“Sure,” Meagan replied.
They spent another half hour discussing menus and another fifteen discussing plans for Meagan’s new restaurant Footprint.
By the time Emma hung up, she was feeling buoyant.
Without waiting, she skipped up the stairs. When she walked into their room, she found the bed empty. She turned and saw Rosco on the balcony. He was wearing only his loose-fit cargo pants and he was leaning against the balustrade, intently looking at something. His blond curls swirled in the breeze as he looked up at her.
“You’ve done some new sketches,” he said, flicking through the papers. “These new ones are amazing. I sometimes forget how talented you are.” He winked, resting them back in her art box and walking towards her. “I really think you should start selling them again,” he said after a moment.
“Are you proposing I start my door to door sales again? Imagine how amusing the magazines would find that.”
He laughed, and shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ve got the funds for a gallery; maybe we could start something like that up?”
Emma looked out over the dark ocean, mulling the idea over. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Meagan’s looking for art to put up in Footprint, her new restaurant. She said she’ll be happy to have a look and maybe commission some. I’ll see how that goes first.”
“That’s great,” Rosco enthused. “Now come here, Mrs Ross.”
A week later, the doorbell rang.
The girls were arriving for the party.
Rosco made a habit of being conspicuously absent during the dinners. He found Emma’s friends intense and over the top. Which of course, they were—at least some of the time.
The doorbell rang again and Rosco launched forward, splattering a kiss on her cheek. “You look hot, Em. Have a great night. Bo and I are out of here!” He turned and grabbed his son’s shoulder to steer him out before Emma opened the door and the gaggle of over-dressed and over-perfumed women entered. “Let’s go, mate,” he said, opening the door to the garage.
Emma smiled. “Have a good night, boys.”
With a deep breath, she smoothed her skirt and top, struggling not to feel self-conscious as she did. The clothes were new, from her favourite designer—though she had no doubt they’d look paltry and second-hand compared to the outfits some of the girls would be wearing.
No, she chided herself. She looked great, she knew it; and Rosco had told her so as well.
Her cheeks coloured at the memory of her a lazy afternoon romp in bed while Bodhi had watched TV. She felt sexier, more attractive and more at ease in her own skin than she had in years.
With a confidence she’d long since thought she’d lost, Emma opened the door. She was surprised to find it was Willow.
Her friend looked lovely, chestnut curls swept into a messy bun and shining amethysts in her ears.
“Hi Willow,” Emma said and moved over, offering her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi Em.”
They stood there somewhat awkwardly, and it reminded Emma just how disconnected she’d been—not just from Rosco, but her friends too.
That has ended, she reminded herself. We need fresh starts all round.
“Come in, we can sit on the balcony until the others get here.”
“That sounds nice. Oh, I didn’t have time to ask last time I saw you, how was Hawaii?” Willow asked as they walked through the house and sank down onto one of the balcony sunlounges. In the background the caterers buzzed around, sounding and looking efficient.
For a second, Emma shot her a look. Of all the women in the group, Willow was perhaps the most perceptive. She would have known that things hadn’t been going well for her and Rosco at that time. The warm evening breeze blew over the ocean, and the gentle crash of small waves sent a moment of calm over her.
“Hawaii was…Hawaii, I guess,” Emma said evasively, “but I’m good now.”
Willow raised a lovely eyebrow, her eyes sparkling, “Well that’s good to hear.” She glanced towards Emma’s sketching easel. “You do drawings? Wow, they’re great.”
Emma couldn’t suppress a beaming smile. “Thanks. I’m hoping Meagan will put some in her restaurant.”
“I’m sure she will,” Willow said, her eyes still travelling over the charcoal lines. “These are fantastic.” There was another lull in the conversation. “Have you seen Camilla lately?” she asked.
“No, I’ve not seen much of anyone lately,” Emma confessed. “Wine?” she lifted a bottle from the cooler she’d placed out, and showed the label.
“Before everyone else gets here?” Willow chided with a laugh. “Sure, I will if you will.” The women were silent for just a moment, when the doorbell rang again.
Emma put the wine bottle down, considering it carefully. Her period should have arrived yesterday—but it hadn’t. It could mean nothing, or it could mean something else entirely. Emma moved towards the door. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be drinking,” she said, and sashayed out to answer the door.
“Really?” Willow replied from behind her.
“Really,” Emma repeated.
“Well, mum’s the word.” Willow laughed as Emma pulled open the door and the party finally started.
Emma
by Viveka Portman
Epilogue
One year later…
Rosco’s tongue licked the line of fresh scaring between his wife’s legs.
“OK?” he asked after a moment.
Emma’s thighs were tense; it was their first time since having the baby.
On the baby monitor, above the rasping of Emma’s own breath, Rosco could hear his daughter’s soft slurpings and whimpers as she slept.
“I’m good,” his wife whispered. “I can do it.”
Sandi’s birth hadn’t been easy on Emma, not that Bodhi’s had been either, but this time a failed vacuum extraction and forceps delivery had left Emma with a large, hot pink episiotomy scar that frightened even him.
