It's a short enough plane ride — Alice insists they sit boys-and-girls, much to Rosalie's relief. Though it does turn out to be a ploy for Alice to braid Rosalie's hair, which was difficult for Rosalie as she usually loathed having her hair touched in public, even platonically. The same way she hated seeing people brush their hair; she found it very disgusting and too intimate for other people to see.
When they reach the resort, there's the general shuffle of going to reception, getting the keys, directing where their luggage should be taken, and the general discussion of the night's activities.
"If we don't go dancing tonight, I'll scream," Alice informs them all eagerly.
"She will," Jasper confirms stoically, "not in a good way."
So the group decides to have a light dinner at the restaurant in the resort and go out on the proverbial town. It was mostly a tourist trap of stores, clubs, eateries and equipment-rentals.
They'd done a little dancing, a whole lot of drinking, but the quad had yet to break up, which was a little surprising. Jasper did not seem to enjoy 'being out'. He sat at the table, minded the purses, fended off a few ladies' attention, and nursed glasses of brown liquor. Emmett, Rosalie found, was much the same as ever — chatting drunkenly away with a flurry of friendly faces, dancing with whichever pretty young thing backed up into him, and jovially bouncing his way through the bar-crowd to get whichever round they were up to.
Rosalie's own habits hadn't changed; dance with the good songs, drink with the bad, grab any woman that didn't look like she was enjoying someone's attention on the dancefloor, give her a spin and check if she was alright. So far, only two younger women had needed such assistance; one went off to join her friends, and the other was quickly whisked away by a boyfriend.
Alice had yet to peel off and steal away with her husband. Which Rosalie could figure, did not suit Jasper well; since Alice seemed to be having more than enough fun fluttering her lashes at him one moment, and having him hold her purse so she could drag Rosalie into another song the next.
"We don't go home until I say-so!" Alice chirps, and by the glint in her eye, it's obvious she likes the power.
But, eventually, the night wears on; and when Alice is firmly tucked under Jasper's arm and ready to leave, Rosalie finds herself mildly put-out, since she's still up for more dancing.
"Dance with him," Jasper says, tucking a few bills into her palm and waving as they leave, with Alice's claws sunk into his ass.
Rosalie looks behind her, and sees Emmett, sipping at a dark liquor and eyes roaming the dance-floor. She has tried to avoid being alone with him, and it's not a hard feat to manage. Until now.
He gives her a side-way glance as she returns to the table. She's considering excusing herself and heading back to her room. She could settle for bed at midnight; it's the safer option than spending too much time with him.
She steps up next to him, already afraid of leaning too close, or forgetting herself and taking his arm. It would be too easy, it's always too easy with him.
"I'll … head back, too," she leans over to his ear to tell him, solely to ensure he could hear her over the music.
But, Emmett seems to sigh, and knocks back the rest of his drink. "Sorry I'm not as fun as you used to think I was," he says, and she sees the hurt in his eyes, and it feels like her heart is encased in concrete. "It's not any harder to watch you dancin'." He seems to be trying to make light, but there's something so close to bitterness in his voice that she feels worse than ever.
She feels a pull to comfort him, though she already knows it's a bad idea. She takes his hand, squeezing his palm in her fingers. Despite the bitterness; she couldn't help how glad she was that he still likes watching her.
"It's not that, you can't pull with me here." Rosalie reasons. There was a time when she felt like she had the right to stomp any chances he had; but that was in the past.
Emmett shakes his head. "Little faith," he says, starting to smile. Starting to stand up, still holding her hand. "Don't believe in my charms at all?" he asks, and he's teasing, and she knows it.
It gives her an idea; and at this amount of drunk, she feels like it's a good one. "No, I know," she agrees, nodding and tugging at his hand, heading back to the dance floor. "Let's dance."
She presses up against him on the floor, swaying to the beat. His hands slide down her back and she turns in his arms, pushing her ass against his hips.
It gave her the vantage point to begin her plan. Eyes swept over the dancefloor, looking out for any eligible pieces. She spots her, some very bubbly-looking brunette with too-much eyeliner and probably out only within the first handful of times.
