Page 34 of Not Falling for the Forward
Emily
I am content after the meal Jack made us, a small smile I didn’t think I was capable of tonight curves my lips. The wine, the food or maybe even the company has managed to distract me from my dark thoughts about the day.
We are sitting on the sofa, my bare legs draped over his lap whilst he slowly massages the pads of my feet. I’m cosy, wrapped up in my fluffy dressing gown, no longer conscious of the fact that I am make-up free and my hair is damp from the shower. All the way throughout our meal, Jack has been sending me heated glances, from the other side of my tiny dining table. Encouraging me that he likes what he sees regardless of how plain, make-up free and damp-haired it may be.
We’re watching old episodes ofSchitts Creek, he surprised me when he chose it from my ‘continue watching’ list onNetflixclaiming it was also one of his comfort shows and if we could all be a bit more Moira the world would be more fun. I couldn’t help but chuckle my agreement.
It’s nice to be able to sit here with him in comfortable silence and not feel like I have to explain why I don’t want to talk, not need to explain that some days, after some shifts, I just need to wallow. Butsomehow, he makes me feel like if I needed to vent, to scream, to cry, that he’d sit here and listen. I don’t think I realised until now how much I have needed someone like Jack, someone that takes control of the simplest things, like what to eat for dinner, is exactly what I need after giving everything for those twelve hours at work. The constant firefighting, problem handling and hundreds of minuscule decisions that I have to make every day are utterly draining sometimes and I just don’t have anything left when I get home. Him simply being here would have been enough, but the fact that he cooked for me, has taken care of me after today? Well, he’s not what I was expecting.
I don’t know if it was him being vulnerable with me earlier or the utter comfort I feel but I say, “We lost a kid today.” His head shoots to me and he places a hand on my calf giving it a reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t say anything, instead giving me the space to speak if I want too. Nothing but open concern in his eyes.
“He was twelve.” I let out a long breath. “It’s not even hard in the moment. The compressions, the medications we have to push, watching them be intubated.” My voice goes very quiet as I continue, “It’s the parents at the end. Their faces. Their cries. I...” I feel my bottom lip wobble, so I stop talking, taking another deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Em,” he says. “Thank you for telling me.”
His hands have moved up to the ankle of my right leg and he traces little soothing circles there, I let out a sigh of contentment and he gives me a small smile. We both return our attention to the TV knowing the conversation is over. I feel lighter for having spoken to him about it, even just those few words, knowing there is no judgement, only understanding.
He seems happy massaging circles in my feet and ankles and watching TV. So, I take this time to study him, he really is gorgeous, there’s no denying that, even his imperfections are beautiful. The small agecrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he laughs are probably one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, knowing he’s had a happy life, full of enough laughter to make those age lines stick warms my heart. He has a small bump in his nose that he told me he got when he was fourteen and took a boot to the face at school. It is something most people wouldn’t even notice, not unless you get a chance to really look at him, it turns his perfectly straight nose a tiny bit to the left and instead of ruining his face, it makes him feel more real, more human.
His fingers slowly massage up my calf, the change in pressure brings my eyes away from his face to watch his thumbs dig into the soft skin there. I bite my lip as a jolt of electricity shoots up my leg from where he is touching, making butterflies take off in my lower belly.
A cloud of tension has been thickening between us and it finally settles making my body hum with anticipation.
I watch his fingers expertly circling with slow, lazy pressure. He moves his hands ever so slightly upward with each pass, as if he’s navigating his way somewhere.
Higher. I want those hands higher. I can’t seem to release my stare from those fingers, touching me with such gentle precision. One of his thumbs slowly grazes my knee. My breath hitches, and he freezes.
Slowly, I look up to meet his burning gaze, his eyes already on mine. “Don’t,” I say, my voice coming out low and pleading.
“Don’t what?” Jacks voice sounds like mine, like he’s starving and begging for anything to sate him.
My heart is pounding, my blood hot as it flushes my face and my chest as I whisper, “Don’t stop.”
***
Jack
“Don’t stop.”
It takes everything in me to not pounce on her at her plea.
I was simply enjoying rubbing the tension out of her feet and ankles but when I accidentally brushed my thumb against her calf, I couldn’t help but notice how soft it felt, so I worked my way up a little. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her eyes on me. First studying my face like I was the Mona-fucking-Lisa then, on what my hands were doing. So I let them wander a bit more. God, have I wanted to get my hands on her for so long now, if this is all I get then I will die a happy man.
She’s so fucking soft.
The feel of her has made me hard as a fucking rock and I had to stop my exploration when the sound of her little gasp had me almost coming right here in my pants. Can’t say that has ever happened before.
At her instruction I have resumed massaging her legs, but it’s much less innocent now. Long forgotten is the TV, it’s now just a moving picture that lights up the room enough for me to see the affect my hands are having on Emily. Slowly, I work little circles past her knee and up her thigh, inching towards where I am dying to feel. What I’m going to do when I get there is entirely up to her, but fuck, to taste her would be exquisite.
I switch my gaze between my hands on her thigh and her face, her cheeks and chest are flushed pink and her breath is coming out in shallow gasps. She keeps pulling on her plump lower lip with her teeth and fuck, does that make me want to be that lip. Her eyes haven’t left my hand since I resumed my massaging and the dazed look of lust in them is enough to bring me to my knees.
My hands make it to her mid-thigh where her fluffy dressing gown sits, and I let my fingers disappear under. She lifts her hands to the tie, undoing the small bow she had made. One side falls open to reveal what I assume are her pyjamas—very short shorts and a small white tank top. I let out an appreciative groan at the sight of her nipples straining against the tightness of the material.
My hands finally reach her little black shorts and instead of going underneath like I want to, I continue the small distance I have left over the top of the silken fabric. A frustrated sigh comes out of Emily and I almost laugh as I lift a cocky brow at her impatience.
“What’s wrong?” I tease as my thumb brushes over the seam where her thigh meets her hip. She looks into my eyes and scowls slightly, as if not sure how to proceed. So I take over, “Are you annoyed that I’m touching you, or that I’m not touching you where you want me to?” I ask.
She opens her lips to speak but closes them quickly.