Tenderly Rosco kissed between her legs again, tasting her sweet reluctant arousal, and massaging the wounded flesh of her sex with his tongue.
Emma moaned, the sound sent a spark of need straight to his groin. His cock stiffened further and strained high against his belly as he knelt between Emma’s legs.
It had been twelve weeks since Sandi’s birth. Twelve weeks of patient, gentle waiting. The obstetrician gynaecologist had given her the all clear weeks ago, but Emma was scared.
He understood that. Hell, he was a little nervous too.
Rosco toyed with the hard nub of Emma’s clit, licking lightly and kissing the soft lips of her inner folds. She moaned again, and his balls ached with utter longing and neglect.
He was as toey as a Frenchman in sandals.
Emma gazed down the line of her body.
Milk-swollen breasts and a slowly deflating pregnancy belly interrupted the view of her husband’s golden head as he busily worked between her legs.
God it feels good.
After what she’d been through delivering Sandi, she’d thought she was ruined for life.
Her heart swelled with affection, not just for the baby sleeping in the other room, but for her husband who’d so patiently waited for her recovery.
It couldn’t have been easy. He was a man with a substantial sexual appetite. Her post partum bleeding had lasted seven weeks alone, not to mention the extra physio required on her episiotomy scar. Yet she’d been given the all clear three weeks ago, and still they’d not actually…done it.
Her muscles tensed.
“Relax,” Rosco whispered against the soft flesh of her thigh. His stubble rasped against her flesh. She shuddered. “We’ve got all day.”
It was true, Bodhi was happily at school, and they’d given the au pair the day off.
Emma let her legs fall open again, and her husband renewed his tender ministrations.
It felt wonderful, and she could feel her own arousal growing.
Tentatively, Rosco thrust his tongue
into her, and she gasped with surprise. It didn’t hurt; it felt delicious.
She sighed, and he took it as an invitation. Again he thrust his tongue into her body, alternatively flicking a glancing lick across her clit before delving gently into her again.
She could come if he kept this up.
Rosco’s jaw was beginning to ache, his cock was seeping in readiness. He wanted to make Emma come before he actually made his way inside her, because once he was there God knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
She was panting now, her breath hitching occasionally in her throat as he hit some particularly sweet spot.
She isn’t far…
He kept working, rhythmically, and with a dedication only a man truly in love would attempt.
Life is good.
Emma’s pregnancy with Sandi had been like a miracle for them both, and the nine months had gone past in a blissful, ecstatic haze of happiness. He’d also won the Brazil Pro, and the prize money from that had been put aside for Emma’s new Sea Spray Gallery, which was having its opening night in a fortnight.
There had been only one hiccup in the road, and that was Emma’s fear of sex since Sandi’s birth.
It was totally justified, Rosco knew that, but he missed the easy intimacy and the passionate sex they’d always shared.
Man how I miss it.
“I’m going to come,” Emma gasped, and he could feel her hot wet flesh beneath his mouth.
He thrust his tongue again, while his hands gripped her thighs.
Her pleasure broke over him and she cried out, her hands dug into his hair.
Emma felt the orgasm explode, linger, tingle and finally begin to fade.
“Oh wow,” she breathed, and pulled Rosco’s head from between her legs.
His boyish grin winded her.
He is so gorgeous. The thought made her smile.
“I clearly haven’t lost it,” he laughed and like some leonine predator began to move up her body. His long blond curls hung like a curtain about his face offering only tantalising glimpses of sparkling blue eyes.
“Definitely haven’t lost it,” Emma commented.
Down the line of her body she could see Rosco’s cock erect and hungry. Her heart gave a worried thump. She bit her lip and looked up.
She caught Rosco’s eyes for a just a moment, there was a question hovering there.
Are you certain?
The unspoken words glimmered in the opalescent pools of blue as obvious as the hunger that held his shoulder taut and jaw tight.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I want you. I love you.”
She heard a rich masculine laugh, “Thank God for that.”
With a whoosh, Rosco pressed himself down onto her, nestling the hot bare length of him against her wet, still pulsing core.
His chest pressed against her milk-swollen breasts making them ache, or possibly worse, leak.
Emma squirmed.
“Sorry,” Rosco winced and lifted his chest, and propped himself up on his sculpted forearms, and gazed down. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten about those beauties.”
Emma heard herself laugh. His gaze was heavy on her breasts, so heavy it almost burned. They were much bigger than they were usually, semi-engorged with milk, waiting for their daughter to feed.
Rosco eyed her body again, “Christ, I’m a lucky man,” he grinned.
Emma blushed, but his words filled her heart.
She was the lucky one.
As if to remind her of their true purpose Rosco tentatively pushed his cock between her legs. The large blunt head hit the mouth of her pussy and she gasped.
It felt good, and she desperately wanted him to fill her and make love to her…but…
The scar.
A cool breeze blew through the open balcony doors and licked Rosco’s hair.
Was he hesitating as much as she was?
Yes.
He was staring out over the swelling surf, easily visible from their bed.
Emma swallowed, and tilted her pelvis upward, allowing the head of his cock to dip further into the entrance of her body.
“Hey, eyes on the prize,” she teased.
