Page 56 of The Bloodfeather Promise
There is a song playing softly as she simply stares at me. One of my favorites by Staind, although I’ve always found it incredibly sad because of the words. For a split second, I wonder why I feel so strongly that it pertains to us.
A relieved grin, and something which may be surprise, slowly spread across Emerson’s face. “But that wasn’t a kiss…” she says in a tone both soft and seductive. She closes the small distance until our bodies are flush with each other. Our hands are still linked, and she brings the other up so it curls around my neck. Standing on tiptoe, her lips brush teasingly against my chin. Using her hand, she exerts pressure on the back of my neck. As my head tilts down, our gazes clash as she whispers, “This, Greyson Finch, is a kiss.”
Emerson bites my bottom lip then, somehow, our mouths fuse together. Our tongues meet, tangle, and slide, each delving deeper into a vat of sheer pleasure. I hover on the verge of taking what I want. Of pushing her down onto a lounge chair and sinking between her thighs until she envelopes me. Wrapping the waterfall of her hair around my fist to ensure her surrender.
This kiss is giving and demanding. Invasive and poignant. It’s a blending of fire and sweetness and understanding and lust, and something hidden deep inside it strikes an unexpected chord of remembrance. Confusion floods my brain until I’m dizzy.
Iknowthe taste of her kiss.
Before I fully understand that random thought or have the opportunity of investigating it further, it’s over. With a pleased sigh and one last soft brush of her mouth against mine, she retreats.
“Should we get in the hot tub now?” Her brow lifts in question, her manner less guarded, more playful. Meanwhile, I’m stupefied, wondering what just happened. “Or jump in the pool?”
* * *
There are no furtherintimate moments between us, although my head is still spinning. I don’t understand the flash of memory, how she owns it and why I can’t place her in it. All I know is the taste of her is imprinted on my soul, as though I’ve been searching for her for a lifetime.
I follow Emerson into the pool. We luxuriate in the coolness of the water while I occupy myself with not looking at her chest. But it’s damned near impossible keeping my eyes averted. The way she fills out that bra is the stuff of any red-blooded male’s dreams. I don’t know if she is even aware, or maybe she is and this is a secret punishment devised just for me, but the lacy cups become almost transparent when dampened by water. The bra molds itself to her like a second skin.
I realize now how much at a disadvantage I placed her when insisting she could swim in her underwear. For all intents and purposes, Emerson is naked while my boardshorts conceal my body from waist to just above my knees. I must give her credit though. After initially removing her clothing, she has not exhibited one second of unease over her nearly nude condition. Has not shied away from my eyes, or tried covering all that lovely skin by crossing her arms or turning away. No, she’s met me squarely, unwavering, and unashamed of her beauty. And, goddamn, this girl is stunning.
I swallow hard, berating my response to her sensual beauty and…
Christ almighty, I can see her nipples.Dusky rose in color, the perfect little blossoms crown the gorgeous fullness of her breasts. They are pebble hard, straining impudently against the fabric. I imagine how they would taste on my tongue. Like smooth candy caramels… or something sweeter, like strawberries. Maybe velvety like the wine she’s drinking.
While she reveals plans for her bookstore, new things she wants to do, like having local performers provide live music on select evenings, I’m thinking of those nipples. How I would roll one between my teeth while pinching the other with increasing pressure as her pleasure grew. How I could keep her on edge forever just by focusing on her breasts and nothing else. When we first entered the pool, she released her hair from the ponytail. It flows in an ebony-hued waterfall down her back. Occasionally, long strands stream over her shoulders to conceal the parts of her form I should not be leering at. Those moments give me a chance to catch my breath, clear my mind, and strengthen my resolve.
But that scrap of a thong she’s wearing is distracting. I decide it is even worse than the bra. It’s seriously testing my sanity. The tiny thing leaves practicallynothingto my imagination, the fabric covering her so sheer, I can see the shadowy nest of curls trimmed into a thin, tidy strip. And, on one hip, just to the inside of her hipbone, is an ethereal suggestion of a tattoo.
It vaguely resembles a feather, a tiny little feather curving around the bone as if it fluttered to rest on that spot. I catch myself staring a few times, trying to see through the thin fabric like a depraved Superman staring through walls. Maybe it’s an arrow. A flower. Or some sort of symbol my brain cannot decipher.
It is divine intervention, worthy of my heartfelt prayers, that this part of her body remains hidden beneath the waters’ surface. It’s not as easy to feast my eyes on that delectable triangle when the shimmering violet hued water distorts the view. I want to dive below, bury my face there between her thighs, and rip that ridiculous, lacy thing away using only my teeth. Trace that feather, if that’s what it is, with my tongue before returning to her center to drink her sweetness. Taste the essence of her in my mouth. I want her fingers thrusting in my hair, gripping hard, frantically keeping me in place as I devour her.
“Race you to the end of the pool,” Emerson suggests in a saucy manner.
“What do I get?” I counter, shaking away my dirty thoughts. “When I win…”
She tilts her head and taps her chin, thinking it over. “Accolades, tributes to your skills as a swimmer.”
“What if I want more?”
“What more would you want?”
I don’t answer. I don’t think she is prepared to hear that I want all of her.
In the end, I agree to her terms simply to get my mind off everything I could do to her in this huge pool. All the different positions we could get into using the buoyancy of the water.
I let her beat me, hanging back as she laughingly readjusts her makeshift bathing suit, tucking bits of herself back into place until she is somewhat decent again.Decent.That’s a poor choice of words. Everything about Emerson in sheer, nude, wet fabric is provocatively indecent.
Her lack of guile entrances me. She doesn’t treat me like I am famous. Doesn’t want anything from me, other than respect for her boundaries. She listens to me when I speak, and I mean,reallylistens; I know it’s not an act. She is interested inme, Greyson Finch, as an ordinary guy. Not Greyson Finch, the infamous asshole and fabulously wealthy rockstar.
We climb into the hot tub next. We spend almost an hour there, drinking the rest of the wine and listening to music. Emerson’s sense of humor, clever and sharp, keeps me laughing. She tells me stories about her years at college, and how she was always stuck being the designated driver when out with friends. She talks of her grandmother who passed away when Emerson was fairly young, and I hear Noah and Devon’s story when she played matchmaker for them.
Emerson only becomes morose once. When she talks of her grandfather’s death from lung cancer, there is no mistaking she is still upset by it. I learn more of her mother and how hard she worked as a single parent to raise her daughter in a loving home following her divorce. And I understand how lucky Emerson considers her childhood, growing up in such an idyllic town as Sea Cove, even if being here is restrictive.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” she says, searching for the right words of explanation. “I love my bookstore. I love how busy I am, but I do wish for a little more time for myself. I’d like to travel, see new and exciting places. Experience different things, food, art. One day, I’ll be able to do that.”
She looks so wistful, I want to put her on a private jet that very moment. Fly around the world with her, stopping anywhere that strikes her fancy.
