“Christ, when did funerals turn into full-contact sports?”

I look up from my computer and shoot Pete a grin as he steps into my office. It's been a couple of days since I got back from Morro Bay, and though the cuts on my face are healing up, the bruise around it remains a dark, angry purple.

“Got into an argument at the buffet table at the reception about the cold cuts,” I reply.

He shrugs as he drops down into the seat across from me. “Of course. Some people take their deli meats very seriously.”

“Clearly,” I say. “How'd things go in Cleveland?”

“Great,” he says. “The team's open to talking an extension for Matthews.”

I nod. “Figured they would be,” I say. “They haven't had a decent running back in years. Makes sense they'd want to hang on to this one.”

“Yeah, but you know how ownership is out there,” Pete chuckles. “They don't always do the thing that makes sense.”

“That's true,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “They throw out any figures yet?”

“Nothing concrete. Just ballpark stuff.”

“They in our ballpark yet?”

Pete shakes his head. “They're not even in the same sport as us yet.”

“Great. This should be fun.”

“Always is,” he replies.

He looks at me for a long moment, and I know the question that's on his mind. The same question everyone else who saw me this morning has. Pete's the only one with the balls to ask me about it though.

“So, you gonna tell me how you really got that?” he asks, gesturing to my face.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Would you believe me if I told you I ran into a door?” I ask. “Maybe, fell down some stairs?”

He laughs. “Not in this lifetime, no.”

I grab my mug of coffee and take a long swallow. Setting it back down on my desk, I stare into the dark liquid, taking a moment to form my thoughts. Looking up at Pete, I launch into my story – starting with growing up around Emma and her family. I tell him everything – well, except for the fact that Emma shot me down when I said I wanted to see more of her. Some indignities, I prefer to remain private. I tell him everything else, though, right up to the moment he walked into my office.

When I'm done, he sits back and whistles low, an amused smile on his face.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I just never pictured you as the knight in shining armor type, that's all.”

I snort. “That's because you know I'm not.”

“Well – you kind of are,” he says. “Not everybody would have stepped in and handled that situation.”

“Then they would have watched a woman get beaten,” I say. “Maybe even killed.”

“Sadly, some people would still sit idly by,” he says. “Or, wait for the police to show up. Not you though, you waded right in and handled it.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let her get hurt.”

Pete stares at me, that mysterious grin still on his face.

“What?” I ask again.

“I can tell this girl has gotten under your skin,” he says. “Pretty deep too.”

“That's crap,” I say. “We reconnected after a long time, I helped her out of a tough spot, we had some fun, and that's that.”

“Is it?”

I look at him evenly. “Of course, it is.”

It's really not. Not by a long shot. I'm not the type to take rejection as a finality. To me, relationships are like negotiations – you just have to keep working and working at it, until you find the terms most agreeable to both parties. You have to find that sweet spot that leaves you both happy, satisfied, and feeling like you're coming out with a win.

Emma's initial rejection was just the opening act. I could see in her eyes that she was wavering, but I wasn't going to press her too hard right then and there. Not when her dad had just passed. It wasn’t the time or place.

No, in this situation, I have to sit back, be patient, and let the emotions settle for a bit. Once there's been an adequate cooling off period, I can step back in and re-start negotiations.

“Kid, you really are one of the toughest negotiators I've ever worked with,” he says. “Believe me, you're tough as nails when it comes to advocating for your clients.”

I shrug. “You taught me well, what can I say?”

“But, when it comes to personal matters, you have the worst damn poker face of any person I've ever seen,” he says, laughing like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s ever said.

I sit back in my seat, steeple my fingers, and purse my lips. I'm not amused. Honestly, I didn't think I was giving anything away. I usually keep my thoughts and emotions in check. No one ever seems to know what I'm thinking or feeling.

Except Pete.

The old bastard always seems able to see right through me. He's the only person I've ever met who can read me like a goddamn book. Yeah, Emma's gotten under my skin. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. I didn't think I was being obvious about it, though.

“Relax, kid. I doubt anybody else can see it,” Pete says, reading my mind. Again. “I just know you like the back of my hand.”

Pete slowly gets control of himself and sits back up. He's not laughing anymore, but he's still grinning like a fool.

“Glad to see you're amused by it all,” I say.

“I'm just surprised, is all,” he says. “I never thought I'd see the day when Brice Kelly was wrapped around a woman's finger.”

“I'm hardly wrapped around her finger, Pete.”

He leans forward and looks at me intently. “Be honest,” he says. “Have you been able to stop thinking about her since leaving Morro Bay?”

I sigh again and shake my head in defeat. “No. I haven't.”

“I think it's a good thing, kid. I really do.”

“Yeah? And how do you figure that?”

“I've been telling you forever to find yourself a good woman,” he says. “To settle down.”

“Yeah, I'm nowhere near the settling down part,” I say and laugh softly.

