“Um…Hey, Emma.”
His chest vibrates with groggy words. I look up and can see that he’s still bordering on slumber.
From between us, unbidden, my right hand ghosts up from beside me.
I want to touch him.
Everywhere and always.
I can see my hand’s shadowed outline, fingers like dark tree branches against the window’s scant light, Each one carved into the night with more distinction that would’ve been noticed under the midday sun. They rise above the landscape hills of his side.
The slope of his right shoulder is silhouetted against the midnight light that filters through the shade. The air warms briefly with each breath.
He shifts, momentarily restless, only to gather me up closer still and hum as he falls back under sleep’s spell.
My hand remains aloft. I let it descend and trace the outline of his form. First, up his sculpted arm, then around the bend of his shoulder, across his collarbone. Still, he breathes softly. Then, emboldened, I smooth my hand down his side, his hip, thigh, and around to his butt. Nice. My fingers run along his curves, his flesh pebbled under my touch. The whole area is addictive and oddly comforting to touch. Like a stress ball. Or dough. Really, really great dough. I began to gently knead it like I’m baking bread for the troops.
Ass. It seems like a wonderfully crude word for such an amazing piece of…art.
“Um, Emma?” Alaric’s voice, groggy but amused, breaks my musing. “What precisely is it you think you are doing?”
Whoops. “Oh, sorry…I thought you were still sleeping.”
“I would be concerned if I—or anyone for that matter—could sleep through that.” He kisses me with a practically audible smile.
“Well, I was just…doing a little impromptu exploring.” I squeeze his cheek, and my index finger runs down the first inch or so between.
“Oh, well, so be it.” He hums a bar and pulls me to him, my hand falling unceremoniously to his groin. He huffs. “I feel positively objectified.”
My breath catches. He grows, more, under my touch, and he seems unaware, or unwilling, to stop his small tremors and rocking motions.
“Emma,” he whispers and repeats and pulls me up into a kiss, his soft lips brushing over mine with every syllable as he continues to kiss me.
Alaric dips further, heat pushing into me. My head arches back into the pillows, I incline myself.
He slides fully. Throaty, deep moan.
Everything is hips…
and lips…
and real.
Only ever out partially, rejoin fully. A concentrated, delicious rocking motion. Scruff along his chin grazes my face and neck. I duck further into his embrace. Kiss the hollow of his neck; he tastes of sleep and sweat and…I can’t imagine ever getting enough. I dive in, kissing and biting and pulling him into me as much as I can with my softening limbs.
Instantly, he stills inside me. All his movements halt, the caresses he had been trailing along my ribs, the rocking. He holds his breath.
Eyes clench. Face unreadable. I’m unsure what he’s thinking, but I know I will remember this moment, that I will find the right time to ask what clamors inside his thick skull.
Moments pass, voice still AWOL. He looks down at me in what seems like relief.
“Oh, God…Em…Emma…” He rolls me over, holds me against him tighter than ever. Thrusts—frantic, possessive—names tumbling over then over again like a staggered ballad. We wrap around and hold on. Strokes, fan the flames.
I resist the urge to dig into his back, instead fisting the sheets in one hand and holding on tight across his shoulder blades with the other, straining my fingers straight to keep what little nails I had from scratching his skin, marking my territory.
Find my voice. “I’m…I’m…” Stars, novas. Pop and burn.
“Come on, Emma…Yes…let me have it.”
Clenching, I cry out something close to his name. He falters. Shudders. Fingers clench hips. Stills. Moans low from the bottom of his lungs. His arms seem to fail him; his body crushes into mine, pressing. I feel covered, protected, even if I don’t need protecting.
He flops beside me again, one arm still under me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“That was…” His free arm does a solitary, boneless flop.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathes and looks toward the growing light of dawn.
After a few moments, he rolls to kiss my forehead. “Looks like it’s about that time,” he says and inclines his head to the window.
And just like that, our night is over.
Probably a good thing. With our stockpile depleted, unless the Trojan man makes house calls, I shall henceforth be looking all gift horses in the mouth.
“Emma, you are pouting.” His thumb plays with my bottom lip, and I suck it in quickly. He huffs an almost laugh, shakes his head once and rolls, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
“Stay,” I hear myself speak before I have even thought the word.
He leans back to me and sweeps what is probably a matted mess of hair over and behind my shoulder. “We will be together, right back here—together…in about ten hours.”
That, actually, sounds like a dreadfully long amount of time.
I do my damnedest not to pout again; the entire concept of me doing so is shameful in the extreme, but I fail. Alaric shakes his head and runs the back of his index finger along my lip. “What can I do?”
“Stay.” I reach up, peck his lips.
“Believe me, I want to. We can’t just skip work, Emma.”
“I’m sure Diana will manage to contain her disappointment.” At least, better than she does her unruly bosoms.
He says nothing, just a nod and a shrug before kissing my cheek again and bee-lining for the shower, leaving me with only the view of the same ass that started all this to comfort me.
It does a fair job.
Day of Employment:
387
12:45 p.m.
*
Temporary Desk
: About to become “former.”
*
Probably
: Not the most romantic word choice ever.
*
Canon
: Alaric.
THIS COMPANY’S FOREIGN ACCOUNT processes are not terrible, but they are not safe. Not in the current climate, that’s for sure.
There are too many payments to get things going in certain countries that could be construed as bribery. Small things, like taking clients to dinner. Clients who happen to work for foreign governments.
I know this info is not going to be welcome news. I know I’m not positioned as someone to take seriously on these matters.
That doesn’t mean I’m not right.
I’m on page three of my detailed report. In the end, the evidence will be irrefutable. They will have to believe me, despite the source. Despite the fact that I’m just a PA.
“Just” associated with the term “personal assistant” doesn’t feel right. I’m just the ring-bearer. I’ve just gotta keep the bus over 50 MPH. I’m just gonna go fishing. Oh, and by the by, it just so happens to be for an egregiously ill-tempered white whale?
Alaric has been in and out of the room all morning.
Fact-checking. Finalizing. Looking fine.
Now, he looks more relaxed. Open briefcase with papers scattered.
“Would you like something to drink, Emma?”
I know this game. “What can I get you, sir?”
He looks up, eyes bright. “Well, since you offered…”
I roll my eyes and push back my chair.
He laughs softly. “Since you are going…I would probably like a Coke.”
“Coke?”
“Yeah, probably.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh,” he says, “could you probably get the transfer files?”
I’m at the door.
“And probably order lunch. Probably barbeque.”
I spin around. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself.