I cringe, remembering her shocked look walking into the storage room. “And what about your mom?” I venture, awkward. “Is she…?” I trail off.
“Sober? Clean? The f**k if I know.” Emerson’s face takes on a new harshness, and something in my heart aches with pain for him. “She shows up, every couple of years,” he adds, with a bitter twist in his voice. “Saying how sorry she is, how she wants to come back and get her act together this time.”
“Maybe she means it this time?” I ask quietly. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Oh yeah?” Emerson’s eyes catch mine, and suddenly we’re not talking about his mom anymore. He holds my gaze, dark and intent, and I see that shadowed, haunted look flit across his face again, like the past is creeping back around us no matter how hard we try to keep it at bay.
I swallow hard, then nod. “Sometimes people make mistakes.” I say softly, gathering all my courage. “But if they’re sorry, and they want to make things right, maybe they deserve that shot. To explain why, and make things right.”
“You really think excuses can make a difference?” Emerson’s expression is pained, but vulnerable for a moment, and my heart leaps that there’s a crack in his hard façade.
“Everybody has their reasons,” My heart skitters with nerves. “How do you know, if you don’t try?”
Emerson drains his beer, then tosses the bottle aside. He opens his mouth, and for a moment our eyes meet, and something hovers in the air between us, fragments of emotion and the truth we’ve never spoken. My heart leaps.
Then the shutters slam down in his eyes, and Emerson’s mouth twists into a pained, brooding smirk. “Some things don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
Emerson’s body is tense now, coiled and waiting, and I feel a stab of pain and regret shoot through me. I have to dig my nails into my palms not to let out a gasp of dismay. Is that what he thinks about me—or are we talking about his mom again?
I don’t know what to say to him, I don’t even know where to start. I need an explanation about why he broke things off four years ago, but how can I ask, when the truth might be worse than I ever imagined? Is there even anything he can say to me to make it all OK?
I press my lips together, miserable. The silence drags on, unbearable, as the boat gently rocks on the waves. Then Emerson looks across the blanket at me. “Why did you come back?” he demands.
“I told you.” I look down, my voice small. “Dad’s broke. He wants to sell the house.”
“Bullshit.” Emerson curses. “You could have had someone else come, you could have left it all alone. But you came back. Why?”
I keep my gaze fixed on the deck, the ocean, anywhere but him. “I couldn’t trust anyone else to pack it up right. All the memories...”
“Don’t lie to me!”
In a sudden motion, Emerson sweeps the plates and containers aside. He grabs me by both arms, pulling me towards him so that I have no choice but to look at him. To stare into that beautiful blue abyss, as dark and tormented as I’ve ever seen it.
“Cut the bullshit, Jules.” His grip is tight on my skin, “Tell me why you came back.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I swallow back a sob.
He’s right. I’ve kept telling myself, and everyone else, that I had to be here. I had no choice. But the truth is, I couldn’t stay away.
I didn’t want to.
“Tell me, Jules.” Emerson’s voice turns pleading. His eyes are desperate, begging me for the answer I’m too afraid to admit.
But I have to.
“You,” I cry, my voice echoing out across the silent ocean. “It’s always been you!”
A look of wonder flashes across Emerson’s face, and then he’s pulling me to him, capturing my mouth in a desperate, drowning kiss.
I come undone.
Emerson kisses me like it’s the end of the world, like we’ve only moments left to live, and there’s nothing he wants more than to possess me, completely. No past regret, or heartache, nothing but our lips, and tangled tongues, and the steely embrace of his arms locked tight around me, crushing me against his chest.
This is like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s like a tidal wave of sensation is breaking over me, and I have no choice but to be swept along, falling deeper into the intoxicating taste of him. I grab at his shirt and cling to him, all my worries and insecurities dissolving in an instant under the hungry probe of his tongue, and the feel of his hands searing a blazing trail across my skin as he lays me down beneath him on the hard deck.
I tear off his shirt and lock my legs around his waist, arching up against him as he yanks down the tiny straps of my sundress and then rips it over my head, baring me to the night. I gasp at the chill of air against my bare skin. He buries his face in the hollow of my neck, sending sharp bolts of pleasure down my body with every new kiss. The electricity crackles, hot and wet between my thighs as he sucks and bites his way along my collarbone and down across my bare br**sts, his mouth hot and demanding on my skin.
Oh God, yes.
His hand slips between my legs, and then I’m arching up against his touch, moaning as his fingers stroke and tease through my panties. His touch shivers against me, sparks of pure sensation, but every time I buck into his hand, he holds me back, scratching lightly over the fabric with his fingertips until I’m writhing, aching for him, crying out with frustration.