Rosco flashed a sexy smile. “The prize?”
“Yes,” she nodded, “Me.”
He didn’t need any further invitation. With a move as sensual as it was slow, Rosco nudged his hard cock into her.
There was a twinge of pain as he slipped inward and Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
Rosco froze. “Shit, you OK?”
Not daring herself to speak, she nodded.
Rosco pushed forward a little harder. “Faaark,” he swore as her pussy slowly engulfed him.
Emma sighed, relieved he was in.
Slowly, and more gently that she believed possible, Rosco began to move. In and out, though never quite so far out as to require a full push in.
It felt fabulous. His movements were fluid and slick, his lithe muscles tight and controlled.
“Oh, Em,” he groaned, and kissed her neck. “‘Oh, Em.’”
He was going to come soon. Emma could sense it in his increasingly desperate rasps.
Then it happened.
Emma’s heart gave a stuttering lurch.
The baby monitor exploded into life.
Rosco froze mid thrust, his eyes clenched tightly closed.
“No…” he groaned.
“She’ll be OK for a minute…” Emma soothed, “don’t stop.” She rolled her hips again for encouragement.
Sandi wailed even louder. Her yowls echoed up to their bedroom from the nursery room and seemed horribly magnified by the baby monitor.
Rosco failed to renew his slick rhythm.
“This isn’t working…” he said, his lip quirked.
“No,” Emma agreed.
“I’ll go and get her,” Rosco said after a second.
Emma watched her husband slip from her and pull on a pair of board shorts. His narrow waist flexed as he tucked away his cock with an exaggerated sigh, then laughed ruefully.
A moment later he was back, cradling Sandi in his arms. Whatever frustration he may have felt was gone, and the look on his face was one of deep fatherly affection.
“Here you go, Mummy,” he said softly, hushing the wailing baby.
Emma held his gaze a long moment, “Thanks,” she said softly, and kissed her husband’s cheek as he dipped his head to deliver the baby to her breast.
For a moment or two Sandi wailed and tried to latch on to feed.
As she did, Emma felt Rosco move back into the bed and sink down beside her.
Rosco watched his young daughter suckle at her mother’s breast with a mixture of awe and affection, she was beautiful, Emma was beautiful, and with Bodhi, their family was complete.
He watched for a long time, until Sandi’s eyes grew heavy, and her cherubic lips eventually slipped from her mother’s nipple as slumber overtook her once more. Quietly, Emma twisted, and placed Sandi in the bassinet beside the bed they used for night-time feeds.
The baby stirred as she was put down, but did not wake.
After another moment or two, Emma looked up and caught his eye. “Well, that didn’t go to plan, did it? Our afternoon lazing in bed has been thoroughly derailed.”
Rosco felt a grin grow as did his cock, “Hmmm. Not really, it’s still afternoon and we are still in bed.”
Emma widened her eyes innocently.
“Oh, so we are,” she mused and faded off into purposefully awkward silence.
“So…” Rosco hedged. “How about the price of ice in Alaska?”
He watched Emma feign a frown. “The price of ice in Alaska?” Her lips curled, fighting amusement.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s really cheap…” Rosco snorted.
Emma stared at him incredulously.
Rosco’s mouth twitched.
“Oh come here you!” Emma laughed. “Stop talking nonsense and screw me!”
Rosco felt his wife’s arms curl ar
ound him and drag him to her.
She was a lot stronger than she looked.
He laughed, but found the sound smothered by a heady forceful kiss. She smelled of powder and milk, and wriggled beneath him invitingly.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
EPISODE 9
Willow
CHRISTINA PHILLIPS
For Mark Always my inspiration.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Tracey O’Hara and Kate Cuthbert for inviting me to be part of this continuity. It’s been a lot of fun! Thanks also, as always, to Amanda Ashby and Sara Hantz and my wonderful family. You all rock!
Willow
Willow Adams pushed herself out of her pool and sat on the edge, feet dangling in the glittering blue depths as she squeezed the water from her hair. The February morning sun was already hot and she gazed through a gap in the palm trees that surrounded the pool, where glimpses of the tranquil Lane Cove River at the foot of the hill could be seen.
Although she was in the middle of designing her new jewellery line, first of all this morning she had a meeting with top French chef Henriette to go over the last minute details for the Double D dinner on Thursday night. She knew Henriette already had everything planned, but she had to make sure there were no last minute glitches. The last thing she wanted was Lana, one of her mother’s oldest and closest friends, telling her mother that Willow had screwed up.
Her mother might be enjoying herself in Europe, but distance was no deterrent when it came to letting Willow know she wasn’t quite up to expectations. The Diamond Dinner Club, and everything it represented, was her mother’s pride and joy and Willow had officially joined the elite club when she turned eighteen.
She sighed and forced her mother’s overbearing presence from her mind. There was no point getting worked up over possibilities. She just had to focus on making sure Thursday night was, as always, perfect.
She wrapped a towel around herself and saw Mrs Duval, her housekeeper and all-round miracle worker, emerge from the French doors.
Secret Confessions: Sydney Housewives - Extended Edition Page 28
