Especially passion.
It thrills me, experiencing the rush all over again, but it terrifies me too. Because no matter how much I love what Emerson does to me, I know what comes after—when I crash full-speed into the end. Feeling like this is what got me into trouble in the first place: so desperate and depressed, sinking under the black cloud of hopelessness. Lacey was right, what she said that first day I drove into town: I can’t go back there, to that place. I swore, never again, and I meant it. So how do I go there with Emerson and not risk that fall?
Is there any way to love him besides with all my heart, all the way?
* * *
I don’t even notice time passing, until a gentle tap on the door jolts me out of memories and I check my watch to find it’s eight PM. Emerson!
“Is it safe to come in?” His voice slips through the closed door.
I grin. He’s learned from his mistakes. The first time he came to find me in the shed, he flung the door open without warning and ruined a whole roll of film I was developing. We got into a drag-out fight that lasted until he threw me up against the wall and made me forget all about the wasted reel.
This time, I need to show more self-control, I decide. Sure, I was sobbing and undone in his arms just a few hours ago, but I can’t throw myself at him completely. I’ve got to play it cool.
“All-clear!” I finally call out, hanging the final print to dry on the line.
The door opens, and there’s a brief flood of light before Emerson closes it quickly behind him and we’re alone in dark and the low red glow.
My pulse skips, just at the sight of him, his body filling up the space, commanding.
“I’m sorry, I lost track of time.” I apologize quickly. He’s looking around at the prints hanging to dry. “I found some old films,” I explain, embarrassed. “I figured, it would be good to see…”
“I remember this.” Emerson stops at a photo of us, taken at an angle as I held the camera away from our faces. We’re wrapped up in sweatshirts and scarves, the sky cloudy in the background. “We drove out to the lake, and it rained all the drive home.”
“We had to pull over to the side of the road it was pouring so hard.” I think back to that stormy afternoon. “And wait it out in the truck.”
Emerson gives a low chuckle. “Waiting wasn’t all we did.”
I feel my cheeks flush. Anyone could have pulled over and found us there, half-naked and gasping, but I didn’t care.
Emerson shifts, reaching for a new photo. His arm brushes against me, and I catch my breath. The sound of my inhale echoes in the stillness, and I see a smile curve on the edge of Emerson’s lips.
Damn. So much for playing it cool. He knows what he’s doing to me.
Emerson keeps browsing the photos, while I wait, on edge. My stomach is tied up in knots, uncertain what I should do next. Everything in me is screaming out just to reach for him, and go plunging headlong into that ecstasy again, but he hasn’t so much as touched me yet—not on purpose anyway.
My heart twists with fear. Is he having second thoughts? Was our storage closet hookup enough to sate his curiosity and lust? Maybe without that desire blinding him, he’s decided dredging up the past is a bad idea.
“How was work?” I blurt, desperate to fill the silence. “Everything OK?”
Emerson ignores the babbling questions and finally turns to me. “It’s good to see you back in here.” His eyes lock onto mine, shadowed in the dark. “I always loved watching you. In your element.”
I blink, my breath catching in my throat. Suddenly, I remember Emerson up behind me as I bent over the work bench, his hands roving, teasing across my body until I couldn’t take it anymore, and abandoned my prints for the sweet, hot rush of his lips on mine. Here, in this very shed, I gave myself to him completely for the first time. No fear, just a hunger I didn’t think could ever be satisfied until I was pressed beneath the weight of him, feeling him deep inside.
I can see from the flash in his eyes, he remembers too.
Emerson takes a half-step towards me, and touches one finger to my lips. His gaze sears into mine, magnetic, and I can’t help but part my lips in a silent gasp, reaching to taste his fingertip with my tongue.
Emerson lets out a ragged breath, then gently pushes deeper into my mouth. It’s unbearably erotic. I shudder, feeling a rush of heat pool between my thighs, but I don’t look away. I close my lips around his finger and suck.
He lets out a groan. “Fuck, Jules.”
I can’t wait any longer. I reach for him, pulling his face down and kissing him hard and hot and hungry. Emerson staggers back against the bench, his arms coming tight around me, his body slamming against mine in a delicious wall of muscle. I moan into his mouth, taking greedy handfuls of his hair, sliding my hands down the hard planes of his shoulders. I’m already wet and ready, screaming out to deliver on the promise our bodies made earlier today—hell, the promise my body has been waiting on for four long years now, laying in bed alone at night, imagining my fingers are his, that he’s inside me, claiming me for his own.
I reach for his fly, but Emerson suddenly pushes me away. “Woah,” he gasps, struggling for air. “Hold up.” He puts me aside and takes a few steps away, as far as he can get from me in the tiny shed.
I’m left alone and panting, nothing but empty air where his body was.
“We should…” Emerson gestures outside, like he can’t wait to get away from me.