Chapter 9: A Night Alone with Emma
The silence after Bindi left for the airport was a different creature entirely. It wasn’t the full, resonant quiet of the post-session basement; it was hollow, expectant. Will moved through the mansion, turning off lights, checking locks, the routine movements doing little to settle the low hum in his nerves. Bindi’s departure had been a whirlwind—a client crisis in Seattle, Starbucks CEO Brooke Worthy, a $250k/year client, was distraught her lover had left her, and she needed Bindi. She’d kissed him hard at the door, a taste of her coffee and urgency on her lips. “Hold the fort. Love you.” He'd slipped in some tongue and squeezed her ass, trying to fit in a quickie before she left, but she didn't have time.
She was gone, the echo of the Uber’s door closing still hanging in the salt-tinged air. Will stood in the foyer, the marble floor cool beneath his bare feet, and let the emptiness of the house press in around him. He dragged a hand down his face, the ghost of her perfume on his fingers.
In the kitchen, he poured two fingers of bourbon but didn’t drink it, just watched the amber liquid catch the fading light. His phone buzzed on the counter, a text from Bindi already airborne: Landed in SEA. Brooke is a mess. Will call later. Remember what I said. He stared at the words, his mind flipping back to that frantic moment in the hallway just before she’d dashed out the door.
She’d stopped him, her hand firm on his chest where his buttons and desire lay exposed. “You need to be ready,” she’d said, her voice low and practical, a therapist assigning homework. “Once I’m gone, take care of it. You’ve got fresh material.” A clinical smile touched her lips. “Yesterday, you had Emma’s breast in your mouth while she came apart on my vibrator. That should be more than enough for the spank bank.” She’d adjusted his collar, her thumb brushing his jugular. “We need you ready in case Emma wants you while I’m gone.” A final peck, devoid of passion, all protocol. And then she was gone.
The memory was a stone in his gut. He’d been electrified in that basement, lost in the animal reality of Emma’s taste, the sound of her sharp cries, the powerful tremors he’d felt through his own body. Now, distilled to a utility—‘material’—it felt strangely hollow. The bourbon finally touched his lips, a slow burn that didn’t warm the chill.
His phone buzzed again, a different tone. He looked down.
Emma: I’m at the hot tub. Can’t sleep. Bindi left me these… gummies. Said they were for ‘circadian resynchronization.’
A follow-up message appeared seconds later, a photo. It was a close-up of a small, elegant glass jar containing peach-colored lozenges, and beside it, a slip of Bindi’s precise stationery. The handwritten note was clearly visible: “Take one. Enjoy my husband. – B.”
Will’s breath hitched. The casual imperative was so utterly her. He typed, his thumbs feeling clumsy. On my way.
The backyard was a realm of deep blues and whispering shadows. The infinity-edge hot tub glowed like a giant, steaming jewel, its surface rippling softly. The scent of chlorine and heated minerals mixed with the night-blooming jasmine. Emma sat on the stone edge, her back to him, a silhouette against the water’s radiant light.
She wore a simple slip of black silk, the thin straps stark against her pale shoulders. Her bare feet were submerged, stirring the water with slow, absent circles. She smiled as he approached and patted the stone beside her.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice casual.
"Hey," she said, smiling. He couldn't keep his eyes from quickly surveying her lithe body.
He couldn’t keep his eyes from quickly surveying her lithe body. The black silk clung, damp in places from the steam, outlining the curve of her hip, the faint shadow between her thighs. She didn’t seem to mind his gaze; she tipped her head back, looking at the first stars.
“I took one of her little peach miracles,” Emma said, her voice languid. “About an hour ago. And I’ve nearly finished this.” She gestured to a wine glass, its deep red contents nearly gone, resting on the stone. “I feel… untethered. Sort of fizzy and warm. And tipsy. Definitely tipsy.”
Will sat beside her, the heat from the water seeping into his legs. “Yeah?” He swirled his own glass, the bourbon catching the light. “I might have joined you on the gummy front. About thirty minutes ago. For solidarity.”
Emma laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that echoed softly in the palm fronds. “Solidarity. Right.” She leaned into him, her shoulder cool against his arm. “So we’re both a little… adrift. On Bindi’s orders.”
“On Bindi’s orders,” he echoed, the phrase tasting strange. The gummy was a slow, creeping vine in his veins, softening the edges of the house, the night, the memory of being called ‘material.’ His senses felt amplified—the lap of water, the distant sigh of traffic, the almost imperceptible smell of her skin, salt and expensive lotion.
She looked at him, her pupils wide and dark in the low light. “It’s quieter without her. The air feels different. Like after a thunderstorm has passed but it’s still electric.”
“She takes up space,” Will agreed, and it wasn’t a criticism, just a fact. The mansion felt like a shell without its vibrant, commanding inhabitant. He watched Emma’s foot break the water’s shimmering surface. “How do you feel? After yesterday.”