She catches Rosalie's gaze, and smiles shyly.
Rosalie beckons her over, and she shuffles awkwardly past the mass of bodies.
Rosalie flips her hair over her shoulder to lean down and yell into the girl's ear, over the music; "What's your name, sweetie?"
"I'm Bree!" Came the chirpy reply.
Rosalie takes her hand and spins them both around a little, pushing up against Bree until she gently bumps into a bemused-looking Emmett. "Wanna dance with us?" Rosalie asks with a wink.
Bree certainly didn't seem opposed, and Emmett has no qualms sliding his hands over her hips. The three of them grind together, and Rosalie presses her lips to Bree's ear.
"He's pretty hung." She pulls back just to watch Bree blush; glancing up shyly at Emmett.
Rosalie feels a little vindicated, when Bree nods once, interested. "Okay …"
She's glad she chose right; glad she could help. Rosalie has no right to monopolise him; and it would please her, knowing Emmett would end the night satisfied. If she could watch him have sex - she'd be satisfied. Even now, the same as ever; Rosalie found herself ill at ease with the idea of Emmett being pent up. They could be friends again, she could even help him.
Rosalie rolls her hips and shimmies back, watching Bree and Emmett get low, and smirks at the flicker of surprise on Bree's face when they come back up.
Bree motions for Rosalie again, and Rosalie presses back against her. She grasps Bree's side, sliding her thumbs up and over the sides of the girl's breasts. They weren't very large, and something about the thickness of her ribcage hinted more at puppy-fat than anything else.
Rosalie likes the idea of Bree being a virgin this young; of Emmett sinking into virgin pussy. Rosalie can already imagine it;
She'll eat Bree out, getting her sloppy and ready to be taken. When Emmett finally starts opening her up, Rosalie can hush her, get her past the first few moments of being stretched so full. Rosalie knows what it's like to take his dick for the first time. She can watch Emmett take this girl's Cherry; he'll try to stay in control, be considerate. Little Bree would be lucky, too, being able to hobble out of the hotel room come morning. Rosalie remembers that those bruises felt so good. Rosalie watches Bree tilt her head up, and leans down to meet her kiss ….
Then Bree isn't there, Emmett's furious face looks down at her. "We're going," he growls at her, and Rosalie can only blow a startled-looking Bree a kiss before he's hauling her out of there.
Emmett has a hard grip on her arm as he drags her up, away from the pretty little brunette.
Rosalie feels her head spinning, feeling the ache in his grip between her legs. Rosalie feels her earlier surety dry up - she's too drunk to be alone with him. She'll never be drunk enough to be alone with him again.
The elevator is tense and silent, and Rosalie doesn't have enough common sense to take a step back from him. Not after being apart for so long. She'll blame it on the alcohol, on the dancing. She stays close, and she knows that she's getting docile, getting weak again. When she's near him, she can't help it. It's too easy to sink, to let him take control, even now — when he didn't want her to be his responsibility.
Overwhelmed with his presence, Rosalie lets out a whimper, in half a mind to beg him to leave a hand-shaped bruise to remember him by. But at her noise, he lets her go, muttering an apology. It hits her like ice water — he didn't want what she wanted — he never did.
He ushers her into his room, his hand on the small of her back her only comfort. He leans his back against the door to close it, letting his head fall back, and giving a sigh. He has his hair slicked back for the night of clubbing; she knows how he moussed it to look less like Shirley Temple. The product made it crunchy and he never gelled down the ends, leaving them to curl at the nape of his neck.
"I don't need your help gettin' … a 'woman'," Emmett says the last word with no small amount of disgust. "If even; she was full-young." His gaze is heavy on her, and Rosalie shrugs lightly.
"She could do worse."
But Emmett doesn't let up, doesn't smile. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits her out. He used to be pretty shit at that. Rosalie thinks, but she's not willing to test his patience now.
"I know, I just," Rosalie huffs out a sigh, glancing at his half-unpacked suitcase, the shirt thrown over the end of the bed. "I wanted to … I wanted to help," she says simply, though it's anything but. "I didn't lie, in any case." He was hung.
