Emma’s free hand found Natalie’s breast, pinching lightly, then soothing with her palm. The dual sensation of that touch and the relentless slide of their bodies pulled a low moan from Natalie. She angled her hips up to meet each downward press, chasing the pressure building again at her core. Her fingers dug into the flesh of Emma’s backside, encouraging her to move faster. The wet sounds between them filled the small bedroom, obscene and perfect.
“Oh fuck. I’m close,” Emma panted, the words tumbling out between breaths.
Natalie wrapped her arms fully around Emma’s waist, pulling her closer until their bodies fused tighter, the grind turning almost desperate.
She moved her hips faster, feeling her own climax coil again, tighter this time, fueled by the slide of Emma’s wetness against her own.
The orgasm hit Natalie first, ripping a cry from her throat that Emma swallowed with another kiss. Her hips jerked up hard. Emma followed seconds later, thighs shaking, a soft broken sound escaping as her lips as she rocked her hips fast against Natalie.
They clung together, bodies slick and trembling, the rain against the window the only other sound in the room.
Natalie kept her arms locked around Emma, one hand stroking down the curve of her back, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her own chest. She pressed a lingering kiss to Emma’s temple, breathing her in, and let the quiet settle over them both.
17
Emma dozed, pleasantly tired from the night before. The sheets still smelled like them both—proof this hadn’t been another dream. Morning light crept through the curtains, painting the wall gold. She smiled without meaning to.
A shrill ring cut through the quiet. Not her own phone.
She blinked, surfacing properly now, and turned her head.
Natalie slept curled into her, one leg slung warm and heavy over Emma’s thigh, arm draped loose across Emma’s stomach as if she had reached for her even in sleep. The sight lodged something soft and dangerous behind Emma’s ribs. She wanted to stay exactly here, tracing the freckles across Natalie’s shoulder with a fingertip until she stirred on her own. Instead the phone kept ringing from somewhere on the floor where their clothes had landed last night.
It stopped. Then started again. Emma checked her watch. 7:12am. Which made it after 11:12pm in Los Angeles.
She eased herself up on one elbow, careful not to jostle the woman tangled around her.
Natalie’s hair spilled dark across the pillow. “Natalie. Hey.” Her voice came out low, still rough from sleep and everythingthat had come before it. “Your phone’s ringing. Must be something important.”
Natalie stirred, lashes fluttering, a small frown creasing her brow before recognition settled. She pushed up slowly, sheets slipping to her waist, and Emma allowed herself one indulgent look at the long line of her back before the phone demanded attention again. Natalie ran a hand through her hair, pushing it off her face, and muttered, “Sorry. God, I’m sorry,” as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Natalie’s bare skin still carried faint marks from her mouth. It all felt a little unreal, like the universe had finally handed her the summer she had waited half a decade, for and she kept expecting it to vanish. She sat up fully, duvet pooling at her hips. “There’s a robe on the back of the door if you want it. Not that I mind the view.”
Natalie paused halfway to the pile of jeans, glanced over her shoulder, and the smile that broke across her face felt like sunlight after rain. She retrieved the phone, checked the screen, and exhaled. “It’s work.” She slipped the robe on. “I have to take this.”
Emma nodded, already swinging her own legs out of bed. She felt loose and warm and stupidly content. “I’ll make coffee. Take your time.”
Natalie answered with a different voice—polished and alert. “Hi. No, you didn’t wake me.”
Emma pulled on a t shirt and soft lounge pants, moving quietly so she would not intrude and went into the kitchen.
Emma filled the kettle and switched it on. She measured grounds into the French press. Natalie’s voice drifted down the short hallway.
Last night had felt real. The way Natalie had looked at her, how their bodies moved together, the quiet words between kisses. Emma wanted to believe it meant something lasting. Butthe longer she stood at the counter, the harder that became. Natalie’s life was in Los Angeles—bright, public, always moving.
Emma had tasted distance already. Australia had been an escape laced with familiar faces, cousins of colleagues, Irish pubs that smelled like home even under different stars. Los Angeles offered none of that comfort. She tried to picture herself there, navigating freeways and spotlights, but the image stayed flat and cold.
Emma wondered if Natalie would even ask her to come. Would she risk coming out? Or would this summer end like the other, with Natalie boarding a plane?
The kettle clicked off. Emma poured water over the grounds, the rich aroma blooming thicker now, and set the plunger lid in place.
Natalie appeared in the doorway then, wrapped in Emma’s robe. Her dark hair stood in sleep-tousled waves, untouched by product or styling, and her face carried no trace of the careful makeup she wore for cameras. Just bare skin, faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the natural flush high on her cheekbones. The sight struck Emma square in the chest, knocking every careful objection sideways.
This was the Natalie she wanted—not the actress, not the careful visitor who left each September. Just the woman standing in her kitchen, soft in morning light, wearing her robe.
Emma cared more than she wanted to. More than she’d admitted during those Australian nights.
It didn’t make anything easier. It only made losing her hurt more.
