal—white walls and hardwood floors—with purposeful touches of natural materials like wood and stone. The appliances and decor are an artful mix of new and vintage. Emerson’s home is utterly perfect. It could have been ripped right off my “dream home” Pinterest page. Amazing how our tastes are so aligned, even though we come from totally different backgrounds and have led completely different lives.

  I’d call that a good sign.

  I gasp as a throw pillow comes barreling my way, only to realize in the next moment that the galloping bundle of white fluff is actually an adorable little West Highland Terrier. The tiny dog collides with my legs, tail wagging a million miles an hour.

  “You must be Roxie,” I laugh, reaching down to scratch her ears.

  “Yep. That’s the lady of the house,” Emerson smiles.

  “House?” I shoot back, kneeling down to get a better look at the friendly Westie. “More like palace.”

  “Pick your jaw up off the floor and tell me what kind of wine you like,” he laughs, setting the groceries down on the kitchen island.

  “Something red,” I say, staring in wonder at the impeccable space.

  “Coming right up,” he replies, opening a concealed miniature wine cellar nestled into the island. “How does a nice Rioja sound?”

  “It sounds...nice,” I tell him, settling down at one of the wooden stools before the counter. Roxie follows me over into the kitchen and sits at my feet, staring up at me with amiable, adorable curiosity.

  “She likes you,” Emerson observes, pausing to give Roxie a good nuzzling.

  “Well. She has wonderful taste,” I kid, flipping my blonde hair theatrically.

  He produces a couple of wine glasses and pours generously. “To our 26th years,” he smiles, clinking my glass.

  “To you not doing too shabbily for yourself,” I reply, taking a sip of the delicious wine. “I mean, you told me how well you’ve made out with this app development gig, but holy crap. This loft, Emerson...”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, gathering and prepping his ingredients. “I actually prefer it to my place in London, to tell you the truth. But that’s where Cooper decided he needs me most, so.”

  It takes a second for Emerson’s words to click. Of course. He’s not even based here at the New York offices of Bastian. He runs the show in Europe. That means, of course, that he’s probably due back there soon. Like, the end of the week soon. Why didn’t I think of that before?

  “You OK?” he asks, heating up some olive oil in a cast iron skillet.

  “Oh. Yeah,” I say, snapping back to attention. “I just...Kind of forgot that this is a temporary situation. You being in New York.”

  “Mmm,” he mutters, noncommittally, “It’s true, I did only swing by to train the new recruit at Cooper’s request. If I would have known that you were the new recruit, well...”

  “Well what?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the island.

  He glances over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have bought a return ticket, in the end.”

  I’m torn between elation and trepidation. Best not force the issue of what’s going to happen between us once my training is complete and focus on the moment at hand. I watch as Emerson grills two delectable salmon fillets, blanches some broccoli rabe, and prepares a small batch of pesto pasta. The food smells amazing, the wine is fantastic, and I’m here with one of my favorite people on earth. Today may have been a little bit rough, but it sure is shaping up nicely. If I try real hard, I can pretend that this is what my life is like every day, and forget that this is just a fleeting anomaly.

  “Here we go,” Emerson says proudly, plating our food and nodding toward the terrace. “Shall we?”

  I follow him out onto the secluded patio with Roxie right on my heels. We settle down at a little table beneath a canopy of string lights and overgrown ivy. I know I shouldn’t get attached to this place, this feeling, but I can’t help it. This is all so...perfect. And that’s even before I taste the food.

  “Oh my god...” I murmur, taking my first bite of perfectly grilled salmon.

  “Better than my risotto, even?” Emerson asks, helping himself to his meal.

  “I never would have thought it possible but, yes,” I exclaim, savoring the taste.

  “I kept up with the hobby,” he says modestly, “Spending a bit of time in France certainly whipped my cooking skills into shape.”

  “You lived in France?” I ask, wide-eyed.

  “Oh yeah,” he nods, “France, England, Spain, even Finland for a while.”

  “Damn,” I whistle, “I’ve been in the same apartment since I was eighteen.”

  “Nothing wrong with having roots,” he replies.

  “Yeah...” I murmur, thinking of my grandparents’ threat to tear those roots right out from under me.

  We savor our incredible meal, the fine wine, each other’s company—and of course the delightful presence of Roxie. It’s shaping up to be a pretty good first day at the new job after all, even if this is strictly extra-curricular. The evening wears on, a couple more glasses of wine are poured, and Emerson even manages to find a record we can both agree on—Iron and Wine, an old favorite of ours. We retire back into the loft, and I meander about the space at my leisure, taking in all the little details that make his house a home.

  “I’d offer you a grand tour,” Emerson says, watching me from the center of the room, “But this is pretty much it.”

  “What about in there?” I ask, nodding toward the bedroom door.

  “You trying to get a peek at my bedroom, Rowan?” he asks, grinning.

