Of course she knew, but her fear over the women at the comps always won over. At Pipeline, her behaviour had grown exceedingly aggressive. He remembered clearly Emma snarling at one of the Hawaiian surf-wear models he’d posed with at the request of his sponsor, Hunter Davis, the owner of Surf Hunter. The girl had put in a complaint about her, and the whole situation had been utterly humiliating.
Frankly, Rosco didn’t know how to deal with it, and now it was now beginning to affect Bodhi.
Gritting his teeth, Rosco walked down the stairs again.
Damn the woman! The only time she chilled out was in bed, so goddamn it, that’s where he’d take her now.
In the kitchen he discovered Emma sitting at the bench, drinking a cup of coffee and flicking through a menu plan.
“I thought you’d gone.” Her tone was cold.
Rosco ignored the comment, half crazed by irritation and frustration. “Upstairs,” he ground out.
Emma’s hazel eyes darkened. “Upstairs?”
“Yes,” he growled, his jaw tight. “Now.” He glared at her, noticing her nipples pucker through the fabric of her top.
No reluctance was evident as she placed the coffee cup down and stood. “What about Bodhi?” she whispered.
“He’s fine.”
Emma’s throat contracted and she nodded, slipping down from the stool and walking past him.
Hungrily, Rosco’s eyes watched her arse sway as she took the steps one by one.
He’d have that arse, show her what she was missing with all this nonsense.
Emma stepped into the bedroom, the hair on the back of her neck prickling with nerves. Excitement trilled through her body.
She could hear Rosco pad up behind her, making the hair on her forearms stand on end.
“Get the jeans off, I want you on all fours.”
She loved it when Rosco took control.
Her pulse quickened, all thoughts of how irritated she was by the journalist and Rosco’s inappropriate comments dissolved into a swelling heat between her legs.
With speed that belied her enthusiasm, she slowly peeled off her jeans, and her knickers followed. Her skin prickled with exposure.
“Up.” He growled, pointing at the bed.
Emma caught her lip between her teeth and crawled up onto the bed, her rear in full view of her husband.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. His hand, hot and thrilling, touched her gently, exploring the soft globe, finally delving between the crease in search of her tight rosebud.
A moan slipped unbidden from her lips. They had long denied themselves the illicit pleasure of anal sex.
“Lachlan,” she whispered, “we shouldn’t.” Her voice was weak.
“Why?” he asked. Releasing the flesh of her backside, he added, “We’re not getting pregnant anyway, why not enjoy it?”
Longing and sorrow battled for her attention.
Emma remembered the tight, burning thrill of anal sex. She’d forbidden it for years since they’d been trying for a second baby. She’d not allowed him to waste his semen in her arse when it could probably create a baby when placed in the correct orifice.
But had not the fertility specialist told them there was no more point in trying? Why deny herself the pleasure now?
Emma swallowed a large lump manifested in her throat. “Okay,” she croaked.
She could feel Rosco’s delight whip through the atmosphere. “Cool,” he said. “Stay exactly where you are.”
Emma had no intention of moving.
She leaned down, resting her head on the bed, whilst her arse rose higher, brandished shamelessly to the air while Rosco retrieved the lube.
It was another moment before cool slick lubricant slipped down her crack. Rosco crooned something unintelligible as his fingers followed the fluid’s progress. His finger hesitated minutely at her tight arsehole.
Emma gasped, and Rosco began to work a thick digit into her most private orifice. There was a sharp moment of intrusion, and a gentle burn as he worked his finger in and out—stretching her unused hole.
“I’ve missed this,” he muttered, and more cool lubricant slid down the crease between her buttocks.
Another sharp stretch stung her arse as he forced a second finger into her anus, this time twisting it round, prepping her for the real thing.
Emma groaned, pressing her face down into the blankets. Her pussy was swelling, her clitoris throbbing with neglect. “Do it,” she hissed between clenched teeth.
