Off Script Ch. 04

Early December had settled over the city bring with it a chill hinting at the coming winter. Afternoon light streamed through the curtains in our apartment. Emma moaned as she leaned back on the couch, her fingers in my hair.

Her hips moved as I used my tongue, and she gasped when I added my fingers. Her breathing quickened as I found a rhythm that made her grip my shoulders.

"Ja, for fanden, Matt..." she said in Danish, her voice desperate. My tongue was insistent, lapping at her clit. My tongue pressed and flicked, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body.  

My fingers slid inside her, pumping in and out with a fierce, unyielding rhythm. I curled them to hit that sweet spot deep within her, my mouth never leaving her clit. Emma's hips bucked wildly, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. She was lost in the sensation, her body aching for more.

"Matt... I'm close... make me cum," she moaned. Her words made me work harder to push her over the edge. I attacked her with an increased vigor sucking her clit.

Emma arched her back as she came, gripping my hair while her body shook. She cried out as the pleasure hit her, and I kept going until she finally collapsed on the couch.

For a moment, all I could hear was her breathing. I watched her from where my chin rested on her thigh, enjoying seeing her like this - my Emma, completely vulnerable.

Her eyes opened, blue and dazed, finding mine with a soft laugh. She smiled and brushed hair from my forehead.

"I take it that was... acceptable?" I asked playfully.

"You... are fucking amazing," she said warmly.

I grinned and kissed her quickly. "I know," I murmured.

Emma traced patterns on my chest as we lay there. She noticed my expression and glanced up.

"You're thinking about tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked.

I nodded. Tomorrow I was flying to London for two weeks of meetings and preparation for my big pitch, and I was feeling the pressure despite my confident front.

Emma propped herself up on one elbow, looking into my eyes.

"You're going to nail this," she said. "You're ready."

I leaned into her touch with my eyes closed. "You always know what to say."

"That's because I know you. And I believe in you."

I looked down at her, this amazing woman who made me feel capable of anything. I kissed her softly and whispered, "I love you, Emma."

"Her breath caught as she pulled me down, her lips soft against mine. "I love you too."

Later that evening, I sat at our kitchen table looking at the London trip itinerary. My heart raced thinking about the meetings and the big pitch that could change my career. The same presentation Emma had helped me practice for weeks.

I squeezed her hand. "I'm excited, but nervous too. Two weeks in London, pitching to people with more experience--it's intimidating."

Emma leaned forward, her black hair falling over her shoulder. "Matt, you've earned this. You're smart and prepared. Besides," she smiled, "I'm joining you the second week. You won't be alone for long."

I reached for her hand. "I love seeing you excited. Having a weekend with you before the pitch might be just what I need."

Emma's blue eyes held mine. "That's the idea. You need to breathe before the big day."

She kissed my cheek. "You've got this. And I'll be there to remind you if you forget."

The next day, I methodically packed my suitcase with shirts and ties while Emma circled the apartment like a tornado, adding "essentials."

"Protein bars? Really?" I asked, holding up a handful. "I'm pitching to executives, not surviving the apocalypse."

"London food," she said with a shrug. "You'll thank me when you're stuck in meetings with nothing but those sad little biscuits they serve with tea."

At the airport, Emma hugged me tightly. "Text me when you land," she said against my chest.

"No, I thought I'd maintain an air of mystery and just show up in your Instagram feed posing with the Queen's Guard," I deadpanned, then kissed her forehead. "Of course I'll text. And call. Probably pathetically often."

"I'll see you in London, Matt Harris. And don't you dare forget how amazing you are," she said with a smirk.

"If I start to forget, I'll just check my reflection in the hotel mirrors. I hear they make everyone look 20% more amazing in London. It's a city ordinance."

As I walked toward the gate, I turned back for one last glimpse of her standing there, coat pulled tight around her slender frame. The nerves were there, but her belief in me felt substantial enough to carry me through whatever challenges lay ahead.

My first week was a blur of meetings and late-night preparation. London sprawled around me--historic and beautiful--but I barely noticed, caught up in the growing pressure of work. Each night, I called Emma as promised, our conversations anchoring me when I felt adrift in doubt. After hanging up, I'd sink into my hotel bed, her voice lingering in my thoughts, a reminder of what waited for me beyond this professional crucible.

"The client asked all these questions I wasn't prepared for," I confessed during one particularly exhausted late-night call.

"And yet you're still standing," Emma replied, her unwavering faith traveling clearly across the Atlantic. "Remember what Chris told you--they're testing to see if you'll break."

By Friday, the constant knot in my stomach had become so familiar I'd almost forgotten what calm felt like. Emma's text confirming her flight details--JFK to Heathrow, arriving at 7:45 a. m. London time--washed over me like a cool wave of relief. She would be here Saturday, giving us the weekend together before work resumed, with the all-important pitch scheduled for the following Friday.

