Page 71 of Emerson

“I’m wondering. Though… Were you going to lock the window before you left at least, or were you going to let me crawl through to find you gone?”

He stops moving, staring me down with so much intensity, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. I slam the bag of flour down on the counter. “Were you going to kiss me goodbye before you left for months, or were you going to break your own rule?” I laugh, a wet, patronizing sound.

Dillon steps closer, and I’m horrified at the pained noise that slips free from my chest. “When was I supposed to tell you? You only come here for one reason.”

When I showed up on Monday, he was agitated, anxiously pacing. Maybe he would have told me, but I didn’t give him the chance. I didn’t ask because that’s not what this is. That’s not what this was ever going to be.

“Are you going to fuck me, Dillon? Or should I leave?”

Another pained noise breaks free to cover the repeated memory in my head. Shame and anger sit bitter on my tongue, and I don’t even know who to blame for it. I make it three steps towards the kitchen door when he snatches me up with an arm banded around my waist.

“Em, please,” he whispers next to my ear. I ignore the tear that slides out when I close my eyes, gathering myself. I can’t think about the old ache throbbing in my chest or the new ones blooming to life. "Stay. We can talk, okay?"

He’s not holding me tight enough to keep me contained. And that was his second mistake. The first was ever letting me get this close to begin with. I turn in his arms, and he grunts when I pull his mouth down to mine.

He’s so goddamn tall I have to jump to get as close as I want to be, but he catches me with ease and lets me wrap my legs around him. I don’t kiss him—I devour him. I’ve barely slept since the last night I was with him. Can hardly function outside of this anymore.

The next night I get to see him.

The next touch.

Every night away feels like self-inflicted torture, and I’ve wasted almost all week trying to prove a point…to who?

My attempt at putting a stop to this madness ends completely when he sets me down on the counter, flour everywhere. I land on a piping bag, and pink frosting arches across the counter.

“Emerson,” he starts, pulling away. I wipe up some of the mess with my finger and smear it down the center of his throat.

He’s breathing heavily when I lean in. From lust or frustration, I don’t know, but he tilts his chin up enough for my mouth to lick him clean.

“Emery,” he tries again, but the tears are gathering behind my eyes, and they fucking burn me. I plead with him the same way I always do. With a look I can’t explain but the same one he always answers to anyway.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Dillon clenches his jaw, and I see the muscle jump when he grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. I lean back on my hands when he wipes up some of the frosting and rubs it down the center of my chest.

“Your way, then,” he murmurs before locking eyes with me and kissing through the mess on my chest. He adds more, then grabs a different bag and squirts a line straight down from the hollow of my throat, over my quivering stomach to the band of my pants.

“Our way,” I argue, then moan when his sugar-stained lips wrap around one of my nipples and sucks.

He smears the pink and purple frosting over my front, following the path of his hands with his lips and tongue. I’m an absolute mess already, but he’s not done. He drops the frosting to grab my pants, and roughly pulls the linen material down, taking my underwear with them.

The granite is cold against my bare ass, but it's a relief because I’m burning alive from the tormented lust in his blazing eyes, from the shame still simmering in my veins and the unbearable need to be closer to him.

“Please,” I pant, head tipping back with a groan when Dillon rubs his nose down my hard length, fisting me at the root in his big hand.

“Such a pretty cock,” he says, warm breath on my sensitive skin making me shiver. “Pretty, needy fucking cock that’s going to get us both in trouble.” His grip is firm, just shy of being too much when he strokes me.

He smears the frosting from his hands down my length before he takes me in his mouth, and I hiss, sinking my fingers into his hair. Dillon sucks and sucks and sucks until I’m leaned back on one hand, thrusting up into his mouth, cursing and begging to come.

It doesn’t take long. It never does when he gets his mouth on me. My chest is heaving when he moves up, caging me. He swipes frosting off my chest and smears it across my lips, pulling my bottom one down until I open and lick the sweetness from his skin.

He gives me a small peck on the mouth before stepping back, pulling the strap of the apron off from around his neck. He tosses it down on the island next to me, then stalks out of the kitchen.

The sun is just setting when I run out the front door.

Bitches & Bros

Z: What is this, the third Friday bros night in a row that Emery is ghosting us?