The rich sound of Rosco’s laughter filled the room. Wicked, his laughter touched something deep inside her. Her sex dripped with need, or perhaps it was surplus lube slipping from her arse. She didn’t care; she wanted him planted root deep in her. She wanted the tight burn, the illicit thrill.
Emma twisted her head over her shoulder; Rosco’s blue eyes were dark with passion, his bottom lip captured between his teeth.
He was so gorgeous. Her pussy throbbed again, and she pushed back into him.
Rosco’s fingers slipped wetly from her arse, only to be immediately replaced by the warm impossibly large head of his cock.
“You got it baby,” he whispered, leaning over and gently placing a scorching kiss on her back.
She waited, the anticipation sending sheets of goose bumps over her body.
Hot hands wrenched her buttocks wide apart.
Emma whimpered, exposed and trusting, waiting for the pleasure and pain to begin.
Abruptly, he pushed forward, forcing the fat head of his cock past the tight, muscular ring of her arse.
It burns. A surprised sob ripped up her throat.
Heat and pain sent contradictory ricochets of pleasure, spasming all the way from her tortured rear to her desperate pussy.
“Oh!” she shrieked. Instinctively, her arsehole attempted to push him out.
“Christ,” Rosco returned, “I’d forgotten how tight this was.” He drove forward a centimetre more as her arse clenched around the head of his cock.
She already felt full; it seemed so long since they’d played this game, and it seemed impossible that he’d slip the whole thick length of him into her.
“I don’t know if I can take it,” she whispered.
“You can do anything, baby,” he crooned, sinking down over her and kissing her back once more.
The affection in his tone made her smile. “If you say so,” she gasped.
He stilled long enough for them both to catch their breath. Then, without warning, he pushed forward, feeding inch by excruciating inch of his hard hot cock into the depths of her rectum.
Emma cried out in earnest now, her flesh burning and stinging from the stretch.
It hurt, but with every thrust it also felt so damned good.
“Lachlan,” she wailed softly.
He pushed in, balls deep. He hesitated, keeping still for her to accommodate him.
“Ah,” she cried again, unable to stop her arse from clenching around his invading cock.
“Tell me when to move.” He groaned, and she could feel his arms tremble as he leant over her. “Tell me when you can take it.”
For a moment, they remained as they were, intimately locked. The stretch eased, and a primal hunger replaced the burn. “Move,” she heard herself growl.
And he did, swiftly and smoothly. The sensation was exquisite.
“Touch your pussy,” Rosco hissed as he rocked against her, “I want you to come, I need you to come too.”
Rosco braced his weight on muscled forearms and lunged deep.
Emma gasped, the pleasure pain balance making thoughts difficult. Her body rocked under the force of his fucking. She loved it. The sound of his skin slapping hers chimed throughout the room. She bit her lip and her anus gripped his penetrating cock with an urgency she had long since thought she’d lost.
“Faaark,” he swore.
Emma swallowed as a particularly hard thrust sent Rosco’s balls slapping against her flesh. She swung an arm down, past her belly,
to find her swollen clit.
She was dripping with arousal.
At the raw, hard pumping of his cock, she began to stroke her hard slick clit. Her fingers were jerky with the force of Rosco’s pounding.
A cry broke from her throat. The sensations were almost too much, the tight, full burning in her arse, the sparking pleasure arcing from her pussy.
She whimpered and writhed into the blankets, the sparks of a pending orgasm tightened in her belly.
“Emma,” Rosco murmured. “Emma, Emma, Emma.”
He was going to come, and she didn’t want the moment to end. If only they could stay in this place, a place where pleasure and each other were the only thing that mattered.
The thought was lost in the rhythmic pulsing of pleasure between her legs.
Hands found her hips, hot and tight. She grunted as Rosco began slamming harder and faster between her buttocks, his thighs slapping hers as her own hand worked feverishly between her legs.
Emma pushed back into his brutal thrusts, readily accepting his dominance over her because, at that moment, nothing else seemed to matter.
“I’m going to come,” she gasped, her hand slipping over her clit one more time.