When Emma finally emerged through the arrivals gate, I stood waiting with two coffees in hand. Her black coat was buttoned against the December chill, a soft scarf wrapped closely around her neck. Despite the overnight flight, she looked effortlessly beautiful--her dark hair slightly tousled but perfectly framing her face, her blue eyes lighting up when they found mine.

"How's my favorite pitchman?" she teased, stepping into my arms.

"Better now," I admitted, handing her a coffee, the warmth between us immediately dissolving the week's tension. "I missed you."

As we settled into our seats on the Heathrow Express to Paddington, I smiled, feeling my chest tighten with contentment. "We've got all weekend. What's the plan again?"

She pulled a small folded paper from her coat pocket, her eyes sparkling with sudden determination. "Actually, I've been doing my research. We're going sightseeing--the full tourist experience. I think you need to get out of your head before this pitch week, and I need to see London with you."

London greeted us with crisp December air and morning mist. My breath clouded in front of me, the cold biting at my face even as my body stayed warm beneath my coat. For the first time all week, my chest loosened. The pitch was behind me. Emma was here.

She tugged me toward the waiting taxi, her gloved fingers curling around mine, the leather soft but cold to touch. The distant rumble of buses and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement provided London's morning soundtrack. "I was fully prepared to take the Tube like a proper Londoner," she said as I held the door open for her, the taxi's interior releasing a wave of warmth scented with leather seats and the driver's coffee.

When we pulled up to The Ned, Emma let out a low whistle. "Okay, fine. This place is worth the cab ride."

The grand 1920s stone façade towered above us, its art deco entrance leading into a lobby bathed in warm, golden light. Inside, the air carried rich scents--freshly ground coffee, polished mahogany, leather-bound books, and the faint trace of expensive cigars--like old money and quiet power distilled into fragrance. A pianist played soft jazz on a gleaming grand piano, the melodies floating above the gentle clink of crystal glasses and hushed conversations.

I guided her through the lobby, past inviting velvet sofas and the brass bar where ice clinked in cocktail shakers, toward the elevators. When we entered my suite, Emma sighed and kicked off her boots with a satisfied groan. The plush carpet sank beneath our feet, muffling the city sounds below.

The room was filled with soft morning light, making long shadows across the velvet armchairs and king-sized bed. The tall windows showed a wide view of London, with St. Paul's Cathedral standing out against the winter sky. A marble-topped desk sat in the corner, perfect for someone who wrote for a living.

Emma ran a hand over the soft linen duvet and let out an exaggerated gasp. "Look at this place. I'd start writing poetry just to justify staying here longer."

I stepped up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. "You deserve nice things," I murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

Emma tilted her head back to meet my gaze, her expression softening. "As much as I'd love to crawl into that ridiculously oversized bed and sleep for a year, I need a shower and fresh clothes before I feel human again."

When Emma reappeared, she was effortlessly stunning--fresh-faced, her damp hair swept back, glowing with a kind of easy confidence that made my breath catch. She'd changed into a thick sweater and jeans, the soft fabric hugging her in ways that made it impossible not to look.

She grinned, looping an arm through mine. "Let's go see the city."

I was struck anew by her beauty, her presence, and they fact she was here with me in this city in this moment. Emma caught me watching her and smirked. "What?"

I shook my head, smiling. "Nothing. Just... welcome to London."

"Ready for Westminster Abbey?" Emma asked, pulling on her coat. "It's only a short ride from here."

When we arrived, the abbey rose before us, its intricate stonework and towering spires striking against the pale winter sky.

Emma stepped out first, adjusting her coat as she took it all in. "It's even more beautiful than in photos," she murmured, her breath visible in the cold air.

The abbey swallowed us whole--soaring arches, stained glass filtering colored light onto stone. The air hung cool and damp, smelling faintly of incense. We spoke in whispers, our footsteps joining others against the marble floor.

"This way," Emma said, leading me toward the south transept. "Poets' Corner."

Her excitement grew as we entered the memorial-filled space. She moved quickly between stones, pointing.

"Chaucer here. Dickens there. Hardy. Kipling." Her fingertips brushed the worn markers. "Not everyone's buried here--some are just memorials."

I watched her, captivated more by her enthusiasm than the monuments themselves. "Who's your favorite?" I asked.

Emma's face lit up as she led me to a simple stone on the floor. "Jane Austen," she said softly. "She's not buried here--she's in Winchester Cathedral--but this memorial means so much to me."

I looked down at the modest marker. "I've never actually read any of her books," I admitted.

"Pride and Prejudice was the first 'grown-up' book I read in English," Emma said, her Danish accent becoming more noticeable as she slipped into memories. "I was twelve, struggling with all those English idioms. My mother found me a Danish-English dictionary, and I would sit with both books open, determined to understand every word."