  “Maybe I am, Sawyer,” I shrug, “Unless you’re afraid of me finding your Playboy stash or something.”

  “This from the girl who kept a vibrator within arm’s length through her entire adolescence,” he laughs, walking toward his room.

  “I have needs, OK?” I exclaim, feigning defensiveness.

  “Is that so?” he r
eplies, his voice going raspy around the edges as he pauses in the doorway of his bedroom.

  The delicious wine has lowered both of our inhibitions, and my body comes alive as I feel us transitioning into the more...sensual part of the evening. We haven’t mentioned our steamy kiss from this weekend, yet, but we seem to be coming back around to right where we left off. Emerson’s blue eyes flash with desire as I step up to him, resting a hand on the firm panes of his chest.

  “You know about my needs better than anyone,” I say softly, trailing my fingers down his cut, defined torso.

  “Mmm. We’ll just have to see what we can do about them, then,” he murmurs, catching my wrist. My eyes go wide as he draws my hand to his full lips and takes the tip of my finger into his mouth. I feel his tongue brush against my fingertip, remember what it felt like to feel his mouth other places...and break off into his room, chest pounding.

  It’s a small, simple space with high ceilings and a huge king bed front and center. A sleek dresser and wide window round out the space, and a few well-placed keepsakes make it feel like a sacred space. I trail my fingers along the dresser, setting down my drained glass of wine. I’m just on the far edge of tipsy, and my cares are swirling away by the second.

  There are a few framed pictures on the dresser, and my stomach turns to see an old wedding photo. It isn’t of our parents’ ridiculous ceremony, of course, but I do recognize a much-younger Deb. This must be from her first wedding to Emerson’s father, a man who looks remarkably like the one standing next to me now. Deb looks so happy. Healthy, even. It breaks my heart to think of what her life has become.

  I tear my eyes away from the old picture and notice that a second frame holds not a photograph, but a drawing. It only takes a split second for me to recognize it, and as soon as I do, I feel my hand fly to my lips. There, on Emerson’s dresser, is the sketch of him I drew when we were kids, the one I gave to him on his eighteenth birthday. The drawing features him in half-profile, looking serious and sure. I worked on this piece for hours—days, even—before giving it to him in that seaside motel room. It’s been preserved perfectly, lovingly, and for a spell I’m too moved to speak.

  Two strong arms wrap around my waist from behind as I stare at the picture of teenage Emerson, drawn by my very own hand. I clasp his hands where they rest against my body, letting my head lean back against his chest.

  “You kept it,” I whisper, turning my face toward his.

  “Of course,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of my head. “That picture has traveled the world with me. I’ve kept it in every home I’ve ever lived in, from my little apartment in Philly to my flat in London. Every time I get to thinking that I don’t deserve my success, that I’m just some punk kid who’s pulling one over on the rest of the world, I just look at this picture. It’s always reminded me that there’s someone in the world who thinks I’m strong, and worthy. Someone who loved me, once.”

  “Loves you,” I whisper, turning to face him, “Not loved. Loves. Present tense.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the teacher this week,” he murmurs, running his hands down the sides of my body. “What are you doing giving me a grammar lesson?”

  “Oh, I think we both still have plenty to teach each other, Emerson,” I say, taking his scruffy, sculpted face in my hands.

  “You mean it, then?” he asks, grabbing hold of my slender hips. “You...you still...?”

  “I love you, Emerson,” I whisper, letting those blue eyes swallow me whole. “I always have. I always will.”

  “Thank god,” he grins, pulling me to him, “‘Unrequited’ isn’t a good shade on me.”

  “You mean...” I breathe.

  “I love you too, Abby,” he says, “But right now, I need you too much to waste another second talking about it.”

  “Fine by me,” I murmur.

  I throw my arms around Emerson’s shoulders as he brings his lips to mine. He scoops me up into his arms as his powerful jaw works my mouth wide open. I clasp my ankles around his tapered waist, and he bears my weight as if it were nothing. His tongue glides against mine, caressing it, as he spins me around in the air, laying me out flat across his king bed. He lowers his staggering body to mine, encompassing me, subsuming me. I can feel his every muscle ripple as we move together, a tangle of limbs and lust. I bury my fingers in his hair, letting my tongue sweep against his as his hands roam down the length of my body.

  He tastes exactly the same, beneath the fine red wine. But while our bodies find the same easy syncopation we’ve always known, there’s more sureness and grace in our motion. Emerson was all raw power at eighteen, but now? He’s totally comfortable in his body, assured and knowledgeable. His every muscle is a tightly coiled spring of power and finesse. I’ve been craving his touch for eight years, but I never could have guessed how good it could possibly feel to have it again.

  There’s no preciousness in our desire, now. No need for things to be right or perfect. We just need each other, in the rawest, most carnal way. We tear at each other’s clothing, ripping off layers and tossing them across the room. I rake my nails across the firm planes of his body—his rippling back, his impossibly cut torso—as he grabs hold of whatever part of me he can. In a matter of minutes, our naked bodies are pressed together on his king bed, our skin flushed with want, our mouths insatiable.

