Emersyn
As I step back into the living room, the tray of drinks in hand, my pulse is still doing its little dance. Fowler and Marx look up as I approach, their eyes tracking my movement like magnets.
"Here you go," I say, handing Fowler his refilled glass first.
"Thanks," he says, giving me a nod and a grin that sets my insides fluttering. God, why do I have to find that simple action so damn sexy?
I turn to Marx, extending his drink towards him. Just as he reaches out to take it, my hand wobbles slightly, spilling a small amount of the liquid onto his shirt.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry," I stammer, my face turning a shade that could rival a tomato.
Marx glances down at the minor spill and then back up at me. "Don't worry about it," he says calmly, setting his drink on the coffee table. And then, without any hint of hesitation, he pulls his shirt off over his head, revealing a chiseled chest and abs that look like they're carved from stone.
I feel my mouth go dry, and my brain scrambles for words but comes up empty. He tosses the shirt aside and sits back down like it's no big deal. But oh, it's a big deal. A very, very big deal.
"Um, right," I say, finally finding my voice, though it's shaky. I sit back down next to him, feeling like I'm about to burst into flames.
The movie on the screen turns to a particularly terrifying scene, something involving a shadowy figure and a knife. I can't help it—I let out a scream and grab onto Marx's arm, my nails digging into his skin.
Instead of grimacing or pulling away, Marx lets out a low sound, something that's way more pleasure than pain. That noise travels straight to the core of me, and I realize that I've hit my limit.
"Um, I think I'm going to head to bed," I say, standing up abruptly. "I'm really tired."
"Are you sure?" Fowler asks, looking surprised but concerned.
"Yeah," Marx adds, his voice tinged with something I can't quite place, but it makes my stomach do flips. "It's still early."
"Yeah, I'm sure," I manage to say. "I'm just not feeling great. Goodnight, guys."
I make my escape before the tension, now thick enough to cut with a knife, does me in.
I lie in bed for a moment, but my body is on fire. A shower. I need a shower. I need the cold water to temper whatever the hell is happening to me.
I strip out of my clothes quickly and step into the shower, turning the knob to a cooler setting than I usually prefer. For a moment, the chilly water pelting my feverish skin feels like a relief, a sanctuary from the heat that's been building up inside me.
But it doesn't last long.
Despite the cool water cascading down on me, my core remains ablaze. The pressure between my legs, instead of subsiding, seems to be reaching a crescendo, begging, pleading for release. I press my palm against the tiled wall of the shower, my other hand clenching into a fist at my side.
I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes and trying to reign in my senses. But all I can think of is Marx's low, pleasurable moan and Fowler's teasing whispers against my skin. My thoughts race to places they probably shouldn't, and I'm gripped by a feeling of both urgency and hesitance.
The water continues to flow, indifferent to my inner battle. My breathing grows shallow, erratic. I need to do something, anything, to release this unbearable tension. I bite my lip, contemplating my next move, feeling like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.
And then, in that moment, I make a decision.
I decide to let go, to give in to what my body so desperately craves. With a sigh, I reach down, my fingers finding that spot that holds all the tension, all the yearning. My touch is gentle at first, almost exploratory, but it's like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
Instantly, I'm ablaze, a frenzy of sensation erupting inside me. My knees go weak, and I lean more heavily against the shower wall for support. My breathing turns into ragged gasps, each one punctuated by my rising excitement.
The reality of the situation fades away, leaving only the electrifying sensations that are coursing through me, each one more powerful than the last. As I bring myself closer and closer to the edge, my thoughts drift back to Marx's sultry gaze, to Fowler's lingering touch, each fueling my descent into pure, uninhibited pleasure.
Finally, it hits me—a wave of release so powerful it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I cry out, my voice echoing against the shower tiles, filling the small room with the sound of my surrender. For a few glorious moments, I'm lost, adrift in a sea of sensation that washes over me.
As I come back down to earth, my breathing slowly returns to normal, the water from the shower now feeling almost too cold against my sensitive skin. I turn off the faucet and step out, grabbing a towel to wrap myself in.
As I stand there, drying off and still feeling slightly dazed, a sense of reality starts to creep back in. Oh God, what if they heard me? What if I was too loud?