She knelt down, her fingertips hovering just above the stone. "She writes about such a specific time and place, but she understood people in a way that transcends centuries. The way she captures human folly and resilience--it's what I aspire to in my own writing." Her voice took on that passionate intensity I recognized whenever she talked about her work-in-progress--the collection of interconnected stories about immigrants that had earned her the New Yorker publication.

I knelt beside her. "What was it about her writing that connected with you as a kid from Denmark?"

Emma smiled; her eyes distant with memory. "She wrote about constraints--social, economic, gender-based--and how people navigate them. As a girl between two cultures, always trying to figure out the unspoken rules, I found that... illuminating." She looked up at me. "Plus, she's wickedly funny. People forget that."

"Like you," I said softly.

Emma's eyes met mine, surprised and pleased. "What?"

"Wickedly funny. Observant. Seeing through people's performances to who they really are." I took her hand. "It makes sense she'd be your favorite."

Emma's expression softened. "This is why I love you, Matt Harris. You actually listen when I ramble about books."

"I listen to everything you say," I replied simply.

We stood, continuing our tour through the abbey, Emma pointing out more literary giants--Tennyson, Browning, Lewis Carroll--until we paused at the memorial to Shakespeare.

"Kind of the ultimate, right?" I asked, gesturing to the grand statue.

"Actually," Emma said with a mischievous smile, "he's not buried here either. This monument was erected over a century after his death. He's actually in Stratford-upon-Avon."

"So, all these writers I've heard of aren't even here?" I laughed.

"Some are. But it's not about where their bodies lie," Emma said, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality. "It's about creating a place where we can honor what they gave us. Words that outlived them. Stories that still matter."

I watched her face, illuminated in a shaft of colored light from the stained glass above. "You'll be in here someday," I said suddenly.

Emma burst out laughing, then quickly muffled it as several tourists turned to look. "I think you might be overestimating my literary prospects just a bit."

"I'm not," I said with complete conviction. "The New Yorker was just the beginning. You have the same thing they all had--you see people clearly, and you make them see themselves."

Emma's cheeks blushed slightly, and she squeezed my hand. "I'd settle for a small shelf in a good bookstore, but I appreciate the vote of confidence."

As we left Poets' Corner, I felt more relaxed than I had all week. My upcoming pitch seemed less important now, fading against centuries of human achievement and Emma's passionate enthusiasm for it all.

We stepped from the Abbey's ancient shadows into weak winter sunlight, the sudden temperature change making me shiver. Big Ben's distant chimes traveled through the crisp air as we paused on the steps.

Emma pulled out her detailed itinerary. "National Gallery next," she said, pointing toward Whitehall. "We can walk through Trafalgar Square to get there."

We walked hand in hand along the wide street, passing government buildings and memorials. The December air had grown colder, and Emma moved closer to me, her cheeks pink from the chill. Trafalgar Square opened up before us, pigeons flying away as we crossed toward the gallery's impressive entrance.

"I'm surprised you're so excited about the National Gallery," Emma said, glancing up at me. "I didn't realize you were such an art enthusiast."

I smiled, a hint of sheepishness in my expression. "There's one painting in particular I've always wanted to see. The Fighting Temeraire by Turner."

"The one you mentioned when I was planning our trip?" Emma asked, recalling my unexpected enthusiasm when she'd mentioned the gallery.

"Yeah. My grandfather had a book of Turner's works. I used to flip through it for hours when I was a kid."

We climbed the steps to the gallery, passing between the towering columns and into the warmth of the interior. After getting our bearings, I guided Emma through the rooms with surprising confidence until we reached the Turner collection.

I froze when we entered the Turner Room. There it was--The Fighting Temeraire.

The painting was larger than I'd imagined, dominating the wall. A ghostly warship being towed to its destruction by a small steam tug, set against a sky ablaze with sunset. Gold and violet clouds seemed to pulse with their own light.

"There she is," I murmured.

Emma wasn't looking at the painting. She was watching me.

I felt her gaze on me, studying my reaction as I took in every detail--the delicate brushstrokes shaping the Temeraire's masts, the shimmering reflection of sky and water, the stark contrast between the noble warship and the squat, smoking tugboat pulling it toward oblivion.

She finally turned to the painting; her voice soft. "It's beautiful. And sad."

I nodded, still caught in its hold.

She squeezed my hand once before falling silent, standing beside me as we took in one last glimpse of the dying light on the water, the fading grandeur of the past, and the quiet inevitability of what comes next.

We stood before it in silence for a moment, taking in the luminous quality of the sky, the stark contrast between the ghostly ship and the dark industrial tugboat.

