This is the second part of a four part fanfiction, that began Emma’s story in Stay – Part 1.
In Part 2 lessons on our craft have been applied, Let’s Talk About Sex.
She squeezed her eyes closed. If only you could’ve closed your mouth. You insulted him! And what’s with the Virgin Mary act? You twitch every time he takes a breath.
Watching the ripples across the water, he wondered why he’d been so insulted? Could it be twas yer willy makin that offer not yer brain. I was being nice. Maybe, but who made ye think of her sleeping bare arsed? When he closed his eyes, he saw her in his hot shower and the part of him providing the images stirred.
Her soft, apologetic drawl did nothing to ease his discomfort. “I’m sorry. You have been nothing but respectful. Thank you for the offer. Can I think about it?”
He looked down again. “Sure. But tell me before we leave. If you are going to be there for breakfast, we have to stop at the market here. The one by my flat will be closed. All I have is coffee.”
“Coffee’s fine,” she said.
“All three sips of it?”
“You saw that?” Emma blushed, like she’d been caught hiding broccoli in her napkin.
“Smile and wave.” He raised his hand in the air to another ferry. More a salute than a wave. “It’s my Da.”
She put her knees in the seat and gave an enthusiastic wave.
“Careful. Ye might have the whole clan out nosin’ around before long.”
“I like diet coke for breakfast. But tea or juice is fine,” she turned to look up at him. “If it’s all the same with you, I’ll sleep in my pajamas.”
It was hardly the same. But he’d be damned if her precious virtue would be compromised by him. And if she changes her mind? A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
Although it wasn’t late, the sun had lost some of its midday warmth and a cool breeze blew white caps on Loch Lomond. Emma shivered, rethinking the fitted white blouse. He politely pretended not to notice the peaks beckoning his mouth and hands to warm them.
“Here.” He pulled off his water repellent jacket.
Then he pulled the soft, dark moss green sweater over his head. She watched in frustrated awe. The cotton tee underneath riding up revealed firm abs and a dark line of hair disappearing behind the button of his jeans. She glanced up to see if his face was still covered, and quickly stole a second glance at the soft dark hair. Then lingered too long on his lean thighs. Which, when looked at as a single entity, were impossibly long.
He cleared his throat. She mumbled a thanks, shoving her head inside the sweater too late to hide the crimson on her cheeks. He had to give it to her. She’d decided on her course of action and was sticking to it. Even if it was only her mind participating in the self-imposed abstinence.
Oh God! He smells good. Clean and masculine. She almost whimpered as the warmth and scent of his clothes enveloped her. “Lawrence? Lewis? Lachland?”
“No. And you are almost half way through.” He stopped he boat again and came to sit behind her. “Watch the bank.” He said pointing over her shoulder, leaning close enough for his chest to become her backrest.
She focused on the shore, fighting the natural inclination to lean into him. The first fish jumped and startled her. Then another and another. For ten minutes the water came alive with silvery fish leaping from its surface.
She smiled over her shoulder. “What’s happening?” Did he have to sit so close?
“Feeding. The insects settle on the water still lit by the sun.” She looked around realizing that the western side of the loch was in afternoon shadow. “The fish follow.”
It was almost sunset when he steered the boat into its space on the dock. While he secured the boat, she packed away the empty food wrappers and bottles.
“What letter am I on?” she asked when they were back in the car.
She wracked her brain for an M name she hadn’t guessed. “Mathias!”
“Well hell!” The apostles were out. “What kind of Catholic doesn’t have a son named after one of the apostles? No offense to your mother.”
“Nathan, Neil, Nigel?” Please don’t say Nigel.
“Did you memorize three of each letter?” He chuckled.
She buried her face in her hands. “I figured if I were close you’d flinch or just give in.”
He laughed. “If I’d had that inclination, I would have resisted. This is far more entertaining.”
“Owen? Patrick?” He shook his head. “Arg! You’re killing me.”