  “I almost forgot this,” I whisper, tracing the outline of his sparrow tattoo as he kneels above me. His cock is rock hard, throbbing at its full, massive best. I bring my hands eagerly to that pulsating length, shivering with delight as I wrap my fingers around his shaft. His eyes close as I work my hands along the full stretch of him, my thumbs tracing along the ridge of his swollen head. “Almost forgot this, too,” I grin.

  “Yeah?” he growls, catching my wrists and pinning them over my head, “Well, let me remind you of a few other things, while we’re at it.”

  His eyes rake down along the length of my naked body. My back arches as if his very gaze is caressing me. I let my knees fall open as he brings his lips to the hollow of my throat, leaving searing kisses all along my skin. He lowers himself to me as he moves his mouth over my body, letting me feel the tip of him brush against my wet slit.

  “You’re so ready for me,” he growls, pressing his cock forward by just a hair as he kneads my tits with capable hands. He pinches my nipples just hard enough, and I cry out as the first thundering shockwave of pleasure runs through me.

  “Christ,” I breathe, my eyes wide with wonder, “You know exactly how to touch me.”

  In reply, he lowers his lips to my nipple. Keeping his eyes on mine, he takes that hard peak into his mouth, rubbing against it with the tip of his tongue. I gasp as his fingers skirt down my lean torso and find my wet, aching sex. Sucking and biting at my tits, he traces his fingers along the slick length of me, working farther into me with every pass before he finally, gloriously, lays two strong fingers against my hard, throbbing clit.

  My head falls back against the pillows as he bites my nipple, tracing firm, quick circles over that tender nub between my legs. I grab onto huge handfuls of bedding, forcing myself to breathe as he rolls his fingers over my clit, faster and harder with every moment. My knees begin to tremble as I dig my nails into his back, holding on for dear life.

  “Right there,” I moan, as he flicks and kneads that pulsing bundle. “God, that’s good.”

  “You think that’s good?” he growls, catching a handful of my blonde hair in his hand and turning me to face him. The sudden jolt of force coupled with his expert touch between my legs nearly makes me come right then and there. “Just wait...”

  He gives me a swift, hard kiss, working my jaw open and letting his tongue sweep deeply into my mouth. I wrap my arms around his neck, shuddering on the edge of orgasm as he bears down on my clit.

  “I’m so close,” I whisper.

  “How close?” he growls in my ear, forcing my knees further apart with his.

  “So...so...�
� I gasp, my eyes screwing up in bliss. I teeter on the edge, ready to tumble.

  But the room spins around as Emerson grabs hold of my hips, flips me roughly onto my stomach. Shock and illicit delight confound me as I look back at him over my shoulder. There’s a savage hunger burning in his blue eyes as he kneels over me from behind, letting me feel his enormous cock against the tight, forbidden circle of my ass. For just a moment, I think I know where we’re headed, but again he surprises me.

  Pulling me forcefully onto my hands and knees, Emerson runs his fingers into the firm rise of my ass. I arch my back, knowing how much he loves to drink in the sight of me wild with needing him. With a low, guttural growl, he tugs me back toward him, lowering his mouth to my sex. My mouth falls open in amazement as he pushes against my flesh, parting me before him from behind. The illicit thrill is almost too much, which makes it just enough to drive me absolutely crazy.

  I savor the sensation of his tongue tracing all along my slit, licking me from behind. The very next moment, I feel the tip of his tongue against my raw, tender clit. I buck against him as he has his fill of me, licking up every drop of my desire as he works that hard button. I barrel toward the edge of bliss, blinded by the force of it. My screams echo around the small room as Emerson wraps his lips around my clit and gives it one last forceful suck.

  I’m done for.

  With an elated scream, I come hard into his waiting mouth. My limbs shudder with the force of the orgasm that rolls wildly through me, lighting up every nerve ending with unprecedented sensation. Emerson drinks me up, unable to get enough, until I’m absolutely spent. I turn to look back at him, dizzy and amazed. In the throbbing aftermath of my bliss, I can only think of one thing.

  “I need you to fuck me, Emerson,” I breathe, on my hands and knees before him. “I need to feel you inside of me. Now.”

  “As if I could wait another second,” he growls, taking my face in his and kissing me deeply. I can taste myself on his tongue, and shudder with delighted anticipation.

  With his mouth on mine, he lifts my body and presses me hard against his wooden headboard. I grab on tight as he moves behind me, flattening me against the sturdy surface. There’s just enough time for me to take a breath as he produces a condom from the bedside table, tears the package open with his teeth, and rolls it down his throbbing shaft. I brace myself, lifting my ass to Emerson as I feel him poised behind me, his hard chest heaving with anticipation.