Emma
Is there something wrong with my body, or is it him?
Holy shit, maybe he left because of some medical problem?
I mean, look at me—I’m standing here, in the middle of Dylan’s living room with no blasted curtains on the window, completely exposed to the world.
Yet he still does not get the hint.
He just walks into the other room, leaving me standing here like a naked idiot. He even takes the one goddamn thing I’m wearing.
Seriously, is there something wrong with him, or do I disgust him that much?
It can’t be me. I saw the way he kept looking at me during that whole conversation, the way he watched my leg as the fabric fell off my foot in slow motion.
When I dangled it in the air, he was glued to it like a sixteenth-century religious pilgrim making a trip to the Vatican and looking at the freshly painted Sistine Chapel ceiling for the first time.
And now he just leaves me.
“What the fuck?” I say under my breath, barely keeping myself from just shouting it at the top of my lungs.
Well, shit.
Here I am, naked as the day I came into the world, in the goddamn living room of a goddamn cabin in the goddamn middle of nowhere—in fucking Vermont!
And the only man within hundreds of miles of me feigns disinterest.
Why am I here? What kind of game is he playing?
I stay planted where I am, looking at the great outdoors through the window, naked as a jaybird. It’s not a moment I’m relishing, but I know I’m not going to have too many more like this.
Eventually, I pick up the remnants of my dressmaking attempt. I wrap myself in the warm fabric and collapse into a cross-legged position on the floor. Millions of random thoughts buzz around my head like bees in a bottle.
Why did he leave five years ago? And why the hell does he keep leaving me?
Even in this cabin, he abandons me—like the way he just left me here in the living room.
Heck, this hurts like hell. And it’s confusing the shit out of me.
Shit, my thoughts are all over the place. I can’t make sense of any of them.
I recall the events of eight years ago. Back then, I wasn’t ready to give myself to Dylan, to let him take my innocence.
But holy shit, that was then; this is now. I’m ready to take the plunge.
I’m making it so damn obvious, to the point that I’m standing unclothed in his living room. And Dylan can’t take what must be the hint of the century, the hint of the goddamn millennium.
What do I have to do? Nail myself to the cross and yell, ‘Take me’?
Instead, he’s upstairs designing clothes or some shit, and I’m here all alone once again.
And since I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere, I don’t even have the comforts of home.
I’m not back in New York, although I wish I could be.
I’m not back in my apartment; there’s no lemon sorbet in the freezer, no Valentino and Chanel dresses, no cornucopia of breathtaking fashions waiting for me in the walk-in closet.
No view of Central Park South and the park itself through my living room window—a window into the changing seasons, year after year, as I just get older.
As I wait for someone.
For Dylan, I guess. It’s not like I’ve carefully chosen him. This shit is not fucking rational.
I know what draws me to him. It’s the same thing that draws him to me—or drew him to me, at least, when we were still working for that awful company.
He wanted me, and he did not give up. Well, he did eventually, when he left. But now, he’s so goddamn aloof, even when I’m finally willing to give in to my animal desires.
We’re all animals, and that desire is part of being a person; it’s part of being alive, and I’m ready to finally embrace it.
But why isn’t he? Especially now, after flying me up here for some bizarre reason known only to him.
It’s all very strange to me. Before my apartment was on fire, the threats were getting worse, getting creepier and more frequent.
Is there more going on that Dylan knows about? If so, why isn’t he telling me?
I don’t know, and, frankly, I don’t care anymore. I just care about what I want, because that want is taking over everything. It’s consuming me.
Is Dylan motivated by the same thing? He’s been stewing all this time, that’s for sure, and if he wants to set up some shit like this, then he most certainly can.
That’s what it feels like with the menacing threats, creepy messages, weird caller ID shit, and even with my concierge starting to act sketchy.
And now, suddenly, I wake up in a cabin, and this motherfucker’s playing hard to get. I don’t know what’s really going on. I don’t know what my rational opinion is or would be.
I just know what I want, but I’m not sure how to get it.
I have an idea where to start, though.
I keep my newly fashioned curtain-dress wrapped around me with my hands as I make my way to the bottom of the stairs.
It’s time to poke the grizzly bear.
“Yo, Tom Ford, you still up there?”
“What?” he grunts down at me. The deep, bass-heavy power of his voice sends little vibrations through the floorboards.
Those vibrations urge me to keep poking.
“You ever hear of mixed signals? Because you’re giving me a prime fucking example today.”
“What?” he grunts again, the bottom-heavy tones in his timbre cause subtle tremors everywhere.
“You come to abduct me, just take me from my home, without any goddamn clothes, bring my naked ass here, you sick perv, and then you just go upstairs?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I bet—hell, I know—you set all this shit up. You’re the one sending all the threats. You did all this just so you could fuck me, you piece of shit!”
I wait for another growl, a grunted question, or maybe the sound of heavy footsteps starting down the stairs. I listen hard, but I don’t hear anything at all.
Maybe I’m not poking hard enough.
“You’re so fucking horny all by yourself up here that you needed to kidnap me, huh? Well?”
I keep the curtain fabric wrapped tight around me, and I listen so intently that I almost stop breathing for a second.
I think I hear something up there, not footsteps, but some kind of noise—fabric or something?
What the hell is he doing? Really? I’m down here for the picking, overripe and all, and he’s hiding?
“Can’t even respond now? Can’t even bring yourself to talk, you coward! How do you think you’re gonna fuck me? You’re not going to, are you? I know you’re chicken shit!”
I hear...are those footsteps? I think so.
What is that, a chair squeaking? What is he doing up there, jerking off by himself?
“You went through all this trouble,” I roar with all my might. “Why don’t you just take me, huh? Why don’t you just fuck me already, you perv?”
Oh my god, those are some footsteps, and they’re coming towards the stairs. The sounds are getting louder and closer—hefty footfalls coming down the stairs with speed.
I see his face first, his eyes on mine, before I notice anything else. And that is all I can see, all I can sense until his face is close enough that we’re almost touching.
Then, I smell his scent. It’s the type of scent that corporations spend millions on, researching and developing, so they can bottle it and sell it at Bloomingdales for hundreds or thousands of dollars an ounce.
It’s a tough thing to describe with a single, marketable word.
Musky?
Manly?
None of those words do it justice.
It’s no pretend cologne, however. This is Dylan’s scent, the smell of who he is and the desire coursing through his being.
I smell it oozing off him and from the air surrounding him, and I can see it, as clear as day, in his eyes.
He’s not saying anything. He’s going to do it, isn’t he?
I have been poking the bear, so...
“I’m just working, that’s all.” Dylan’s voice, as he finally speaks, overflows with primal power, even as he delivers his words to me quietly and softly.
I can feel his warm breath on my skin. It sends tiny electric shock waves through me.
Dylan’s scent surrounds everything now, and I feel a static charge around my lips as his mouth draws closer.
“Working on what?” I’m trying to rival the quiet power of his voice. I can almost taste that indefinable musky, manly fragrance as I speak.
Dylan is so close that I can feel the phantom sensation of his lips on my own, even though they aren’t quite touching.
“Your new dress,” Dylan whispers.
The feeling of Dylan placing the flannel garment in my hand breaks the spell, and we both step away from each other until we’re standing at a respectful distance.
I hold up the newly tailored flannel shirt to see that it’s no longer a flannel shirt. He’s only been working a few minutes, but Dylan somehow fashioned one of his lumberjack shirts into a surprisingly decent-looking top.
Without another word I drop the bits of curtain covering me and slowly, deliberately put my arms through my new garment before my shaking fingers do up one button after another.