When they crossed the bridge this time, he resisted the pull of his hand toward hers. She clasped hers together willing away the feeling of being airborne.
“Hey. Since the roof over my head and lumpy place to sleep is free. Can I buy you supper?” Emma said cheerfully.
“Is that a polite way of saying you’re hungry?”
“No. It’s a common way of saying thank you.” She gave him an irritated glare. They seemed to continuously bump into the barrier of a common language or looking for phantom messages between the spoken words.
Anxious to fill the uncomfortable silence Emma asked, “Do you make this drive from the city every day?”
“For now,” he said. With a shrug he continued, “Leaving my flat during the divorce was not advised if I didn’t want to lose all of it. We only recently reached a settlement. I’m looking for a place closer to the business.”
“You can’t live with your parents or…” his pained expression cut off the rest of her comment. “Oh, I see.”
“I love my family. But making an hour drive is a fair price for peace.”
“Absolutely,” she nodded recalling the stressful weeks she’d spent in her childhood home after her own marriage collapsed.
“Did you bring everything you own?” he huffed, trying to carry the heaviest without dragging it against the stairs.
“I’m under the weight limit for the plane.” She watched his arms and back flex with the effort. “You’re the one who lives four flights up.”
He looked back. “I’ll find something on the ground floor for your next visit.”
Emma stopped, a very puzzled look on her face. Coming back had simply never occurred to her until that moment.
His voice echoed in the stairs from the landing above her head. “The door’s unlocked.”
She shouldered her carry-on bag and “big purse” and climbed to his door. “Flat” was right. The space had a wide open floor plan – only the toilet and shower were separated by actual walls. The bedroom was set off from the living space by floor to ceiling, salvaged shutters and a set of French doors. She noticed the bed had been quickly made.
A small table and four chairs designated the dining area and a large L sofa, two leather chairs, an ottoman and a respectable sized audio-visual cabinet defined the sitting area. He set her bags outside the bathroom door.
“Italian, Greek or Chinese?” he waved paper menus to get her attention.
“Whatever you like best,” she said, trying to be accommodating.
“There’s a chip shop on the corner.”
She snatched the Italian menu. “How are the seared scallops and linguine?”
After supper, and the rest of the alphabet, he called for the morning train schedule and she went to shower. When she’d finished shaving her legs, and blocked out the image of his for the hundredth time, Emma let the water cascade over her. Imagining the streams over her breasts were from his lips. Those down her stomach and beyond were his long nimble fingers.
“Stop that!” she said, scrubbing her fingers through her hair as though she might scrub the image out of her mind.
“Do you need something?” he called from the other side of the door.
“No,” she jumped and cringed at the guilty pitch in her voice, quickly turning off the water. You have got to stop talking out loud to yourself – at least when other people are around. “I’ll be through in a minute.”
He listened. It was his hands not the towel gliding over her curves. He could smell her shampoo, and something else. Lotion maybe. It was warm and fragrant, but not floral or cloying. The click of the lock backed him away from the door.
“Oh! It’s all yours.” She hadn’t expected him to be right there. Always so close.
He simply raised his brow and brushed past her, lifting his tee over his head as he went. She looked back in time to see the broad planes of his back tapering to his waist and a tight ass before the door closed.
The apartment was dark except for a lamp beside his bed and another between the chairs in the sitting room. Emma had put on her pajamas and stood by the window towel drying her hair. A soft rain blurred the lights of the city. She followed a droplet down the pane of glass with her finger the let her head bang against the pane.
“I should’ve kissed him on the boat,” she whispered.
“Yes, you should have.” He was standing behind her and had been having the same thought about kissing her during his shower.
Emma spun around. He’d hastily shoved his legs into his jeans, water still clung to the soft hair on his chest. Reaching out he tucked the same strand behind her ear he’d watched her put away while driving her into town the day before.
