“Well, come on then!” he exclaims, sitting upright, “Show me the goods!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be a grownup now or something, Emerson?” I shoot back, feigning impatience as I swing my feet over onto the floor. Really, I think his enthusiasm is downright adorable.
“Nah. I don’t plan on being a grownup anytime soon. Being a legal adult isn’t going to change that,” he declares. “Hey, we should drink to that.”
“Drink?” I ask, as I grab my backpack off the floor.
“I know your dad just keeps this stuff in the house for company,” Emerson goes on, snatching up his own overnight bag, “So I figured he wouldn’t mind if we pilfered some. Dude had, like, twenty bottles in the basement. How’s that for willpower?”
I watch as Emerson produces a bottle of champagne, and can’t help but giggle.
“How fancy of you,” I say.
“What? Doesn’t champagne in a motel room just scream class to you?” he shoots back, searching around his bag for an opener.
“Or something like that,” I say, my fingers finally closing around the sketchbook I’ve been hunting for. I pull out the thick, weathered book as Emerson pops open the bottle and pours us each a Styrofoam cup of the bubbly.
“Here you go, Ma’am,” he smiles, handing me some champagne. “To not becoming grownups until they literally force us to,” he says, holding up his cup.
“Here, here!” I laugh, touching the lip of my cup to his. The fizzy wine tickles my nose as I take a sip, savoring the sweetness. “Thanks for the booze, Dad,” I add, tipping my cup in the general direction of our hometown.
“Oh no,” Emerson groans, glancing down at my hands, “Tell me you didn’t get me a book for my birthday.”
“First of all, what’s so bad about getting a book as a present? That’s, like, the best present on the planet,” I reply, and before he can protest I add, “Secondly, it’s not a book. It’s just in a book. Here...”
He watches as I peel open the well-loved pages. Somehow, this feels nearly as intimate as what just went down between us on the bed. I hardly ever show my sketchbook to anyone, yet here I am, flipping through the pages as Emerson looks on. Sharing my art with someone has always felt impossible, something that required far too much trust for me to be able to do. But Emerson’s teaching me that trust isn’t something that’s off-limits to me just because of my history. And I’m even starting to believe him.
“Are those all yours?” he asks, his eyes glued to the pages.
“Yep,” I reply, “All of them.”
“They’re amazing,” he says reverently, as I linger on a drawing of a stylized, distorted landscape. “Please tell me you’re going to major in art when you go to school in the fall.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I demur, “I might try and focus on something a little more practical.”
“Fuck practical. These are incredible drawings,” he exclaims.
“Well...who knows?” I allow, “It’s not like there are any real jobs out there anyway, right? Might as well major in something I actually like.”
“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emerson replies.
Finally, I come to the sketch I’ve been looking for. It’s right at the end of the book, my most recent finished piece. Drawing a steadying breath, I turn the sketchbook around and pass it to Emerson. His eyes fall on the elaborate sketch and go wide. He drinks in the image for a long moment before finally looking up at me.
“Is this...?” he asks.
“It is,” I assure him, smiling at his amazement. “It’s you.”
We study the drawing together. It’s a portrait of Emerson I’ve been working on for weeks, since our first heated exchange at that party. The drawing shows him in half-profile, staring with determined purpose from the page. I’m really proud of how I was able to capture him, and I can tell he’s impressed with the effort.
“This is how you see me?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft.
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “To me, that’s the essence of who you are. Intelligent, strong, unwilling to back down from what you know is right. From the things you want out of life.”
“Can I...Can I keep this?” he asks, looking up at me imploringly.
“Of course!” I tell him, “It’s for you, Emerson. I want you to have it, always.”
Placing the sketchbook down with great reverence, Emerson leans forward and catches my lips in his.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, running a hand through my hair. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”
I smile and lower myself onto my knees in front of him. “Then you’re going to love this…” I say with my best seductive grin. I slowly undo his belt and unzip his pants as he leans back, a look of utter disbelief on his face. I can see the hardening outline of his staggering cock growing down the inside of his jeans and my mouth begins to water instinctively. Oh how I’ve dreamed of this moment.
My heart feels like its going to beat out of my chest as he lifts his hips and I pull down his jeans and boxers, unleashing his throbbing dick. It’s beautiful, I’ve never seen one up close before, and his is absolutely amazing. I grab it reverently, without thinking, and lower my mouth onto him, taking as much of Emerson into my throat as possible…
Chapter Eight
When the early morning light draws me back up from the depths of slumber, I’m surprised to find that the bed beside me is empty. I roll onto my side, peering around the hotel room for my missing companion. Even after one night, the feel of waking up without him doesn’t suit me. I’m just about to roll out of bed and go searching for him when the motel room door eases open. Emerson appears on the threshold, carrying two cups of takeout coffee and a paper bag. He sees me sitting up in bed and freezes.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“No, it’s just...I was going to surprise you,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Here—just pretend to be asleep.”
“Emerson...” I moan.
“Come on,” he pleads, turning his back to dump the contents of the bag onto the dresser. “For me. Please.”