Emma was quiet for a long moment. “Empty. In a good way. Like a room that’s been aired out. But also…” She trailed off, searching. “I keep remembering the feeling of your hand on my stomach. Holding me down while I flew apart. It was an anchor. I’ve never had an anchor in the middle of a storm before.”
Her words, raw and unpolished, landed in the center of his chest. Before he could form a response, a sharp, simultaneous buzz erupted from both their phones where they lay on the stone between them. The screens lit up, twin beacons in the twilight.
It was a group text. From Bindi.
The preview showed an image. Will, his pulse suddenly a thick thing in his throat, tapped the screen.
The photo loaded. It was stark, clinical, brilliantly lit. A sleek, black harness of expensive-looking leather. And fitted into it, a substantial, deep-purple silicone strap-on, glistening under the light. It was half-embedded, brutally, inside Bindi.
The image was brutally lit, every detail crystalline. The harness was sleek, black, engineered leather. The device itself was a deep, gleaming purple. It was half-embedded inside her. Bindi’s own hand was splayed across her lower abdomen, fingers pressing down as if testing the fit.
Brooke had clearly taken the photo.
THE TEXT READ "DND... BROOKE SLUTTING ME OUT FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS. WILL SEND MORE PIX LATER! XO"
Will stared. The silicon gleam, the possessive press of her fingers, the casual violence of the word “slutting” in Bindi’s perfect script—it formed a fist in his brain, squeezing out all other thought. The hot tub’s steam felt suddenly cloying, a wet blanket on his skin.
Emma made a small, choked sound beside him, not of disgust but of sheer, arrested surprise. “Jesus,” she breathed, the word steaming out of her. Her eyes were locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.
He couldn’t look away. This wasn’t a curated marketing still or a private snapshot. This was a dispatch from a front line he wasn’t on, graphic and merciless. Brooke Worthy, CEO, distraught lover, was now the photographer, the director. Bindi was the instrument. The math of it was cold and efficient.
“She’s working,” Will said finally, his voice flat and strange to his own ears. It was the only logic he could grasp.
“Is that what this is?” Emma whispered. She lifted her glass, found it empty, and set it down with a definitive click. The gummy and the wine were at war in her system, a fizzy warmth clashing with this cold splash of reality. “It looks like she’s being consumed.”
Will’s thumb hovered over the screen. He should reply. Something supportive, spousal, professional. A thumbs-up. A ‘have fun.’ Nothing came. The image was a suction cup on his mind, pulling all his latent, formless insecurity into a hard, sharp point. He was here, on containment duty. She was there, being reinvented by a billionaire’s grief.
Emma’s hand, cool from her wine glass, covered his on the warm stone. “Hey.” She waited until he dragged his gaze from the phone to her face. In the aquamarine glow, her expression was searching, soft. “You okay?”
He let out a long, controlled breath. The “spank bank” comment from earlier echoed, now curdled. “Yeah. It’s just… the framing. It’s very Brooke.” He tried for a smirk. It felt like a crack in clay.
“The framing is ‘fuck you, pay me,’” Emma said, and her bluntness startled a real laugh from him, short and sharp. She nodded, a sly smile touching her lips. “See? That’s better.” Her fingers laced with his, a deliberate, grounding pressure. “We’re here. We’re adrift, remember? On orders.”
She stood then, the black silk sliding against her skin. The water rippled where her feet had been. Without a word, she let the thin straps of the nightie fall from her shoulders. The fabric sighed into a puddle at her ankles, leaving her pale form outlined against the luminous water and the dark tapestry of palms.
She didn’t pose. She simply turned and stepped down into the roiling heat, sinking until the water lapped at her collarbones. Her hair fanned out around her like spilled ink. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her face open, offering a different kind of anchor.
“The water’s real,” she said, her voice almost lost in the hum of the jets. “This is real. Come in. Be here with me.”
Will looked from the phone’s blinding, transactional image to the woman in the water, waiting in the quiet dark. He placed the device face down on the stone. The night air cooled the sudden heat at the back of his neck. He stood, pulling his shirt over his head, the actions simple and profound.
He stepped into the water, the heat an instant, encompassing embrace. It swallowed the shock, the noise, the distance. He waded toward her, the world narrowing to the mineral scent, the churn of bubbles, the dark, knowing look in Emma’s eyes as she reached for him beneath the shimmering, black surface.
Her fingers found his waist, cool and sure against the heat-soaked skin of his hips. They stood like that, chests not touching, the violent jets pounding against their legs, a current of possibility arcing through the steam.
“That picture,” she said, her voice barely carrying over the water’s thrash.
“Don’t,” he said, the word cutting through the humidity. He didn’t want Bindi here, not like that, not as that gleaming, purple intrusion. He moved her hands, placing them on his shoulders. Her skin was slick. He slid his own hands down the lithe curve of her back, feeling the knobs of her spine, the dip at its base. She was real, solid, trembling slightly.