“Did you ever get a Lord Bothwell kiss?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not really. She was flailing around and rambling on about nothing and he just held her face and…”
His calloused hands cupped her face and brought her mouth to his. Stopping Emma’s own ramble. Her lips parted in surprise and invitation. Instantly he swept his tongue over hers. She melted into him. He kissed her with his whole body. Dipping his knees to bring every bit of him in contact with her. His short whiskers ignited her sensitive skin, and she felt them everywhere at once. She was soft in his arms. Her knees buckled slightly and his arms circled her waist.
Emma snaked her arms around his neck. Nipping and sucking the kiss grew hungry and consuming. Her flesh tingled from head to toe. Breaking the kiss, she lay her forehead against his chest, taking deep breaths trying to get her eyes to focus.
His voice was heavy with desire, “Michael.”
“Hmmm?” He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. “You remembered all of the apostles, but forgot Archangels.”
“Michael, what happens in the morning?” she asked, keeping one hand over his racing heart.
“Whatever you want to happen.” He kissed the top of her head, not trying to hide the evidence of his desire now pressed against her.
She pushed away from him. “And after that?”
He folded his arms across his chest, wishing she would do the same. “I suppose I’ll take you to your train.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to still the tremble in her chin. “I can’t do that. This.” She waved a hand between them.
He tilted his head, a little confused. That kiss suggested they could do this very well.
She snorted as tears filled her eyes. “My life hasn’t been one long episode of Sex in the City. I had one, one, one-night stand. Six months ago, I let go of the hang-ups and gave in to what began as pure physical desire. No expectations other than a good shag.” They both smiled at her use of the vernacular. “Hey, I deserved a wild weekend, I thought. Still, by the next morning I cared about him. For me it wasn’t just physical. I thought about that night and that man enough that I booked this trip. Alone. Wondering if he would magically appear. And I mourned his passing. I wasn’t looking for happily ever after. I just wanted…hell, I don’t know. What I’m getting at is, my body and heart go together, even when I don’t necessarily want them to.”
She slumped against the cool window. Michael waited, a thread of envy for the deceased whose memory had brought her around the world and his attraction to her shifted, again. Heart and body sounded pretty good.
“When I said goodbye to him in the States, I was sad to see him go, but it didn’t hurt. It was just the end of my adventure. I don’t know when it happened today, but the thought of getting on that train tonight, saying good-bye, never seeing you again…”
She left her words hanging in the air. He felt his chest tighten with something close to panic at the thought of her leaving.
“Then don’t get on it at all. Stay here. With me,” he said.
Emma laughed without humor, “So when I leave for London in four days to catch my plane it rips my guts out. I’ll pass. It was selfish and foolish, but I just wanted to be with you a little while longer.”
“Ye best get some sleep then. Take the bed. I’ll sleep out here.” His words were short and clipped.
She was surprised. She’d expected him to argue, convince her to stay. “No, I’ll be fine out here.”
“Don’t insult me by refusing my hospitality.” He knew there was a vein of truth to what she said. He just wished their bodies weren’t sending opposing messages to her truth.
She paused, what should she say? What could she say that wouldn’t offend him more? With effort, she stopped herself from touching him before crossing the flat to his bed.
He watched the silky fabric of her pajama bottoms cling to her as she walked. Through the slits in the dividing shutters, he watched her wipe her eyes and curl up in his bed. Michael stretched his length as far as he could on the sofa, feet propped up on the arm at the end, and punched the pillow, folding it twice before shoving it under his head. In the darkness, he could hear her ragged breaths, hear her tossing under his sheets.
Why dinna ye convince her? Why dinna ye Bothwell her? Tha lass was jees needin’ a wee push an’ she’d be tossing under you not yer sheets right now. It has to be her choice. Why? Ye know what she wants. So does she. Tha’ woman wants ta be swept off her feet and you are too afraid to do it. You willna do a damn thing for the next four days except stop yeself from driving all over bloody Edinburgh lookin’ for her. And on the fifth day I’ll be fine. No. Ye will feel the breadth and width of the Atlantic Ocean separating ye from her. Arse.