I throw on a robe and tie it snugly, suddenly conscious of how thin the walls might be. My eyes dart to the bathroom door, half-expecting either Fowler or Marx to come knocking, asking if I'm okay. But the house remains eerily quiet.
Taking a deep breath, I pad back into my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed, my mind racing. The relief I felt moments ago is starting to fade, replaced by a new wave of anxiety. What if they heard me? I wouldn't be able to face them again.
I hear laughter coming from the living room, the sounds of the movie still playing in the background. They seem unaware of my internal struggle, oblivious to the seismic shift that just occurred in the confines of my bathroom.
I want to go back out there, join them, act like nothing happened. Yet, the very idea makes me nervous. How can I look them in the eye after what just happened?
With another sigh, I decide to just stay in bed. I already feel awkward. And what happens if the tension builds again? It's better if I just sleep this off.
**
The next morning, I stumble into the kitchen, still half-asleep and wrapped in a comfy robe. My hair's a mess, but who cares? Fowler and Marx are probably still knocked out anyway.
Rubbing my eyes, I pause, taking in the unexpected sight before me. The kitchen counter is a wonderland of baking supplies—flour, sugar, vanilla extract, new pans, baking sheets, and even some fancy mixing bowls and a hand mixer. My eyes catch a note propped against a bag of chocolate chips.
"Thought the kitchen could use these. –M"
My heart does a weird flip-flop. Marx got these? I don't even know when he would have had the time to get any of this stuff. Was it because I mentioned I loved baking?
Okay, keep it together, Emersyn. I'm sure I'm just looking into things too much again.
I decide to make some breakfast muffins.
I've got the first batch in the oven when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to see Marx walking in, his hair tousled from sleep, wearing just a pair of sweatpants. His chest is bare, his muscular frame on full display.
"Morning," he mumbles, starting the coffee pot.
"Mornin'," I reply.
The oven timer goes off, and I grab a potholder to take out the tray of golden-brown muffins. The aroma fills the kitchen, comforting, homey.
"Wanna try?" I ask.
He looks at the muffins and then at me. "Yeah."
I put one on a plate and hand it to him. Our fingers touch for a fraction of a second. No sparks, but...something.
He takes a bite, and his eyes do this... thing. Like, they light up for just a sec. "Nice."
That one word from him and my stomach's doing gymnastics. I'm thrown back to last night— the tension, the movie, the shower.
"Emersyn?" He's looking at me, his eyes narrowed just a tad, like he's trying to read me. It's the way he always calls my by my full name, even when the other guys have started calling me nicknames.
I snap out of it. "Sorry, just planning the next recipe," I lie.
He studies me for a moment, and I wonder what he sees. He's silent as he pours himself a cup of coffee and heads back to his room. I watch him walk away, his muscular back retreating from sight.
I sigh, leaning against the kitchen counter. The conflicting emotions from last night and this morning swirl in my head. I can't seem to escape.
I pour myself some coffee and try to shake off the tension that seems to have made a home in the pit of my stomach. I need to get a grip. I can't keep letting my imagination run wild.
Just as I'm considering whether I should slip back into my room and avoid human contact for the rest of the day, Fowler walks in. He's got a relaxed grin on his face, hair a mess, and wearing his signature pajama bottoms—pizza slices all over them.
"Hey, Em," he greets, eyes scanning the room and landing on the freshly baked muffins. "Well, look at this, breakfast of champions!"
His light tone and teasing demeanor act like a warm blanket, comforting and safe. For a moment, it's easy to forget the craziness that's been brewing inside me.
"Help yourself," I say, gesturing toward the muffins.
Fowler doesn't need any further encouragement. He grabs a muffin and takes a big bite, the crumbs scattering across the counter. "Oh man, these are awesome!" he says, his mouth still half-full.
I chuckle. "Glad you like them."
"So, you're like a regular Martha Stewart, huh?" he teases, taking another bite of his muffin.
"You could say that. Baking helps me relax," I reply.
Fowler chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know, my mom used to bake a lot when I was a kid."
"Really?" I ask, intrigued. "What did she like to make?"
"Oh, all sorts of things," he says, taking another sip of his coffee. "Cookies, pies, bread. She was a
stay-at-home mom, so she had a bit of time on her hands when we weren't attached to her. My house always smelled like something was in the oven. It was great."