“No, but I would imagine you have the first part of that equation in your sights,” he says. “I doubt Emma is one of those flighty, money-grubbing groupies you've dealt with before. Those kinds of women normally don't stay with you. This girl though, she's clearly gotten to you.”

He's not wrong. Something about Emma sets her apart from any other woman I’ve known.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” he says.

“I can't.”

“Well, the next question then is – what are you going to do about it?”

I give him a wry grin. “I'm playing the long game right now.”

“Yeah, well, don't play such a long game that you give her enough time to find somebody else.”

“Not planning on it.”

We sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments as another thought runs through my mind – a thought I've been doing my best to ignore, simply because I don't like where it leads. I know I'm in safe company right now, though. Pete will always tell it to me straight, and never coddle me, but by the same token, I know he won’t judge me either.

“The last time I saw Emma, she was literally, a little kid,” I say. “Do you think it's weird or creepy that – well – everything that happened over the last few days?”

Pete rubs at his chin, the white stubble making a dry, scratchy sound. “Do you?”

“I'm asking you.”

“Ultimately, the only opinion that matters is your own,” he says. “But, if you want my input, I'll just say this – Emma is a grown woman now. She's what, twenty-seven, you said?”

“Twenty-six,” I reply.

He shrugs. “She's not a kid anymore, Brice,” he says. “She's a grown adult. Same as you. If you two, as consenting adults, come together after more than a decade apart – whether she was a little kid the last time you saw her, or a forty-year-old woman – the only thing that matters is that you two are happy with one another. That you two are comfortable together.”

“Well, we're not anything just yet.”

“Right. You're playing the long game.”

“Exactly.”

“Like I said before, don't let it run too long,” Pete warns.

I just need to be patient. Let Emma come around on her own. The way she fucked me, and the look in her eyes afterward told me she wants more than just a one-night stand. She pushed me away when we were done, but I could see she was reluctant to do so. She wanted to hold on to me just as much as she wanted me to leave – maybe even a bit more.

She's going to be a tough nut to crack, but there is something about Emma that draws me to her like a moth to a damn flame. It's unlike anything I've ever felt before in my life, and the idea of – as Pete puts it – settling down, would normally send me running for the hills. But, the thought of being with Emma, and only Emma, doesn’t scare or bother me at all.

In fact, the idea is entirely appealing.

“Jared. I'll call them in the morning,” I say.

“You said that last time we talked.”

“I had a funeral to go to,” I say. “I left you a message and told you that.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, Brice,” he says. “Anyway, let me know what you find out.”

“Yeah. Will do.”

I disconnect the call and lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. The clock reads nine-thirty, and I groan. Nine-thirty and I'm beat. Jesus, I'm getting old. I remember the days when I could pull an all-nighter, and still have the energy for classes and practice the following day. Now, I get home, finish up any leftover work in my home office, take a shower, and go to bed.

The days of wild, all-night parties are long past me now. I'm getting soft in my old age.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I punch up what I'd been researching before Jared interrupted me with his call. I'm on the Long Beach Times Daily website, an idea starting to take shape in my head. I'm looking for articles by Emma Simmonds, just to see if what I'm thinking is even plausible. Or worth the sort of investment I'm thinking of making.

As I scroll, I'm appalled by how bad this website is – and the fact that it hasn't been updated recently. The articles I'm looking at are all from a week ago. At least. Whoever is running the digital arm of the paper is doing an amazingly shitty job at it and needs to be fired.

The only light on in my office is the one on my desk, most of my office remaining in shadow – just how I like it. I sip from the mug of coffee again, clicking through, shaking my head at just how shoddy the website is. I'm not even that tech savvy, but I can tell you this thing sucks.

After a considerable amount of digging – too much, if you ask me – I finally find some clips with Emma's byline though, and spend the next hour reading through them. I'm not a writer myself, but even I can see what an enormous talent Emma is. She crafts her stories in a way that pulls you in, and somehow manages to make the mundane seem fascinating.

Emma was consigned to mostly routine stuff. Police blotter garbage, mainly. Personally, I think they wasted her talent. With her level of talent, she deserved to work on more hard-hitting pieces. Articles that would have drawn in new readers and kept them coming back for more.

Of course, that's my uninformed opinion, but as a reader – and in theory, the demographic the paper should be aiming for, Emma's work kept my attention. Kept me glued to the page and reading more and more.

I look at the picture of Emma that accompanies the article. It's nothing special, just the standard headshot. Even in that though, her beauty shines through. As I look at those dark eyes that seem to be peering back at me, I think back to the night we spent together in her father's kitchen.

I recall the heat and passion, the desire and fire between us. How her body felt pressed to mine. The musky scent of her – the taste of her. I recall the feeling of being inside of her. In my head, I hear her voice echoing. Her moans, her cries. I can feel the way her body trembled as she came.