Emma didn’t know how long she’d tried to keep from crying, but her throat ached from the effort. Why hadn’t he argued more? He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. That much was clear.
Did you want him to argue? Maybe. Why? So the hurt could be on his shoulders not mine. That’s nice. Let him seduce you then blame him for the heartache. Well, now you can think about the great guy who you really connected with and who obviously gives a damn about you, while you spend four days alone in Edinburgh. He went to two markets to find your damn diet coke! You’re a jackass. And a dumbass!
She rolled her head on his pillow, it smelled of Michael – a mix of soap, sea and that masculine scent she remembered from his sweater. She could hear him shifting and in the faint glow of streetlights see the shadows of his restless movements. He wasn’t sleeping either.
“Michael what?” she said into the darkness.
“Wilson,” he almost whispered.
She closed her eyes tight. “Emma Grant.”
“I know. I looked in your handbag when you were in the shower.” She burst out laughing. He smiled. It was possibly the happiest sound he could remember hearing.
“You remember what I said about time? About it mattering to those who don’t have it?”
He propped himself on his elbow. Focusing on where he knew she lay in the dark. “I remember everything you said since we met.”
She stepped out of his bedroom, “I would rather miss you for the rest of my life than regret you. If you still want me to stay.”
He slowly stood from the sofa. He wore nothing but jeans left unbuttoned. There was a determined air in his walk. Had she been able to see his face the glint of mischief would have turned her insides liquid.
He exaggerated his natural burr, curling half his lip in the process. “Lass, tha’ list of things I want from you would amaze Father Christmas. Stay is only the beginning.”
Michael towered over her now. The puckered satin covering her breasts tempted him beyond reason. His hands ached to claim the soft mounds.
Emma cocked her head and backed towards the bed. “Can we start on my list first?”
He matched her step for step until the back of her knees met the mattress. “That is the only polite thing to do.”
She gripped the open fly on his jeans. Noting the absence of undershorts as the back of her fingers moved back and forth in the mass of dark hair.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, the past twelve hours have been,” she searched for the word, “frustrating.”
One long rough finger pushed the thin spaghetti strap off her shoulder. “I noticed.”
“Would you mind if we skipped the pleasantries?” she ran her fingers over the muscles of his chest and stomach.
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He leaned over until she fell back on the bed, bringing his face a breath away from hers. “Just this once.” Michael hooked the fingers of both hands on the elastic of her pajama bottoms and panties sliding them over her hips, and tossing them through the French doors into the open living space.
Emma scrambled backwards, laughing as she shimmied out of her silky top while he kicked out of his jeans. He crawled up the bed.
“Michael…” she said on a breath, reaching for him.
“Emma,” he felt the shiver that ran through her, groaned as he sheathed himself in her warmth.
He’d imagined this, despite his protests. His fantasy paled with the feel of her beneath him. The muscles in his arms bulged as he held himself over her. She clung to the twin pillars moving her hips to feel all of him. Michael looked between them, watching her body undulate, listening to her soft sounds of pleasure as he moved with her.
“Yes!” She arched her back.
Quickly, he rolled over onto his back carrying her with him, awed by her. Head thrown back she raised and lowered herself on him. He ground his teeth to control the release his body craved. She was not making such an effort. In fact, she was racing to the pinnacle. Her long fingers dug into his thighs. A flush bloomed over her chest and up her neck, illuminated by the thin streams of light coming in from the streets below.
“Bloody hell, woman, you’re beautiful.”
The rough pad of his finger toyed with her tender pearl. She gasped and began to tremble.
“As God as my witness, I’ll never sleep with a manicured man again.”
He laughed increasing the pressure sending violent spasms through her and around him. He rolled again, burying himself deep, riding the next wave of release with her.
Panting, drenched, they lay together. Michael propped himself up, keeping his body nestled between her thighs. He blew a cool breath across her heated skin. She shivered. He blew again over her breasts. They instantly responded, tightening to stiff peaks. He dipped his head to take a hard tip in his mouth. Emma moaned.
