Page 38 of Higher Ground
Clayton’s toys had spread beyond the living room, a few stray cars scattered the hallway, and a plastic bowling set lay toppled at the far end. Even though he’d moved her to the study for her own comfort, a few of Emory’s books had still spread onto the kitchen table. Miff had taken to following Clayton around all day, burning off her excess energy by chasing him up and down the length of yard that remained above the water while he giggled and cheered. Empty cups began to stack in the sink, lights were always left on accidentally, and there was no such thing as silence. Byron hadn’t realised it before, but the silence in the old farmhouse had been deafening. With it gone, his head felt a little lighter and his back no longer seemed to ache—although that was probably due to the lack of physical labour.
Byron leaned back against the couch. He was happy, he realised. For the first time in a while, too. He knew why, but it was a terrifying thought.
In front of him, Clayton was drawing; three big round heads on the butcher’s paper Emory had used to cover the coffee table. The biggest was grey, with hard-pressed indents for eyes and a straight line instead of a mouth. Another was a deep brown, with wispy lines that might have been hair poking around instead of ears. The third, the smallest, was in the middle. Green like the colour of Clayton’s eyes, it had a big, curved smile, and its arms reached up towards the others.
It was a family portrait. Byron’s chest swelled at the thought. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Papa!” Clayton tapped the grey crayon against the picture. “Look.”
Byron pushed forward, resting his arms on his knees as he leant towards his grandson. “I see. Is that us?”
Clayton nodded. “Papa, Mummy, Clay.” He tapped the crayon against each figure in turn, then stretched his hands above his head. Yawning, the little boy dropped the crayon.
It was about his nap time, Byron figured. They’d eaten lunch a while ago, and the kid had been going nonstop since breakfast. Miff had already succumbed to an afternoon sleep, so it made sense that Clayton needed one too.
Byron scooped the boy into his arms and started to hum. He was never a good singer, but the tune helped Clayton settle. Snuggling into Byron’s arms, Clayton stuck his thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes. Byron held him close as he walked to the study and knocked on the sliding door.
Emory’s voice was soft as she called for him to come in, and she was already halfway around the desk when Byron entered. She held her arms out and pulled a very sleepy Clayton into her arms.
“Did Papa wear you out?”
The boy nodded, barely, nuzzling against his mother’s shoulder.
Emory gave Byron a smile and moved out of the room. Byron followed her down the hall as she headed for the tiny bed in the boy’s bedroom. It was one of the easiest naps Byron had ever seen Clayton encouraged to take, but neither he nor Emory seemed about to complain. After Emory tucked Clayton into the blankets, she kissed his forehead and then stood back. It took Byron a moment to realise she was gesturing for him to kiss the boy goodnight too. It wouldn’t have been the first time he tucked Clayton in for a nap, but something about this time felt wholly different. There was that feeling of somethingmoreagain. Clayton shuffled in the blankets as Byron kissed his cheek, but quickly settled back against his pillow. Standing, Byron tapped gently on the wooden bedhead. It was an old superstitious thing, really, but he needed to be sure he hadn’t jinxed himself with all these hopes of the future.
He and Emory tiptoed out of the room but paused together before stepping into the hallway. Their hands brushed together, but neither made a move to do more, or less. Clayton looked so peaceful, curled up in the tiny bed, and Byron thought of the picture still lying on the coffee table. The three of them. A family.
Could they do it?
Or, more importantly,shouldthey do it?
He pulled the door closed and followed Emory down the hall. She turned back briefly before returning to the study, and Byron paused. It didn’t matter to him what people might say, but it mattered how Emory and Clayton might feel. He didn’t want to confuse the boy any more than he wanted to hold Emory back from her dreams. She was studying, and he still hadn’t been game enough to ask her what her plans were when she finished her degree. No matter his feelings for her, he didn’t want herto feel stuck here. But last night had done nothing to shake the deepening desire from his system. If anything, it had made it worse.
It had, truly, honestly, been a mistake when he walked in on her. The lights had gone out, and he’d heard her cry out, and something in him responded. He had been unable to quell the urge to run in and save her. And then there she had been.
Her body had been dripping wet, her hair clinging to her shoulders and against her bare chest. It didn’t matter how fast she dropped to the floor to find her towel or how quickly he turned away. He had seen all of her, and he had known, right then, that he was done for.
Byron counted his blessings that she had let him in. That she’d let him taste her and experience her andfuckher. But now that he had, he wanted more.
At the end of the hallway, he should have turned left. Should have made his way to the kitchen to make a start on dinner or into the living room to tidy up a fraction of the toys. He didn’t, though. He turned right and found himself facing the big barn doors that led to the study.
Justhowimportant was this assignment?
Byron pictured Emory with the end of her pen propped against her lips. He imagined her eyes down, maybe a slight line between her brows as she concentrated on her work. Maybe a few strands of her hair had fallen over her face, and maybe he’d tuck them back behind her ear.
Maybe he’d press his thumb against her lips and push the pen out of the way. Maybe he’d direct her head towards his cock, and maybe, if he were lucky, she’d open her mouth and let him fuck her face.
He huffed, shaking his head to get the vision out of his mind. It didn’t matter, though; he’d already pictured it now. Blood had already flowed south, and his body was already five degreeswarmer. Byron rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. His dick ached, pressed against his jeans.
Still, though, despite the temptation, he held back. He poked his head around the corner to see that Emory had left the study door open. Not all the way like an invitation, but enough that he presumed she’d be able to hear when Clayton woke up. Even still, he rapped his knuckles against the old wood before walking in.
Emory called out for him to enter, but instead, he leaned in. Truthfully, he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t be able to see the raging hard on still painful in his pants. And he didn’t trust himself not to sayfuck itand give in.
“You right to listen out? I’m heading out back to cook dinner.” He gestured with his thumb toward the back yard, as though Emory wouldn’t have known what he meant.
She spun on his chair until her legs were free from under the desk, then stood in a rush. “Nope. You’ve cooked every night and every breakfast. And most days you fix us lunch.” Closing her laptop, she moved to side-step around the large desk. But her thigh collected the heavy corner. “Shit.”
Byron moved on instinct, even though the rational part of his brain knew it was just a bump. “Emory,” he breathed out as he neared her.