Emmett scoffs, pushes off the door and shakes his head. Rosalie knows she should use the chance to leave. Not that he'd stop her from leaving; she was stopping herself from leaving. She was always getting in her own way.
"They can smell the Tennessee hick on me, can they?" His voice was disgusted, and a little sad.
"God, no, Emmett, you've made it." Rosalie says, and she takes a seat on the bed, loosens the straps of her heels. Get out, dumb bitch, she thinks, but she just puts her elbows on her knees. She watches him run a glass of water from the giant en suite bathroom. He sips, and doesn't look at her. She remembers when a huge hotel bathroom was novel to him; how the other half lived. Remembers when he considered her a part of his upwards social trajectory.
She shifts, blows out another sigh. She didn't want to do this dance anymore; she's tired. "I'd hate for you to … miss out," she explains softly, meeting his gaze, seeing that lingering hurt in his eyes, "people seeing us sitting with the Whitlocks … that's not fair to you."
It's not fair on her, either - that she could pretend it's some couples holiday. That she knows they could fall back into it; she could take his arm a few times, or just slip off the dress she's wearing now and he'd take her again. Emmett hadn't changed that much from the small-town boy he'd been — if she let him, they'd rekindle what they had. And that was the problem.
Through the open door of the bathroom, she sees Emmett grip the counter and laugh bitterly.
"Because people would think we're together?" he asks, and she doesn't like the injured tone in his voice. "Don't worry, I'll let them all know you'd never slum it with me again."
Emmett puts the glass down, glances at her shuttered face. He runs the tap once more, and walks out, offering her the glass. "I'll actually have to, since I'm pretty sure she thought you were aiming for a three-way," he adds, hip cocked as he watches her sip the water.
Rosalie feels the familiar urge to roll her eyes. Even now, he's still so innocent. Like the kinkiest thing he could ever want was anal …. She leans back, letting her weight rest on her hand, watching his eyes, as always, flick over her body.
"Like I wouldn't want to watch you ploughing her pussy," she says with a smirk.
"What?" he bristles, eyes narrowing. "I'm your stud to pimp out?" His voice is harsh, which she enjoyed. But her aim isn't to insult him.
"You're not mine, I know that." Rosalie tries to stay calm, looking away from the way his lush lips thin into an injured line.
"I want you to be satisfied," she admits, because that much was honest. She'd always wanted to be what he wanted, she'd always wanted to meet his every need. Even remembering how he was post-coitus could still make her smile. Dopey and soft, after getting his rocks off, Emmett was at his most-adorable. She'd do a lot, more than she would do for anyone else, to sate him.
But before she'd realised it; she was ready to do, and be, more for him than he even wanted, go further than he was willing to go. Emmett looks down at her, reaches his paw of a hand, to take the glass from her hand. To take her hand, and thread their fingers together.
"Then satisfy me yourself," he says softly, gently.
Rosalie shakes her head, pushes his hand away. Standing up, she grabs his shoulder to lift one knee behind her, fiddling to secure her heel again.
"Don't go," Emmett says; though he doesn't move as she steps around him. He never would; all he needed to do was blink those big, brown cow eyes at her, and she's lost again.
She sighs, and nods. "I do want you satisfied," she agrees slowly. "You need a girl who'll blow you in the shower and let you hit it from behind. We both know that's not me." Rosalie could only wish that could be her. That their needs could match up like that.
"This is about King Dick's wedding, isn't it?" Emmett asks her, she doesn't bother hiding a scowl at the name, doesn't bother telling him for the upmteeth time his name was Royce not 'Richard'. "This is about what you said when you threw up." His accusing tone is still so injured, Rosalie is about ready to give up.
"Yes, yes," she yells, she all but throws up her hands, "of course it is!"
Hadn't she made a complete fool of herself? Hadn't she forced him to cart her off, back to their hotel room, and hadn't she completely broken down?
She'd begged him for everything, and not even anything remotely normal. God, even begging him to marry her would be less embarrassing than what she did.
Even more flashbacks coming, not even sexy ones.