“They’ve been teasing me all day, luv. Top of my list.” Moving to graze his teeth over the other one.
Desperate for a moment to recover, she clasped his head and pulled him down to her, demanding he return her eager kisses.
“YO! Mikey!” A fist banged on the front door, the intruder slurred a Scottish imitation of Ricky Ricardo. “Mikey! You got some ‘splainin’ to doooo.”
“Duncan. Pissed off his arse.” Michael said through clenched teeth.
Emma turned her face to laugh into the pillow. “Will he go away?”
“No.” He left her with an agonized sigh. “He has a key.”
There was a jingling sound as Duncan tried the lock. He banged again. “Ye made me sing, ye bugger. Ye canna jest leave us wondering. Who was she, Mikey?”
Michael was shoving his legs into his jeans and running to the door.
“Michael. Yer mother’s worried about ye.” Came another voice.
“Dad? Shite!” He glared over his shoulder at the muffled screams of laughter from his bed.
“Michael? What do you want me to do?” Emma half whispered.
“Stay there. I’m not through with you.” He opened the door blocking his brother and father’s entrance. “What are you doing here? It’s fuckin’ two in the morning.”
Duncan peered around him, instantly zooming in on the pile of pale pink satin on the floor. “Jeez, Mikey. Ye brought her here? Is she the first one ye let in the place since the exorcism?” Duncan snorted at his pet name for Michael’s divorce. “Have ye even been with a woman since ye got yer bollocks back?”
“Leave yer brother alone. He’s allowed. Sorry son. We were afraid, well, we can talk tomorrow.” The elder man said, attempting to end the interruption as gracefully as possible.
Meanwhile Emma had retrieved and donned her pajamas, with Michael blocking their view, and walked to the door ducking under Michael’s arm. “Hi, I’m Emma.” She held out her hand.
Still flushed with passion, her hair damp and wild giving her a well-loved look, she stunned the three dark striking men around her into silence.
Finally, “John Wilson.” Michael’s father took her hand. “My other son, Duncan.” Nudging Duncan into his manners, he took her hand even as he stood slack jawed staring at her.
She smiled up at them. “Thank you for the song, Duncan. It was a wonderful surprise.” Michael shifted his hand to her waist. Possessive. Proud.
“Will ye be joining the family for tea tomorrow, lass?” John asked.
Michael shifted. “Da. Let’s wait and see?”
“Why? Aren’t your intentions with my son honorable?” He winked at her.
“Not at all, Mr. Wilson.” Emma smiled brilliantly up at him.
John laughed, gathering Duncan by the scruff of the neck. “Let’s go boy. Yer wife’ll have her blood up as it is. G’night, Michael. Call yer mother,” he said over his shoulder.
“G’night, Da. Duncan.” Closing the door, he kissed her long and deep. “You were brilliant.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her back to his bed.
“I can’t wait to tell the girls back home about this!” she squealed, bouncing where he dropped her.
Turning to lie on her stomach, she rested her chin on her hands looking up at him. Her eyes followed the trail of soft dark hair down his chest. Unlike on the boat, she didn’t have to steal a glance at the growing swell. She reached out, caressing and encouraging it.
“I wasted all day on that boat fighting this,” she said, shaking her head at her foolishness.
Michael hissed as he steadied himself on the iron rail of the foot-board. “Probably best ye did. I’d bet money Duncan and Da had field glasses.”
She unzipped his jeans, bending her knees, criss-crossing her feet playfully.
He covered her hand, stopping further exploration. “I’ll be right back.”
She stripped out of her pajamas, re-positioning herself closer the edge of the bed, stacking two pillows under her chest. She giggled into the pillows. “What are you doing?” He was bent over her suitcase.
“Victoria doesn’t keep her secrets in my suitcase.” Emma balanced over the edge of the mattress trying to see what he was doing.