“Sober? Clean? The f**k if I know.” Emerson’s face takes on a new harshness, and something in my heart aches with pain for him. “She shows up, every couple of years,” he adds, with a bitter twist in his voice. “Saying how sorry she is, how she wants to come back and get her act together this time.”
“Maybe she means it this time?” I ask quietly. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Oh yeah?” Emerson’s eyes catch mine, and suddenly we’re not talking about his mom anymore. He holds my gaze, dark and intent, and I see that shadowed, haunted look flit across his face again, like the past is creeping back around us no matter how hard we try to keep it at bay.
I swallow hard, then nod. “Sometimes people make mistakes.” I say softly, gathering all my courage. “But if they’re sorry, and they want to make things right, maybe they deserve that shot. To explain why, and make things right.”
“You really think excuses can make a difference?” Emerson’s expression is pained, but vulnerable for a moment, and my heart leaps that there’s a crack in his hard façade.
“Everybody has their reasons,” My heart skitters with nerves. “How do you know, if you don’t try?”
Emerson drains his beer, then tosses the bottle aside. He opens his mouth, and for a moment our eyes meet, and something hovers in the air between us, fragments of emotion and the truth we’ve never spoken. My heart leaps.
Then the shutters slam down in his eyes, and Emerson’s mouth twists into a pained, brooding smirk. “Some things don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
Emerson’s body is tense now, coiled and waiting, and I feel a stab of pain and regret shoot through me. I have to dig my nails into my palms not to let out a gasp of dismay. Is that what he thinks about me—or are we talking about his mom again?
I don’t know what to say to him, I don’t even know where to start. I need an explanation about why he broke things off four years ago, but how can I ask, when the truth might be worse than I ever imagined? Is there even anything he can say to me to make it all OK?
I press my lips together, miserable. The silence drags on, unbearable, as the boat gently rocks on the waves. Then Emerson looks across the blanket at me. “Why did you come back?” he demands.
“I told you.” I look down, my voice small. “Dad’s broke. He wants to sell the house.”
“Bullshit.” Emerson curses. “You could have had someone else come, you could have left it all alone. But you came back. Why?”
I keep my gaze fixed on the deck, the ocean, anywhere but him. “I couldn’t trust anyone else to pack it up right. All the memories...”
“Don’t lie to me!”
In a sudden motion, Emerson sweeps the plates and containers aside. He grabs me by both arms, pulling me towards him so that I have no choice but to look at him. To stare into that beautiful blue abyss, as dark and tormented as I’ve ever seen it.
“Cut the bullshit, Jules.” His grip is tight on my skin, “Tell me why you came back.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I swallow back a sob.
He’s right. I’ve kept telling myself, and everyone else, that I had to be here. I had no choice. But the truth is, I couldn’t stay away.
I didn’t want to.
“Tell me, Jules.” Emerson’s voice turns pleading. His eyes are desperate, begging me for the answer I’m too afraid to admit.
But I have to.
“You,” I cry, my voice echoing out across the silent ocean. “It’s always been you!”
A look of wonder flashes across Emerson’s face, and then he’s pulling me to him, capturing my mouth in a desperate, drowning kiss.
I come undone.
Emerson kisses me like it’s the end of the world, like we’ve only moments left to live, and there’s nothing he wants more than to possess me, completely. No past regret, or heartache, nothing but our lips, and tangled tongues, and the steely embrace of his arms locked tight around me, crushing me against his chest.
This is like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s like a tidal wave of sensation is breaking over me, and I have no choice but to be swept along, falling deeper into the intoxicating taste of him. I grab at his shirt and cling to him, all my worries and insecurities dissolving in an instant under the hungry probe of his tongue, and the feel of his hands searing a blazing trail across my skin as he lays me down beneath him on the hard deck.
I tear off his shirt and lock my legs around his waist, arching up against him as he yanks down the tiny straps of my sundress and then rips it over my head, baring me to the night. I gasp at the chill of air against my bare skin. He buries his face in the hollow of my neck, sending sharp bolts of pleasure down my body with every new kiss. The electricity crackles, hot and wet between my thighs as he sucks and bites his way along my collarbone and down across my bare br**sts, his mouth hot and demanding on my skin.
Oh God, yes.
His hand slips between my legs, and then I’m arching up against his touch, moaning as his fingers stroke and tease through my panties. His touch shivers against me, sparks of pure sensation, but every time I buck into his hand, he holds me back, scratching lightly over the fabric with his fingertips until I’m writhing, aching for him, crying out with frustration.
