Praise (Salacious Players Club, #1)(70)

He loosens the ties around my wrists. Grabbing a wet washcloth on the table next to the bed, he carefully rubs it across my skin. When I look down, I see splatters of black across my chest and stomach. It stings when he peels the wax from my delicate skin, but after the last hour, it’s nothing. And I almost welcome the pain now, like it brings us closer together.

Then he cups my face and pulls me up to his lips, kissing me softly.

“You’re not mad at me anymore, are you?” I ask, my voice trembling with emotion.

His face softens. “I was never mad at you, Charlotte. I just wish you could see what I see.”

I don’t see what Emerson sees, but I wish I could. Maybe I never will. It wasn’t just Beau, but I think ever since my dad walked out on us, I built up a wall between men and me, making myself believe that if I wasn’t good enough for them from the start, I could never disappoint them. I would never have to live through anyone’s disappointment ever again.

“I wish I could too,” I whisper, letting him hold me tightly in his arms.





RULE #29: AFTERCARE IS THE BEST.





Charlotte





“Can I take you home with me?” Emerson asks, kissing my forehead.

“Of course,” I whisper, as if that’s even a valid question.

“We can continue your aftercare there.”

My heart does a little dance of delight because I don’t need to ask what aftercare is—I’ve done my research, after all. And Madame Kink—er, Eden—was very adamant about the importance of aftercare, and I mean…who wouldn’t love to be pampered and doted on? As if Emerson doesn’t do that enough.

“I sort of thought this was the aftercare,” I point out. He’s already cleaned off all the wax, made me drink a bottle of water, and cuddled me into cozy bliss for the last hour.

But he looks down at me and brushes my hair out of my face. There’s a humorless expression on his face. “You got a little upset. I just don’t want to send you home. I’d rather keep you with me all night.”

“Oh God.” I try to hide my face, still a little humiliated over the way I cried. He won’t let me turn away, though. Pulling my gaze back to his, he waits for my answer.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Charlotte. That’s a normal response to pain. I did that to you on purpose.”

“You wanted to make me cry?”

He runs his thumb under my eye, which I’m sure is just dripping with mascara from my tears. “Yes. I wanted you to let go of whatever you were holding on to. It was intense, I know. Are you feeling okay now?”

I nod. I feel better than okay. I feel both exhausted and raw, but also renewed.

“Good.” He kisses my temple. “Let’s go home.”

As we get dressed and walk quietly out the back of the club, so we don’t have to face anybody, I wonder if Emerson knows what he’s doing to me when he says stuff like that. Home, as if it’s ours. While we had sex, he called me his. He told me he wanted to fuck me forever, which could have been in-the-moment sex talk, but stuff like this keeps going to my head.

I feel like I’m his, and Emerson feels like mine. I’ve managed to block out any and all thoughts of forever with him and what that would look like because we made a deal two weeks ago when this started that no one could find out. That we would take whatever we could get.

So the deal we made doesn’t seem to correlate with the way we’re acting now, and I wonder if he notices that too.

The ride to his house is quiet, but he holds my hand over the console as he drives, stroking my thumb softly as the radio plays quietly over the speakers. I can’t silence the questions in my mind, and I’m too afraid to bring them up. If I do and he tells me what he said was just sex talk and that we are just a mostly-secret fling, then it will crush me.

I realize what I want is ludicrous. Absolutely irrational and insane. Because I want Emerson to put me first, even before Beau. I want him to tell me he cares more about our relationship than the one he’s trying to repair with his son.

It stings to know that is impossible. I’m stupid for even thinking it.

When we reach his place, he takes me straight upstairs. We don't stop in his bedroom either, pulling me into his giant bathroom. There’s a glass shower, and with one hand still laced with mine, he uses the other to turn on the water.

Then, without a word, he begins stripping me of my clothes. His ministrations are slow and deliberate, as if I’m sick or hurt and he’s trying to pamper me. When he pulls my blouse off, he kisses the black-stained skin where the candle wax fell. When he releases my bra, he kisses the red marks from the clamps. And when he pulls down my skirt, he gently presses his lips against the spot where he bit me earlier.

They’re not heated kisses. He’s not trying to get me warmed up for more sex. It feels more like he’s trying to heal the hurt, and I want to tell him there’s nothing to mend. Nothing physical at least. But if he can quiet these voices of doubt and fear in my head, that would be great.

Once I’m naked, he opens the shower door and whispers, “Get in.”

Then he takes off his clothes and follows me. We stand together under the hot spray, letting it wash over us both. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rest my face against his chest. Emerson is tall enough that I can nuzzle myself against his neck, and I love how well our bodies fit together. He’s just soft enough to be cozy and strong enough to be chiseled. I seriously don’t think a man’s arms have ever been so inviting.