Page 51 of Quarantine Crush
Fucking hell. I can’t take this shit.
Sliding off the stool, I slam my laptop closed, grab a couple of beers from the fridge, and haul ass back to Emy’s bedroom. It smells like her, just like I knew it would–which is why I wanted to avoid it. Being in her personal space isn’t much easier than being in her presence, but right now, it’s the only escape I’ve got. I shut the door behind me to drown out any feminine giggling or flirting sounds. From either one of them.
A guy can only take so much.
Being in Emy’s room alone feels a little like I’ve snuck into the inner sanctuary of a church or something. Everything feels personal. Intimate. But since I have her permission, and I’m sure as hell not going back out there anytime soon, I take the time to look around.
There’s a photo collage on the wall beside her mirror, and I recognize Hadley, Nina, and Taylor posing for the camera, dressed in their caps and gowns, in front of the limo I rented for Emy and her friends. I hadn’t been able to make it back for her ceremony, and even though I’d made sure to spoil her from afar, missing her college graduation is still something I regret. Emy’s dad is in a few more and my family too. I smile as I recognize the one of her on the front steps of my parents’ house, shucking corn with my mother and Gram. There’s one of Christian from freshman year, looking gangly, his grin wide with an arm thrown around Emy’s shoulders at what looks like one of his football games. And one of me and Emy from a few years back when we managed to meet up together during summer vacation.
I cringe at the weird goatee thing I was trying to rock back then. It wasn’t working–a fact Emy had laughingly told me over and over again until I finally shaved it off.
Thinking of it now is sobering. That was the last time I saw her before this trip, and that’s part of the problem. If I’m being honest, our drifting apart these last couple of years has more to do with me not coming home often enough than it does about the kissing.
I’m losing Emy.
Or maybe I already have lost her. Maybe that’s what tonight’s date really means.
I tear my gaze from the photos and study the rest of the space. Books are crammed into a low shelf above her bed, and I peruse the titles, which are mostly romancey looking vampire novels, but there’s also the UK versions of Harry Potter that I bought her for her birthday last year. Then my eyes fall on the laptop she’s left on her bed. My graduation gift to her. The vinyl I had made for her still decorates the back. The words ‘So I can always be a part of your magic’ seem mocking now. It’s still open. Still on. Like she was working right up until her date.
I know it’s wrong and invasive, but I can’t help it. I reach for the damn thing, wanting more of our memories like the one I read before. It’s the one comfort I have–knowing that I held a place in Emy’s heart for so long. Even if that place is slowly being taken over by a certain Italian chef.
The screen comes to life with a swipe of my hand, and I settle back on her bed to read more of the history I’ve shared with the girl who’s now dating a guy named after a water plant.
A couple of lines in, I realize this is not the same project I read before, and it’s definitely not a journal entry. Not this time. This is something else entirely. My eyes dart back to the screen, determined to figure out what the hell I’m seeing.
The towel slips free, revealing Fox’s naked body still glistening from the shower. Jemmy’s chest rises and falls with heavy breaths at the sight of him bared before her, the urge to lick each drop of water from his body nearly overwhelming her. Fox stares back at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her perfect body is on full display in tiny shorts and a skimpy tank top that barely covers her. Fox’s gaze rakes her over, the intensity of his eyes leaving trails of fire across her skin. When he looks up at her again, it's with hooded eyes darkened with a desire she’s never seen before. Certainly not directed at her.
Jemmy takes a step back, a flush rising to her cheeks. Fox stalks forward, closing the distance as he grabs her and pulls her flush against his chiseled chest. His grip is hard and demanding as he draws her closer before claiming her mouth with his in a searing kiss that turns Jemmy’s insides to liquid heat. She moans against his mouth, the sound snapping something primal within him, and he tightens his grip, sliding his hands down to palm her ass.
She rocks against him, desperate to get even closer. Fox lifts her, pressing his hard cock along her center. Jemmy’s legs wrap around his middle and squeeze as their tongues move in time to the rocking of their hips. Fox walks them back to the wall and presses Jemmy against it. Her ankles and arms are firmly locked around Fox’s hard body as she grinds against him.
With one hand still firmly holding Jemmy against him, he slips his other hand between them and inside Jemmy’s shorts. His thumb brushes against her clit, pulling a cry from her as she arches into him.
“Fuck,” Fox groans with a need that threatens to consume them both.
I blink, sitting back as I try to make sense of what the hell I’m reading. This has to be fiction because nothing like this has ever happened between Emy and me–that’s for damn sure. But the names are the same as the ones she used in the entry I read about our childhood.
What the hell?
My blood is pumping hard, and I’m torn between finishing the scene–and myself–or closing the laptop.
A gentleman would close it.
A friend wouldn’t have looked in the first place.
But I haven’t been either one of those things in days.
My eyes flick back to the computer, but I don’t make it more than another paragraph when something inside me just . . . snaps.
Or clicks.
Or ignites.
Who the fuck knows.
Either way, I am officially done. With all of this.
Shoving to my feet, I set the beer aside and pull the bedroom door open, my long strides eating up the distance between Emy and me.