Then it came, like a volcano of iridescent pleasure. She stifled a scream into the blankets and writhed beneath Rosco’s final thunderous thrusts. The muscles of her rear clenched and flexed in synchronicity with the spasms shooting from her hypersensitive clit.
“Lachlan!” She arched back.
“Emma.” Rosco’s hands gripped her buttocks, wrenching them apart as he growled under his breath, desperate to reach his own climax. The burn and stretch returned as he sank into her as deep as was humanly possible, thrust once, twice, then poured scalding hot cum in to her arse.
With a massive exhalation, Rosco collapsed on top of Emma, absent-mindedly pushing her down into the mattress. His cock twitched, still buried deep in her anus.
“That was amazing.” He groaned and kissed her shoulder, resting his head against her back, listening to the hammering of her heart. He could smell the scent of her skin, soapy with a hint of musk.
“I love you,” he whispered, his lips travelling the line to her neck.
She shuddered beneath him, and her buttocks clenched a moment, almost pushing him out.
He forged on, determined not to start an argument. “Did you enjoy that?” he whispered, knowing a bit of anal had once been a favourite way to pass an afternoon. He brought his hand around to caress the bulge of her breast as it pressed into the bed, as if to elicit a response.
She said nothing.
A frown grew on his brow.
Still, nothing was better than vitriolic statements of self-abasement.
His cock began to soften, and as it did the muscles of Emma’s rectum forced him from her.
Rosco rolled off her, his skin suddenly cool without her heat beneath him.
“Em?” He pulled her to face him. “Look at me.”
She turned; large hazel eyes, flecked with gold and blue, stared at him steadily. As they did, clouds of anxiety flickered across her face and the line of her jaw flinched.
“Yes, I enjoyed that,” she answered, sounding numb. She blinked slowly, tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “The only time I feel myself is when I’m with you, and I can forget… forget…” Her words ended in a choke.
His heart sank. “Baby, shhh,” Rosco soothed and ran his hand over her soft blonde head. “It’s okay, how many times do I have to tell you it’s okay?”
Emma’s pretty face contorted, and she bit her lip before wrenching away and staggering from the bed towards the bathroom.
As if on cue, the doorbell echoed from deep within the house.
“That’ll be Bodhi’s tutor,” she croaked.
“I’ll go and sort them out,” Rosco offered.
She turned, her face creasing. “Don’t you need a shower?”
Rosco shrugged. “I’ll go for a surf, I think. I’ll text Hunter and see if he’s down there.”
Emma watched Rosco gather his things, feeling guilty about her earlier volatile emotions.
It wasn’t Rosco’s fault the journalist was a crab-faced whore. It isn’t his fault we can’t have more babies…
The doorbell rang again, and Bodhi called through the house, “I’ll get it,” his tone defeated.
As Rosco pulled up his boardies and slipped a t-shirt over his chest, he leaned over and gave her kiss, before wordlessly dashing down the stairs.
Bodhi would be going to high school soon. He loathed home school, and Ms Samson. In her heart she knew he really ought to go to a normal school, but that would mean Rosco going on tour alone.
All those women. Beautiful women, fertile women. Women who didn’t have bunions, or fine lines, or stretch marks on their bellies.
Her hand flew to the softness of her belly where the stretched skin from her pregnancy with Bodhi remained, no matter how much exercise she did.
I could get some work done. Christa’s husband is one of the best plastic surgeons around. She pondered the thought for the millionth time, but discarded it again. Rosco didn’t like Marc and didn’t agree with plastic surgery. And frankly, Christa was too scary to even approach to ask about it.
As the sound of Ms Samson entering echoed through the house, Emma headed for the shower.
The next day found Emma renewing her attempt to select meals from the dinner party menu. She was dreading hosting the fortnightly party but needed to choose the meals for the caterer. Hosting the regular dinner wasn’t one of Emma’s fortes. She found some of the women in the group vaguely frightening, others irritating, some sweet, yet a thin veneer of friendship linked them all. This friendship was mostly attributed to money and fortune. A miscalculation in food would be noted by some, bitched about by others and pitied pretty much by all.