"That sounds so nice," I comment, genuinely touched by the image of a younger Fowler surrounded by baked goods. I think of my own mother, cold and distant. I don't know how my father ever married her, they're complete opposites.
"Yeah, it was. My family's super close. Parents still together and all that."
"You have any siblings?"
Fowler laughs. "Yeah. I'm actually the youngest of five."
"Ah, that explains a lot," I tease, looking at him over the rim of my coffee mug.
He raises an eyebrow. "Explains what?"
"You have that youngest sibling vibe," I say, shrugging. "You're charming and easy-going, but I bet you're spoiled."
He grins, clearly not offended. "Well, you're not entirely wrong. I've always been my mom's baby."
My heart flutters at his candidness, and I can't help but feel closer to him for it. It's interesting, these little glimpses into his life that show a side of him that's both endearing and genuine.
"So, you gonna tell me what it's like being Emersyn?" he asks, leaning back against the counter, eyes focused on me. "I feel like I'm always sharing and you haven't given much back."
He's right, of course. I tend to be a closed book. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to open up a little more.
"Well, where do I start?" I begin, setting my coffee mug on the counter and taking a deep breath. "Both of my parents are still together, though I can't for the life of me figure out why. They're polar opposites."
"Ah, the whole 'opposites attract' thing?" Fowler asks, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
"Maybe, but it's more like a sun-and-ice situation," I explain. "My dad is the warm sun, bright and cheerful. Always has a smile on his face and a joke up his sleeve. My mom, though... she's a completely different story. She's colder, more reserved, hardly ever shows affection."
"That's tough," Fowler says, his voice softening. "But it's great that you have at least one parent you can look up to."
"Yeah, my dad's awesome," I reply, feeling a smile creep onto my lips at the thought of him. "He's always been my go-to for advice and support."
"What about siblings?" Fowler asks. "You an only child?"
"Nope, I've got an older brother," I say, taking a sip of my coffee. "He's more like my mom, though. Well, now, anyway. We were close when we were kids. Things changed when I started college. He followed in our mother's footsteps, law school. They were both disappointed in me when I chose art. My dad supported me, and Val. And that's all I really needed."
"Your brother and mother are both lawyers?" Fowler muses.
"Yeah, and he's got this girlfriend who fits right into that mold, all prim and proper," I continue, rolling my eyes at the thought. "Honestly, it feels like my parents cloned themselves through us."
Fowler laughs. "Well, families are weird like that. We don't get to choose 'em, but we do get to navigate how we fit—or don't fit—into the grand puzzle."
"That's true," I nod, my thoughts lingering on my family dynamics. "And what about you? I mean, are you different from your siblings?"
He shrugs. "Not really. My family is super tight-knit. We all grew up to live pretty different lives, but it never changed our closeness."
"That's awesome," I say, a touch of envy coloring my words. "I wish my family were like that. We're more like planets in a solar system—connected, but so far apart we might as well be in different galaxies."
Fowler puts his empty coffee mug in the sink and turns to face me. "Well, family isn't just about blood, you know? Sometimes, you find your family in the most unexpected places. Like here."
I chuckle, feeling my heart swell a bit at his words. "Yeah, you're right. It's been an experience, sharing this space with you guys. And you know what? I wouldn't change it for anything."
He grins, pushing himself off the counter. "Me neither. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go and demolish another one of those muffins before Marx decides he wants seconds."
"Go for it," I say, waving him off. "There's plenty more where those came from."
As Fowler exits the kitchen, muffin in hand, I lean back against the counter, my thoughts drifting back to Marx. The kitchen utensils he bought, the tension from last night, that unreadable look he gave me this morning—it's all a puzzle, pieces that don't quite fit together. Yet.
I pour myself another cup of coffee and head for the porch. Maybe a bit of fresh air will help clear my head. As I sit down in one of the chairs, mug in hand, I can't help but feel grateful. Grateful for this beautiful morning, grateful for new friends, and yes, even grateful for the complicated feelings that remind me I'm still alive, still capable of feeling.
After what Lyle had done to me, I thought my heart would be irreparably shattered. I was hurt by what he had done, yeah, but I think that had more to do with the humiliation of it all, the breaking of trust. I'm not even sure I still loved him anymore when I caught him cheating. I think I was just used to our relationship, comfortable.
I think it's time to call him. I think it's time to go get my stuff back.