He pulled her close, finally, the silk of her thighs brushing his under the chaotic water. Her head fell against his collarbone. He could feel her heart, a frantic bird against his ribs, or perhaps it was his own. The gummy softened the edges of the tile, the palms, the distant city lights, until only sensation remained: the abrasive rub of his swim trunks against her, the slide of her stomach on his, the impossible heat.
“I can still feel it,” she murmured into his skin. “That anchor.”
Will cradled the back of her head, his fingers tunneling into the wet, dark silk of her hair. He tilted her face up. The ambient glow from the water painted her features in shifting blues and golds, her lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded with the compound effects of wine and chemical courage. He didn’t speak. He kissed her.
It wasn’t the frantic, performative kiss from Bindi’s hurried departure. This was slower, a deliberate exploration. Her mouth yielded, then surged against his, tasting of cabernet and a faint, chemical peach. She made a small, hungry sound in the back of her throat, her hands locking behind his neck, pulling him down into the wet heat of her.
When he broke for air, his forehead resting against hers, he remembered the basement. The seismic release. The purpose.
“This whole thing,” he said, his voice graveled by the steam and want, “has been about you being able to let go. To come normally. To own it.” He was reciting doctrine, but it felt true here, now, with her body flush against his. “Not for a scene. Not for anyone watching. For you.”
She nodded, a quick, desperate motion. Her hips rolled instinctively, a submerged, seeking press. “I know.”
He guided her backward through the resistance of the water, the bubbling torrent parting for them. Her shoulder blades met the blunt, warm stone of the tub’s edge. The contrast was sharp: the violent, liquid heat at her front, the solid, sun-soaked rock at her back. He held her there, one arm bracing beside her head, the other disappearing beneath the turbulent surface.
His hand slid down the plane of her stomach, past her bare waistline, lower. The water swirled and foamed around his wrist, obscuring everything but feel. His fingers found the soft, swollen heat of her. He hovered there, inches from her bare opening, a promise and a question in the tension of his halted touch.
Emma’s breath came in short, sharp gusts. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails biting. The knowing look was gone, burned away by a raw, unfiltered need. She dragged his mouth back to hers, kissing him with a passionate, devouring intensity that erased the last ghost of Bindi’s photograph from the air.
She tore her lips from his, her eyes wide and dark, reflecting the churning water. “Just… please.”
Her voice was a broken thing, stripped of any actress’s control. It was the same raw plea from the basement, but now it was for him alone, untouched by Bindi’s orchestrating hands. Will obeyed, his own breath held somewhere in his throat.
His fingers, already soaked and warmed by the mineral water, found her. Not inside, not yet. He pressed the flat of his palm against the soft, trembling mound, a steady, encompassing pressure. She jerked against him, a full-body spasm, and a choked whimper escaped her lips. Her forehead fell against his sternum.
“Breathe, Emma,” he murmured into her hair, his own voice thick. He remembered Bindi’s teaching, the physiology of panic and pleasure sharing the same neural pathways.
She nodded against his chest, a frantic little motion. The violent jets pummeled their legs, a chaotic counterpoint to the stillness he was trying to cultivate against her. He waited, feeling her heart hammer through her ribs and into his palm. He waited until her breathing hitched, then deepened, just one fraction.
Then he moved.
He shifted his hand, just slightly. He used the pad of his middle finger, applying no more pressure than it would take to turn a page. He began making light, slow circles on the slick, swollen skin of her clitoral hood, a gentle, maddening orbit around the epicenter of her nerve-endings.
Emma went rigid.
A sharp, truncated gasp sawed out of her. Her fingers, clutching his shoulders, turned into desperate claws. She wasn’t thrusting or grinding; she was simply vibrating, a high-tension wire struck by a perfect, devastating frequency. Will kept the motion exactly the same—unerring, patient, feather-light. He watched her face crumple, her mouth open in a silent, stricken ‘O’.
The orgasm took her without ceremony, without the long, screaming crescendo of the day before. It was a sudden, violent detonation.
It had not even been twenty seconds of his fingers making those light circles.
It was a short, sharp series of pulsing convulsions that shuddered through her core and into his palm. A ragged, punched-out cry was torn from her, lost in the roar of the jets. Then her legs buckled. Will caught her full weight, holding her up as the waves of sensation subsided into aftershocks.
A sob welled up, harsh and ugly. She buried her face into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, her body wracked with it. The tears were hot and immediate, mixing with the chlorined water on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” she wept, the words mangled and wet. “God, that’s so… embarrassing."
He held her tighter, his own heart thundering. The speed of it, the sheer untamed reactivity, was stunning. This wasn’t the blocked actress from London. This was something else entirely, a raw circuit laid bare. “Stop,” he whispered, his lips moving against her temple. “That was perfect. That was the point. No performance. Just truth.”