Page 14 of Higher Ground
His cock sprang to attention. Never mind the fact it had been halfway ready ever since Emory had fallen on him in the kitchen. It ached, his balls hanging low between his thighs. Andso instead of grabbing a towel, he reached below his waist and grabbed his cock.
Just a small adjustment, he tried to tell himself, but his hand lingered.
He stroked his firm length lazily at first, listening to the sounds Emory made, appreciating the little whimpers and the heavy moans. But the pressure continued to build until his insides ran hot and his heart was racing. Byron spat into his palm and rubbed the moisture up and down his shaft, collecting the bead of precum that was spilling from his tip. A groan rumbled in his chest, and he dropped his head against the wall. So close to the woman he craved, yet so far away. Always so. Far. Away.
With every tense stroke, he hated himself a little more, but he couldn’t stop. The desire, the wanting, was too much.
Emory’s pumps hastened, her breath turning shallow, and Byron imagined her falling to pieces in his arms. He imagined how her lips might tremble and her legs might shake. Licking his lips, he imagined how she might taste on his tongue; musky and sweet, like the honey of her laugh and the earthy scent of the candle he lit in the kitchen. The one he’d seen in the small boutique in town and justknewshe would love. He pumped his cock furiously to the sounds of Emory’s orgasm, ignoring the tiny voice in his head that said he shouldn’t, that it was wrong.
“Byron.”
As the sounds from her room slowed, she whispered his name. It was as quiet as a summer breeze, but with his forehead against the wall, Byron heard it as clearly as though he was lying over her. He never, in all his wildest imaginations, thought it might have been him she was picturing as she made herself come. Knowing then that it was him in her mind, his orgasm hit him hard and fast. Spurts of his cum lined the tiled wall as he stroked every last drop out.
“Emory,” he whispered. And fuck, he hadn’t meant to say her name but then again, maybe from some deep part of his subconscious he had. Maybe he wanted Emory to know that he was thinking of her, too. That this, whateverthiswas, was shared between them.
Later, after he had cleaned the wall and the room beside his had long gone quiet, Byron lay atop his bed with his hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling he couldn’t see through the dark, Byron listened to the rain as it pummelled against the old tin roof.
He didn’t want to think about tomorrow. When there was every chance they might wake up and realise they couldn’t leave. What would they do then?
And how should he act?
Should he pretend it never happened, or should they try to talk about it? But what would he say?
‘Hi, Emory, yes, I made myself come while completely breaching your privacy and listening to you pleasure yourself. Sorry, but I heard you say my name, did you hear me say yours?’
His cheeks burned at the thought, and a concrete slab found a place on his chest. Turning to his side in a futile attempt to throw it off, Byron curled his face against his pillow and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long few weeks. And not just because they were going to be stuck together.
But also because maybe, being stuck together was exactly what they both needed.
Byron huffed, pulling a pillow over his face. That was his heart talking, or his balls. Either way, it definitely wasn’t his head. It didn’t matter that he heard Emory masturbating or that she probably heard him too. It didn’t matter that they had called for each other from beyond the wall and through whispered breaths. Byron could pretend it meant more than it did becausehe so desperately wanted it to. But the cold, hard truth of the matter was that it meant nothing. It had to.
Byron was too old for Emory. She deserved a chance to forge her own path, not be tied to the family that caused her so much pain. So, even if she did fantasise about him, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let either of them get carried away on a dream.
Chapter 7
Emory
The smell of breakfast woke Emory, stirring her from her slumber. She yawned into her pillow and rolled over to stretch her arms above her head. Streaks of light broke through the gaps around the curtains, pasting bright lines on the high ceiling. Blinking the dryness from her eyes, she wondered how long she’d been asleep on the couch for.
For three years, she’d been woken by Clayton. Every morning. When he was younger, he would cry from his cot, demanding attention and love she was more than willing to give, no matter how tired she was. Lately, he’d climb into her bed before the sun rose and play with her hair until she gave up trying to get him back to sleep. Back at the cottage, she used to read him a book while her coffee brewed and play games on the floor while the bitter liquid slowly brought her yawning body back to life. This morning, though, she’d been too afraid of waking Byron with the whirring of his fancy espresso machine. So, she’d scooped Clayton up and hobbled, eyes half closed, to the living room, turned on some TV show that was probablyterriblefor his development, and snuck in a few extra precious moments of rest.
For a while, as she lay with Clayton curled between her legs, she’d forgotten where they were or who she had to face when the rest of the world finally woke up. The fluffy cushions she’d assembled into a nest on the couch sank beneath her head, and for a second, she contemplated staying there. Clayton was no longer nestled in her lap, and without his weight and warmth, all she could think about was last night.
Byron had heard her; she was sure of it.
More than that, though, she was fairly certain she’d also heard him. As she rode down the wave of her orgasm, her senses sprang back to life, and the distinct sound of heavy breaths and low moans could be heard through the wall.
And then he’d said her name.
Embarrassment had flared through her when he had whispered those three syllables. Emory had snapped her legs shut and cowered under the blankets as though he could see her, and her heart had raced on long after the pulsing in her core fizzled into nothing.
She couldn’t figure out what it meant, the way her name was all gravelly on his lips and the panted moan that followed. God, she felt her cheeks burning again as she thought about it. As she thought about him, coming undone over her.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she pulled the blanket over her head. She thought about hiding under there and sleeping the morning away to the dull tune of high-pitched nursery rhymes. She imagined waiting until Byron had long since left the house, off to do whatever farm-related tasks needed to be done before a flood. But she couldn’t do that.
With Clayton absent from the couch, she knew he must have found his Papa.
So, she would have to leave the room and face Byron. She just had no idea how she was going to muster up the confidence to do it. Sinking further into her nest of cushions and blankets, she allowed herself ten deep breaths before she tried.
