“She was great. I just got off the phone with her,” Emily said, draping her arms over Hank’s solid shoulders.
“Well, that’s good. Hopefully, she can come over for dinner this weekend. It’d be nice to see her. It’s been forever.” Hank smiled as he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Emily’s forehead. Emily grinned as she felt the stubble along his chin and upper lip prick against her tender flesh.
“She’s still on this whole marriage kick,” Emily said.
“And you’re not?” Hank asked, smiling.
“You know I want us to take our time. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again, Hank. It took me so long to put the pieces of my life back together after Mitch. It took me a long time to find myself again. For so long, I was Mrs. Mitch Bradley. For now, I just want to be me; I just want to be Emily.”
“Not Mrs. Hank Saunders?” Hank smirked, leaning forward to kiss Emily’s neck. She closed her eyes as she felt his lips suck on her flesh, his teeth nibbling the bottom of her earlobe.
“When the time is right,” Emily said as she bit her bottom lip. Her entire body shivered as she felt his rough, calloused hands wrap around her waist, his fingers tightening around her buttocks, squeezing it firmly through her black jeans.
“I’ve got an hour to kill,” Hank said, his breath tickling the inside of her ear. Emily tilted her head to the right as she felt her legs tremble, her hands growing clammy as she cupped them around the waistband of Hank’s paint-stained jeans.
“Well, that leaves us plenty of time. You’ll even have fifty-eight minutes to shower and eat afterwards,” Emily joked as she unbuttoned his jeans and reached down into his pants, cupping his throbbing member in her soft, slick hand.
“More like fifty-five minutes.” Hank laughed as his wet, warm lips wrapped around the side of Emily’s neck.
“Oh, so you’re including foreplay?” Emily smirked. Hank smiled down at her as he tightened his grip around her waist and lifted her up into the air. “Oh!” Emily cackled loudly as Hank propped her on the edge of the counter and stepped forward, moving his body between her open legs. His tongue danced in Emily’s mouth as her hands clawed down his back, gripping tightly around his muscular shoulder blades. He grabbed the top of his shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing his chiseled, muscular abdomen. He shifted forward, pressing his lips tightly against Emily’s. Emily tilted her head back as Hank’s lips moved down her neck and toward her breasts. His teeth then bit on the low neckline of her V-neck and tugged gently, his eyes staring down at her breasts. Hank then stepped back and reached forward, grabbing the waistband of Emily’s jeans. Hank pulled them forward, pulling them off and dropping them to the floor. He slowly smiled to Emily as he slowly lowered himself to the floor in front of the counter, his face between her legs.
“What are you doing?” Emily smirked as Hank stared up at her from the floor. Hank grabbed the waistband of her underwear and pulled down, removing them from her ankles.
“You said I needed to eat, didn’t you?” Hank grinned as he pushed Emily’s thighs wide open and inched his mouth forward between Emily’ legs.
messages
Emily stared back at the screen of her laptop as the cursor blinked slowly on the blank, white document before her. Her fingers rested on the keyboard as she closed her eyes, trying to picture the last time she had sat in her office, the last time she had written anything remotely worth publishing. She used to sit at her desk and write all night, her fingers not moving fast enough as the words sped through her mind, pressing against her brain and clawing for a way out. Poetry was her forte. Her gift was taking the things the heart wouldn’t dare say aloud and painting them on a crisp, white page. Ever since she was little, she knew her passion was writing, building escape rooms in the form of rhymes and alliterations. It was the only way she stayed sane during the horrible years she endured living with her mother. She still had the black shoebox in the attic, filled to the rim with crinkled pages of her thoughts and dreams and ambitions. Most of them were about her mother, from the abuse to the alcohol to the raging fights. There were only so many nouns left in the English language to describe her mother, but she always went back to her favorite.
Bitch.
Emily’s lids fluttered open as the bright light of the screen stabbed into her red, tired eyes. The last book of poems she published did quite well, well enough to cut the cord that bound her to the bookstore on Main street. Sure, she loved working there, surrounded by literary minds like her own. But looking at those books all day — the covers and the spines and the crisp, cream-colored pages inside — fueled her thirst. The thirst to be her own boss. The thirst to bind her own words and thoughts, to place her deepest memories and thoughts on a shelf, wrapped perfectly in a hardback cover. She knew the odds were against her. The world was full of rising talent. But against the odds, she believed in her work. She believed someone out there could relate to her stories and her sufferings and her struggles. Believing that made her feel a little less lonely on this massive rock we call planet Earth. The sound of the high-pitched doorbell then rang through the house, bouncing off the tan walls and ringing in