He swaggered through the doors dangling her red high heels from the day before from his finger. “Another on my wish list.”
“You have a shoe kink?” she giggled.
“A what?” he laughed.
She laughed, rolling to her back and turning to wiggle her feet in the air. He stepped close enough for her to rest them on his chest.
“Not a fetish I hope. I’m not going to find you wearing them in the morning am I? They are the only CFMs I own I can actually walk in. ”
He slipped the strappy, high-heeled sandal on her foot, smiling as he worked. “I need a translator. I get kink, CFM though? That’s a new one.”
“Come Ahem,” she cleared her throat, “Me shoes.”
“Wouldn’t that make them CAMs?” He pursed his lips and cocked his brow. She squirmed, holding in laughter. He was tickling her horribly. She waved her hand towards her feet.
“You know what I mean. Those aren’t really CFMs anyway. They’re more,” she flashed a smile and fluttered her lashes, “look at me, aren’t I pretties.”
“Not when yer……bare assed in my bed, they aren’t.” He kissed her instep. “Come on, Emma. Say it.”
“Say what?” She tried to pull her foot back.
Michael gripped her ankle and trailed a finger up the side of her foot. “Say fuck, Emma. If you can’t say it, you can’t do it.” He was shaking with laughter at her squirming. Not sure if it was the profanity or tickling causing her to wriggle.
Emma grew suddenly still, and beckoned him to lean closer. “I have a better word for you.” When he leaned down she actually whispered two words in his ear….
Michael lost track of time. Maybe minutes or a glorious eternity before he collapsed on to the bed. His ex had only begrudgingly put her mouth on him and only when she was wanting reciprocation. He couldn’t help wondering at Emma’s motives. Although, she didn’t seem to have one beyond enjoying him and making him feel absolutely perfect.
“Up,” she commanded.
He opened one eye to see her standing over him, trying to tug his jeans off. He raised his hips then watched her lay them over the end of the bed. She kissed him softly, full breasts brushing against his arm.
“I’ll be right back.”
She walked carefully to the bathroom. He had to sit up to watch her. The effort of walking in her shoes giving her a slow motion sway, her hips tilting from side to side, buttocks softly curving into legs longer than her five feet five inches would suggest. He smiled at the wiggle with each step. Cute. No, sexy. She disappeared behind the door.
Emma had felt him watching her. At first she was praying not to fall off the heels, then she realized he was looking at her naked bottom. Oh, God not that! She’d spent most of her life avoiding that. No line panties. Skirted swim suits. Spanks, forfucksake! All to hide her butt. No more spandex, her pride reminded her. Still, she sped up, unwittingly giving him the wiggle she despised and he was beginning to adore.
In the bathroom she examined her face. Did she look different? More experienced? Sluttier? Nah, same ole same ole. She looked again. Brighter maybe? She dug around in her toiletry kit for a toothbrush and slipped out of the shoes. Mid brush he knocked.
“Was it that bad?”
“Oh, crap!” She rinsed quickly. Grabbed his tee off the top of the laundry bin, tugging it over her head before opening the door. “No. I….just. Well, I want to kiss you. And….I,” her head fell forward onto his chest, “never did that before.”
He raised her chin and saw the shyness in her eyes. “That was a very good first try.”
She snorted, “Not first ever. First finish.”
“I’m honored.” Taking her by the hand, he led her back to bed. “My shirt looks good on you.”
When he had her gathered in his arms again, Michael kissed her. Slow, languid kisses that turned her bones to jelly. His curiosity was gnawing at his brain, and his vanity, if he were honest about it.
“If I was the first, how many weren’t so lucky?”
She smiled against his chest. “That was diplomatic. Including you. Four. My ex. Jack. I dated a man for a couple of months last winter. And you.”
She played with the curls on his chest. Just as she’d played with his hand. Just like he’d imagined. He found himself wanting to know everything about her.
Emma closed her eyes, her head on his chest and drifted to sleep, hoping he would take her to tea.
…to be continued.