She took another sip of coffee, and then cradled her head in her hands.
Maybe Rosco should choose the meals. She moved on the stool. Her backside twinged with the memory of yesterday’s erotic session, and the thought of it sent frissons of excitement through her. This morning had actually been a good one, and she’d felt better than normal; maybe anal sex was the treatment for her neurosis? Who knew? Women’s magazines could have a field day with that.
Emma closed the menu list and walked over to the balcony. She could hear the constructive sounds of Bodhi’s education, as he and Ms Samson worked diligently once more. With a sigh, she pushed open the doors and stepped out.
The weather was warm, and the trendy new season hoodie she wore was more than adequate. She leaned over the edge and looked over towards the beach. To her eye, the swell was about 6’, and a few surfers were taking advantage of a lazy offshore wind.
She scanned the beach looking for Rosco, and spotted him sitting on his board beyond the break. He was talking to another surfer, maybe Hunter again. She waved halfheartedly, but they didn’t see her.
She found herself mesmerised by the sound and rhythm of the waves. It would make lovely sketch, this view. For a moment she stilled, overcome by the urge to draw. Her things were in the study, in a box. She hadn’t sketched since she’d gotten the news from the fertility specialist.
I don’t have anything better to do… Except the menu…
A small but firm voice in her head told her to go and sort the menu, but the larger, more insistent part of her brain urged her to get her sketching equipment and draw.
So she did.
For the first time in weeks, she set up her easel by the balcony and pulled out her sketchpad. She flicked through some of her older drawings. She smiled at one of Bodhi and Rosco hunched over a surfboard spreading wax. She tended to do mostly coastal scenes, but there were quite a few of Rosco and Bodhi—and occasionally a self-portrait.
Her eyes lingered over a self-portrait; she’d been happy that day, pregnant for a week. She swallowed before she flicked the page over to start on a new sheet.
She began to wor
k quickly, sketching and smudging, the charcoal stick like an old friend, blackening fingers as she worked. Her first sketch was a large curling wave, its spray high in the offshore breeze.
She drew another, more distant, sketch of the entire seascape, complete with Rosco and the other surfers sitting on their boards chatting, taking off, and slipping into low curling barrels.
When Emma was satisfied with it, she looked up and realised that her husband had left the water. He was easily identifiable in his custom Surf Hunter wetsuit, with its distinctive burnt orange and black.
He was standing on the beach, his surfboard resting in the sand, a woman standing close beside him.
They were talking, and even from this distance she could see the woman throw back a long mane of blonde hair and laugh. The gesture was flirtatious, and overly exaggerated.
Emma’s heart squeezed.
I should go down there.
Feeling numb, she packed her sketches away and tucked them back into the box, absentmindedly rubbing her dirty hands over the grey of her hoodie. She glanced back at the beach.
They were still standing there.
He can talk to other women…that’s okay. She tried to reassure herself.
It wasn’t working.
“Bo,” she heard herself call, “I’m just going down to the beach to get Dad.”
“Whatever,” Bodhi called back.
“Yes, Mrs Ross.” Ms Samson replied as well.
A minute later, Emma found herself stomping down the sandy track to the beach. Her brow was heavy and anger was sparking through her with wild abandon.
As she approached, neither noticed.
Emma could hear the woman’s voice now, and Rosco’s.
The girl giggled.
“That’s so nice,” she said. “I wish I could have a boyfriend like you.”
Anger rose like a suffocating tide within her. For real? Who actually says crap like that?
She was about interrupt when Rosco spoke. “Emma just has this…I don’t know, ability…” He paused and flicked his mane of hair behind him.
Emma’s heart did a flip.
“She keeps me grounded in a way I couldn’t do for myself.” He gave a self-conscious laugh.
Secret Confessions: Sydney Housewives - Extended Edition Page 26
