Page 14

CHAPTER 13

EMERSON

“What’s that?” He rests his chin on my sternum and gazes at me, looking a little drunk as if he just orgasmed instead of me.

I glance around, looking for my clothes. Gunnar notices and grabs the jersey he was wearing. He bunches it up in his hands and approaches me, and I realize he’s going to put it on. Me.

“I never had sex before,” I tell him before I silently hold up my arms, and he dresses me in his shirt, stooping to grab my underwear from his kitchen floor. He then holds them open, and I instinctively place a hand on his shoulder and step in.

He stands in front of me, running his hands down my cheeks, staring into my eyes. “Emerson, I’m so honored you let me do that for you.”

I blink, confused. I wasn’t expecting him to laugh at me exactly, but he seems … grateful? That I “let” him get me off? “I want to do more things with you, I think,” I stutter. “But I don’t know what to do, and you’re so good at it, and I need you to be patient when I mess up.”

“Salty.” He presses my hand to his chest, where I can feel his pulse thundering. “You are my best fantasy. I am hard every time I so much as think of you. Whatever you want to do or not do, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it.”

I snort, overwhelmed, worried I’ll cry again if I think too hard about him being this nice. “Thank you, I guess.” I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek, and he pats my hand. He stretches, revealing a glorious bit of abdomen, and asks if I want to watch anything on TV.

Before I can respond, he’s hopped over the back of the couch and arranged himself, flicking on the giant device. I walk around to sit beside him, unsure where to place myself on the couch. Do we snuggle now? Should I go to my room and give him an out? There’s no actual protocol for post-oral activity with my accidental husband.

I’m rescued from these thoughts by the strong band of Gunnar’s arm snaking behind me and pulling me close, and I really have no choice but to lean against his side, my bare thigh pressed against the cotton of his sweatpants. “What do you want to watch?” He keeps his eyes on the screen as he clicks around.

I shrug, and he turns to face me. I clear my throat and explain, “I never get to watch TV. If I’m home with downtime, I’m supposed to practice and prepare for my auditions…”

“Hm.” Gunnar frowns. “I’ve had plenty of try-outs, and I still manage to rot my brain with The Walking Dead.” He must notice my expression because he chuckles. “We can skip the zombies, though, and start with Yellowstone if you want? It’s about cowboys.”

“Cowboys?”

Gunnar nods, and the television erupts with sweeping landscapes, running horses, and beautiful actors in tight jeans.

I relax against him even as the plot gets a little intense. I can’t keep track of who is who, but someone has stolen a horse, and someone else stole some cows. Through it all, Gunnar keeps his arm around my shoulders and toys with my hair. It seems unconscious, like he’s not aware he’s winding the curls through his fingers, but it feels mesmerizing. I might fall asleep like this.

“Are you comfortable?” His voice cuts through the pink haze.

“You know, I really, really am. Like…so comfortable.”

He squeezes me and says, “Good. Me, too. We should implement a house rule where we are always dressed just like this.” He turns his head and ogles my body, or what he can see of it squeezed against him and hiding beneath his shirt. I like the fact that it’s a bit big for me. I like being near someone larger than me, who seems to not just tolerate my body but enjoy it. He said as much while he was rocking my world.

I squirm a bit on the couch. “That might get a little cold in the winter, don’t you think?”

“Nah. Stag men are always hot. We have furnaces inside.” He pats his stomach, which is a solid slab of muscle. He doesn’t have a six-pack that I can see. It’s more of a stone tablet of abs behind a wall of smooth skin. I see a light trail of fuzz beneath his navel and blush, wondering what lurks below the waist of those pants. His chest rumbles as he begins to talk again. “Are you cold? Shit, I don’t even have a blanket on the couch. I told you I suck at living alone. I’m going to order a blanket. You need anything from Costco?”

He has his phone in his hand before the cowboys on the television finish brushing their horses.

“No,” I tell him. And then I remember something. “Did you say you have a bucket of lube on your fridge?”

He nods. “Safe and Satisfied. That was a huge thing with my parents. Is there something you want to add to the basket?” He looks up from the app, thumb poised to apparently scour for sex toys or something. I shake my head.

Once Gunnar finishes his phone order, he throws his phone on the coffee table between his feet, and I curl up closer, utterly surrounded by his scent and … the smell of what we did together earlier. It’s all very heady and warm, especially with the sensation of Gunnar’s fingers running through my hair.

For some reason, it feels wrong to nod off, so I focus on his body to keep myself alert. I see a tendril of ink near the collar of his shirt, and I tug it down a little, seeing a tattoo. He meets my eye, and I peek down the shirt. Gunnar laughs and pulls his shirt off. “Have a look.”

I see that he has a deer leaping over some foliage tattooed on one pectoral and a bunch of different designs wrapped around the opposite shoulder and upper arm. Is that called a sleeve?

I reach out a finger to touch the antlers of the deer tattoo. Gunnar glances down. “Ah. That’s the family ink. A stag leaping over laurel.” He smiles. “We all have it somewhere. Dad and his brothers all got it to honor our grandma Laurel.” He pats the tattoo affectionately. “Mom has a similar one. And my aunts. It’s a rite of passage now, to go get the family tattoo when we turn eighteen.”

I connect my finger to his, tracing the outline of the ink, enjoying the way goosebumps spring up on his chest as I lightly touch his skin. “That’s so nice that you all do that together. I could never get a tattoo.”

He presses my hand flat against his body. “Why the hell not?” When I look up into his eyes, he’s frowning, confused.

I laugh, a humorless sound. “Performers simply do not mar their bodies that way, Gunnar.” I can hear it again in my voice, the snap reaction to the oppression I came here to escape. “My father would catch fire with rage.”

“Well,” Gunnar pats my hand and drops his back to his lap. “He’s not here, and I’ve got a guy. I can get you an appointment tomorrow if you want. Ink you up real good.”

When I laugh again, it’s a much lighter sound. “I think I’m okay.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “We can get PROPERTY OF GUNNAR blasted on your butt cheeks.”

“You are obsessed.” I’m soaring now, warm and comfortable and so, so relaxed.

“Damn right I am, Salty.” And he reaches down to pat the body part in question. “It’s a fine ass. In fact, we shouldn’t do a thing to it. Get your tat somewhere else.”

If I don’t stop laughing, I will get the hiccups, so I tell him I’ll think about which design I want to get and where. To my surprise, I actually consider it. What would it be like to have the design of my choosing permanently marked on my body? I recall the website I saw for that cello band. With their brightly dyed hair and edgy outfits, they seemed like they’d welcome a performer with a tattoo without hesitation. Would ink on my arm distract me as I play? Would I prefer a design that’s more private?

I must drift off to sleep with these thoughts because when I next open my eyes, it’s morning, and I’m snugly tucked in my bed, a glass of water beside me on the nightstand and a note scrawled on a napkin:

SLEEP TIGHT, SALTY