His kisses burn as his lips trail down her neck. She lets out a whimper, a whine, an indistinguishable sound as their hips move in unison, his hardness apparent against her thigh. She lets out a breath, long and slow, trying to gather her thoughts as she analyzes the way her body is reacting.
She always analyzes. Because when she lets go she loses control, and she's not ready to face the potential consequences.
Will smells strongly of his typical cologne, and even though it's a scent she's used to smelling, tonight it makes her dizzy. She moans a little as his nose nudges at the collar of her blouse, the first button already undone as he lets his lips move against her skin, sucking at her collar bone.
She's certain it's going to leave a mark, and as she feels the wet saliva against her skin, she squirms a little, suddenly feeling too hot. He mistakes her squirming for eagerness, pressing his body flush against hers. His hand is already up her skirt, and she can feel his fingers graze her panties, wetness already beginning to pool and settle into the thin material. For a minute her body is not her own, a release of pleasure shuddering through her as she lets out a whimper.
"Stop."
Her voice is not loud enough, and she has to wiggle away from his eager fingers, clamping her thighs shut as she turns away from him, burying her face in a cushion on the couch.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, and guilt tugs at her gut, remembering all the times in the past months she has allowed herself to regress beneath his touch. She tugs her knees to her chest, her throat tight with the threat of tears, though the feeling is familiar so she feels relieved. Emma likes what is known, and when she begins to explore what she does not it causes panic.
Will's hands stray to her hair, and she tries not to think about where they were just touching.
"This isn't working out, is it?" he mutters softly.
She doesn't answer, suddenly wanting to go home.
It's easier to deal with the guilt when he is not here.
XXXX
"I picked up a movie for us-P.S I Love You...or something like that," he grins as he stands in the doorway to her condo, looking endearing with his nervous smile and slightly messy curls.
She smiles as well, her heart fluttering a little as she registers his effort. She knows she's not easy to deal with sometimes, and it always touches her when he shows he cares. The incident from earlier in the week is not mentioned as he inserts the DVD into the player, snuggling up against her as the opening credits roll on. He plays gently with her fingers, and she leans her head against his chest, wondering why she had felt so anxious in first place.
Of course he cares.
Of course he loves her. He tells her that all the time.
He doesn't even try to kiss her as movie continues, absentmindedly stroking her hair from time to time. And for once, she let's the guilt slip away, letting herself feel safe in his arms.
"I had fun tonight, Em," he tells her as he tugs his jacket on when the movie has ended. No surprise kisses. No urgent make out sessions on the couch. Her stomach twists a little, wondering if he feels just as much guilt from the previous evening, swallowing a little as she tries to push away unwanted feelings of inadequacy.
"Me too," she whispers a little shyly, stepping closer to him so she can wrap him in her arms.
He pecks her affectionately on the cheek as she melts against him. "I love you," he mutters.
"I-" she stops for a moment, a sickeningly familiar scent embedded in the collar of his jacket. The perfume is distinct, and the images of the leggy, arrogant blonde flash into Emma's mind as she tries not to panic. "I love you, too," she manages to choke.
XXXX
Of course.
Of course, of course, of course. She repeats the phrase over and over after he has disappeared behind the door. She leans against the wall, sliding down to the soft carpet, her chest tight and her teeth clamped as she tries to keep control of herself.
Of course he was so charming tonight. Of course he was so perfect and sweet and caring and considerate. Of course he was able to handle himself because he got all he needed while he was fucking her last night.
She has given him what Emma cannot. And she realizes how silly it is to have believed he would change just for her.
She rises from the carpet, a little shaky as she mills around for some time, chewing on her lip, wringing her furious hands together.
She enters the kitchen, reaching for her cell phone resting on the edge of the counter, intent on handling this here and now. But as tears begin to stream down her cheeks she knows she is in no condition to confront him. Instead, she rips a sheet of paper from a note pad attached to the fridge, taking a red pen as she furiously punctures the surface of the paper as she writes.
Of course it is not fucking working. You only know how to want, not how to love.
She reads her words through her blurry vision, letting out a sob as she tears the paper into a million tiny pieces, watching them flutter uselessly to the floor.
XXXX
He doesn't deny it when she finally confronts him, surprised she is able to handle it with finesse and minimal tears.
He doesn't deny it and a piece of her dies as his pleading eyes watch her.
"I'm so sorry, Em."
She doesn't know if he is sincere.
And she doesn't care.
XXXX
He doesn't talk to her after that.
Doesn't smile at her.
Doesn't confront her.
Hardly even looks at her.
And, she supposes, she can at least be glad for that.
XXXX
"I'm here to see Dr. Howell," she mutters nervously as her finger nails click against the edge of the countertop. The scent of mints and latex gloves hangs heavily in the air.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but Dr. Howell is no longer working here," the blonde secretary tells her, looking apologetic.
"Not working here?" Emma repeats dumbly. "He-what?" She's incredulous, her stomach dropping as she tries to comprehend the woman's words.
"He moved," the secretary offers, her ruby lips curving into a faux pleasant smile.
"Moved? But to where?" she feels a little dizzy now as she tries to make sense of her words.
"I don't have that information," the secretary sighed as she apologized. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
She's about to ask if she can talk to someone who does know, but as she glances around the familiar office that suddenly feels foreign, she turns back to the blonde. "Thank you," she mutters softly. "Goodbye."
XXXX
Sometimes she writes him letters, making up street names and numbers when she posts them, only to have them mailed back with red glaring letters that read, "invalid address."
She keeps them in a stack by her nightstand, feeling a stab in her stomach every time she gazes at them, knowing that she should do herself the favor of tucking them away so she no longer has to suffer.
But she thinks that perhaps the pain is better than the ache of forgetting, because as she looks at the growing stack, she likes to think that wherever he is that he still loves her too.