Page 12

CHAPTER 11

EMERSON

How on earth am I supposed to answer that question? Here stands Gunnar Stag looking sexy as sin in a T-shirt and sweatpants, all his muscles on display, sucking on an ice cube. My heart still pounds from my mother’s hurtful words, so the lack of blood in my brain might explain what comes out of my mouth.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

I grip the edge of the counter behind me as Gunnar’s brow furrows in confusion at my words. “What?”

I shake my head. “Intercourse…how would that work?” My cheeks heat at my use of that word, which I know sounds immature, but I just cannot bring myself to use the word Mom and Gunnar did. Not now. “It’s probably a bad idea.”

Gunnar picks his glass back up and slowly sips his water, taking a step closer to me. There is much less air now in the small kitchen. I watch his throat as he swallows the water, the muscles in his arm as he sets the glass back down. I didn’t know I enjoyed looking at a throat until this instant. His voice is low as he says, “Salty, if it would take your mind off things, I’d happily lay you across the counter and lick your pussy.”

My knees actually buckle, and I feel light-headed. My grip on the counter tightens, and I breathe in and out through my nose, trying to regain my composure. “That … isn’t something I’d do.”

Gunnar’s head recoils in surprise. Maybe horror? He slouches toward me, voice still unbearably low. “You don’t accept oral? Why?”

I risk releasing a hand from the counter to run it through my hair and push it away from my neck, which is very sweaty. I meet my husband’s gaze and steel myself to explain to him, in summary, the entire problem that led me to this room. “I, um, have been very sheltered.”

Gunnar shakes his head. “What I’ve seen from your family isn’t shelter. There’s no safety there from any storm. They are mean to you, Emerson. But what’s that got to do with me licking your pussy?” Gunnar smirks and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning a hip against the silverware drawer.

I bite my lip because I hear it now—the judgment, the attitude, everything I said I wanted to escape, and everything that led to that stream of hatred from my parents. Their behavior extends beyond career choices and how I make music and has impacted how I relate to people. How do I break free?

Gunnar seems aligned with my thoughts. “I thought you wanted to get away from all that shit? Maybe you need a really good fuck.”

Pressing his teeth into his lower lip as he pronounces the F on that last word will be an image that lives in my brain forever. As will the scent of his breath, since his face is closer to mine now. I swallow and grab for my hair, this time twirling it so I don’t slap myself or pinch my arm to check whether I’m dreaming. “Well, how would it work?”

Gunnar spits out a laugh. “Emerson. Salty. It would work like a god damned dream. I would peel all that black clothing off you, spread you on the counter, and lick you until you come. And then I’d flip you over and plow you from behind and rub your clit until you come again.” As he talks, he moves closer to me. “I’ve got an entire Safe and Satisfied basket on top of my fridge with every kind of lube you can think of. And I’d spread it all over my cock before I slide right inside you.” I watch his chest expand with his breath, the subtle movements of his arms as he places them on either side of me, boxing me against the stove. He smells thick, if that makes sense, which it might not, because I’m drunk on the scent of cedar, lime, and laundry detergent. “Do you want that, Salty? Do you want your husband to fuck you?”

“I…” How can I explain to him that it’s all too much, too fast? How do I ask him for just a little bit of his description? When he’s clearly used to doing all that and more.

His description sounds fake. Like a fantasy of what sex is like. I’ve had a few nice boyfriends who were reasonably interesting on dates. I’ve dated flute players who I know have excellent dexterity and fine motor control, and I never knew how to take advantage of it. None of them made my body throb the way it is now, with Gunnar standing in front of me, hulking over me with his promises and his giant hands and inquisitive eyes. “Salty?” There’s a question in his voice. I know that if I said no, he’d back away and go about his day. I also know he seems quite keen to try this ridiculous activity.

“What if I hate it?” I ask him again, knowing somehow that that’s not the problem. I will love what he proposes doing, and it will turn me into a different person—a person who just pursues pleasure, regardless of rules. And I hate how terrified that makes me.

He arches a brow. “Do you not enjoy having your pussy licked?”

I bite my lip. “I have never…tried that.”

Gunnar swallows, and his eyes flash with something. Possession? Anger? His voice is a growl. “It will be my pleasure to fix that for you. But you tell me if I’m doing something you don’t like, and I stop immediately. Okay?”

I nod, sure my spine is going to snap out of my body, and I will crumple to the ground if he keeps looking at me with that expression on his face.

“Salty, it has to be more than a nod.” He steps back, and I feel the whoosh of air in between our bodies as he creates space. “Tell me, with words, if you want me to fuck you right now.”

I could tell him no. I could take a shower, smash my phone, and play my cello until I work out all these emotions. But he smells so good, sexy with a hint of maple syrup from the breakfast I just enjoyed more than my entire four years of college, and I don’t want to say no.

I … want to try what he’s offering, but I’m worried the plowing portion will be too much.

“Can we just do the first part? Without the bending over?” My words are breathy and quiet, but his expression softens as soon as I utter them.

He rubs a hand down my cheek. “That sounds amazing,” he whispers.

I frown. “How would that be amazing for you?”

Gunnar clutches at his chest. “Wife, I have been dreaming of licking your pussy for days. I can’t wait to taste you. If you want.”

“Yes, please,” I utter, and he chuckles.

He takes a step closer to me, arms still boxing me in again. I can feel a thick ridge pressed against my stomach and so much heat radiating from his body that I wonder if we somehow turned the oven on. “Which part, Salty? What do you want?”

“Um. What you said. With the counter and the licking. Please.”

The instant the words leave my mouth, I’m hoisted into the air by a pair of solid arms. He spins us, setting me on the island and tugging at my shirt. Gunnar hisses in a breath when he pulls it up and over my head, revealing my very sensible black bra. I try to cover my stomach with my arm, but he shakes his head. “I wasn’t done looking,” he says, skating a palm up my side. I never show anyone my stomach. I’m used to being told to suck it in, make it smaller. But Gunnar stares at it now like it’s a gift to behold.

He tugs me to the edge of the counter so I’m straddling his waist, pressed right against his shirt. I realize with a combination of horror and fascination that I’m wet, and this moisture will get on his clothes. “Mmm.” He makes a sound of appreciation as he touches my boobs through my bra.

His thumbs circle my nipples through the fabric, and I gasp. It feels electric, with actual crackles and zings. Gunnar, studying my face, smirks a crooked little smile and licks his lips. “This is going to be awesome,” he says, unhooking my bra with ease, tossing it behind me into the living room. And then his mouth is on my skin, hot and so wet. Without thinking, I bring my hands to his hair and press his head against my body as he sucks. And he groans! He liked that.

I yelp when he pinches my nipples and squeak when he orders me to lie back. The counter is cold against my bare back, but it warms quickly, or else I stop focusing on it as Gunnar pulls off my pants and my underwear, and then I’m absolutely naked while he’s fully clothed, standing in between my legs, grinning. “Damn, Salty, you are so perfect. Just look at you.”

I raise up on my forearms and look, trying to see what he sees. His hands are in constant motion, smoothing up and down my thighs, my stomach, my boobs. He starts murmuring, maybe to himself. “So soft,” he says, kissing my inner thigh. “So lush.” He is not so different from a musician, stroking his hands along my legs, bending my knees, and placing my feet on the edge of the counter. I’m spread impossibly wide, utterly indecent with my bottom at the edge of the counter and a massive hockey player staring into my crotch.

I wriggle and try to close my body, but Gunnar shakes his head and presses a hand to my belly to still me. “Show me,” he says. And then his eyes darken, pupils enormous. He looks positively feral when he says, “Show me what’s mine.”