Page 17 of Playing for Keeps

And then, “You know the Bergman’s daughter just got first chair in Vienna. Meanwhile, you’re what? Watching men beat each other with sticks? Darling, this is the sort of savage man you fuck to get it out of your system. You simply do notmarrysomeone so far beneath you!”

And finally, “I always knew you'd use that cello to embarrass us, but I never thought you'd sink quite this low. Call me when you're done rebelling. And please, for heaven's sake, do not get yourself pregnant by that cretin.”

Emerson knows I’ve heard. She turns to face me, shaking. “You don’t have to listen to any of that, Salty. Nobody should talk to you that way.”

I turn into the parking garage for our building and shut off the engine. Emerson is shaking, so I help her out of the car, up the stairs, and right into the kitchen for a glass of water. She sets her phone on the counter and stares at it. I wonder if the same words echo through her head as they do through mine.Cretin. Rebelling. This is the sort of savage man you fuck.

I take a big sip of my water and stare at her. “What do you want to do? I can take you to hit a heavy bag if you want to punch something. Or maybe you want to play your cello?” I don’t want to sound pushy. I know Emerson finds her instrument relaxing, but the last thing I want is to sound like some other asshole demanding she perform for them.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. I keep sipping my water, crunching on the ice cubes. She smacks at her phone, and it slides down the counter, hitting the wall and bouncing to the floor on the living room side of the island. “I need to get out of my head.”

I take a deep breath and set down the water glass, an idea forming. “Well.” I step toward her, giving the ice cube one final crunch. “Since I’m supposed to be the sort of savage man you fuck for a good time…” Her nostrils flare, and her eyes sparkwith annoyance, but I finish my thought. “Do you want me to do that? Do you want me to fuck you, Emerson?”

CHAPTER 11

EMERSON

How on eartham 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 youneeda 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. Andthen 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 pleasureto 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.”

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