As I think more about Emma and her tight little body, my cock begins to strain painfully against my pants, begging for release. I look around and see a towel I'd used at the gym earlier draped over a chair. I quickly grab it and unbuckle my pants, sliding them down a bit, as I take my seat again.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes, imagining Emma is walking through the door to my office. She's wearing a short black dress – short enough that I can see the tops of the stockings she's wearing. It's got thin straps, and a cinched waist, making her full breasts look even more round and tantalizing.

Her heels click against the hardwood floor as she makes her way over to me. Her long dark hair frames her cool porcelain skin, and her dark eyes are bottomless. Sensual. And filled with pure lust.

I grip my cock firmly, squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth as I picture Emma falling to her knees before me. She takes my cock from me, gripping it tight. A small smile plays upon her lips as she slides her tongue up and down my thick, hard shaft, her dark, sultry eyes never leaving mine.

I gasp as I imagine Emma taking me into her mouth. Fantasy Emma tightens her lips around me, gripping the base of my hard cock, and starts to work her mouth and hand in concert with each other, stroking and sucking me off at the same time.

I press my head back hard into my chair, pumping my cock furiously, as I picture Emma sucking and stroking me. The growl that bursts from my throat is low and deep, as I work my cock – all the while picturing it's Emma working it for me. Imagining the feel of her delicate hand wrapped around my shaft, the feel of her mouth tight around it, almost makes me blow my load then and there.

In my mind's eye, I see her stand up before me. There's a salacious smile on her lips as she hikes her skirt up to her waist, showing me that she's not wearing any panties.

I groan as I recall the way I'd filled her up. Remember how fucking tight she was. Reveling in the memory of her wet, warm pussy. My dream Emma starts to ride me. She bounces up and down, taking my cock deeper into her with every thrust.

“Fuck,” I grunt as I keep pumping my cock.

Electricity courses through my veins as I picture Emma riding me hard. Riding me how I like it. In my mind, I grip her ass and smack it hard, drawing a surprised yelp, followed by a moan of pleasure from her.

The sound of her voice, crying out in pleasure echoes through my mind, and I recall the feel of her flesh against mine. I feel my cock throbbing in my hand and know I'm not going to last much longer.

“Emma,” I groan. “Fuck, baby.”

I feel the pressure building inside of me as my balls begin to tighten, and I squeeze the base of my cock as I keep pumping away. My fantasy Emma impales herself on my cock hard, taking me as deep inside of her as I can go, and holds herself there. She throws her head back and moans – and that's it for me.

I cry out and grab the towel as I start to come, covering my cock as it starts to pulse and throb. I grunt as thick streams of hot come shoot out of my cock, splattering all over the towel and my right hand.

I gasp and lean forward in my chair, my breathing ragged, my heart beating like I just ran a marathon. My face is flushed, and I feel beads of sweat dotting my brow.

Damn. That was intense.

I look at the mess I’ve made of myself and shake my head. Grabbing the towel, I wipe off my hand, then drop it to the floor. I’ll take care of it after my pants are back on.

“Mr. Kelly?”

My blood freezes in my veins, and my heart practically stops dead in its tracks. I look up at the doorway and see Martha, my house manager, standing in the doorway. There's a look of uncertainty – or perhaps embarrassment – on her face as she stands there, staring at me blankly. I don't know how long she's been there. I have no idea what she saw – though, judging by the mortified look on her face, she saw plenty.

Realizing that I'm still sitting there with my cock hanging out of my pants, I quickly scoot closer to the desk, trying to hide it. Yeah, nothing to see here at all. I was definitely not just jerking off.

Martha's an older, conservative, straight-laced woman. She's been with me for many years now and has probably seen some crazy shit, but always has the grace to never mention it. And I'm not a man who's easily embarrassed, to be honest. Martha's seen me naked before, and it doesn’t faze me a bit.

But, something about having her walk in on me – or at least, having her walk in knowing what I was just doing – makes my face burn bright and hot. It's like having your mom walking in on you while you're masturbating.

“Yes – Martha,” I say and clear my throat. “I didn't know you were here.”

Honestly, she looks as embarrassed as I do – which tells me she knows exactly what I was up to – and that only adds fuel to the heat in my face. She clears her throat, doing her best to maintain her composure.

“I had some things to finish up,” she says. “I was just stopping by to see if you needed anything before I left for the night?”

“Uhh – no, I think I'm fine. Thank you,” I say quickly. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I'll be in around eleven or so.”

Great. Now she feels the need to announce when she'll be in, just to make sure I know when to avoid rubbing one out. Like I need to make a masturbation schedule or something.

“Great,” I say. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She leaves without another word, but I hear her footsteps echoing down the hallway and soon, she's practically sprinting for the front door.

Jesus. I'm going to have to fire my house manager because I can't look her in the eye ever again.