"It's about the end of an era," I said finally, my voice soft but animated. "The Temeraire was this badass battleship from the Napoleonic Wars, a hero at Trafalgar. Now she's just being towed away by some little steamboat to be scrapped."

Emma studied the painting, the vivid sunset reflecting in her blue eyes. "Beautiful and sad all at once, isn't it?"

"That's what I love about it," I continued, my passion evident in my voice. "Look at the colors--that sunset is almost supernatural. Turner's saying goodbye to the age of sail, but he's doing it with this incredible celebration of light and color. It's an elegy, but it's not bitter."

Emma glanced at me, a small smile playing on her lips. "I've never heard you talk about anything this way."

I looked slightly embarrassed. "Too much?"

"Not at all." She squeezed my hand. "I love seeing this side of you. We all have these hidden passions we rarely get to share."

As we wandered through the gallery, we discovered shared favorites--both admiring the drama of Caravaggio's shadowy figures and the vibrant humanity in Rembrandt's portraits. At a small Monet, a scene of water lilies bathed in twilight, we found ourselves standing in comfortable silence, shoulders touching.

"Art museums always make me feel both incredibly small and somehow connected to everything," Emma said softly. "All these artists, across centuries, trying to make sense of what it means to be human."

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That's why I love that Turner. He's looking back and forward at the same time, finding beauty in change."

Emma leaned her head against my shoulder. "Like us?"

"How so?"

"We're both in these moments of transition. Your career shifting, my writing finally finding an audience. Everything changing, but beautiful in its own way."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her familiar scent. "I never thought I'd have philosophical epiphanies about my life in front of a painting of a boat."

"Emma laughed, the sound drawing a stern look from a nearby security guard. "That's what art is supposed to do, isn't it? Make you see your own life differently?"

We reluctantly left the gallery as closing time approached, stepping out into the early winter darkness that had descended over London. The streetlamps were already glowing against the darkening sky.

"I don't know about you," Emma said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "but I think we've earned a drink. I've researched some historic pubs that I've been dying to visit."

She led me through narrow cobblestone streets, her phone's map occasionally illuminating her face as she navigated us away from the tourist thoroughfares and into the historic heart of the city.

"Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese," Emma said, pointing to an unassuming entrance. "Rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666."

We ducked through a narrow door into rooms that smelled of wood smoke and centuries of spilled beer.

"Dickens drank here," Emma said as we descended to the cellar bar. "So did Johnson, Twain, Tennyson, Conan Doyle."

Her eyes lit up as she spoke. This was my favorite Emma--passionate, nerdy in the most endearing way.

We claimed a rough wooden table that might have been there since the pub opened. I returned from the bar with two dark ales.

"To Dickens," I said, raising my glass.

"To Dickens," Emma clinked. "Though he probably drank gin, not ale."

"Always with the historical accuracy," I said, sipping my beer.

Emma took a thoughtful sip of her own. "Can you imagine Dickens sitting right here, maybe working out a character or a plot twist for his next installment?" Her eyes scanned the low, vaulted ceiling. "All those writers, finding inspiration or just escaping the London cold."

"Like us," I said, reaching for her hand across the table.

She smiled, threading her fingers through mine. "It makes you think, though. How many conversations like this have happened in this exact spot? How many fleeting moments, big ideas, quiet realizations?"

I glanced around the room--the worn wooden beams, the flickering candlelight, the faint hum of conversation layered over centuries of history. "And in the grand scheme of things, they're small. But that doesn't make them any less important."

Emma squeezed my hand. "Exactly. One person's important moment in a very long story."

We sat there for a moment, letting the weight of history settle around us, warm and familiar, as the city moved on outside.

We finished our drinks, listening to the hum of conversation around us and the crackle of the fire. As we prepared to leave, I noticed Emma suppressing a yawn.

"We can head back to the hotel if you're tired," I offered.

Emma shook her head firmly. "The Blackfriar. It's completely different from these medieval pubs, but just as special. And they do excellent fish and chips."

As we crossed toward Blackfriars, evening fog rolled in from the river, creating hazy halos around streetlamps and softening the city's hard edges. Trains rumbled over the nearby bridge, the vibrations subtle beneath our feet, while muffled boat horns drifted up from the water. The temperature had dropped, and Emma moved closer to me, our shared warmth protecting us against London's winter chill.

As we turned the corner near Blackfriars Bridge, the mist parted enough to reveal our destination, and Emma pointed eagerly, her face lit by the pub's warm glow cutting through the fog. "There it is!"

The pub stood on a triangular plot, its Art Nouveau façade immediately different from the other places we'd visited. Stained-glass windows shined like jewels against the darkness, promising warmth inside as sounds of laughter and clinking glasses reached the quiet street.

Inside, the pub was a riot of color and artistic detail -- copper reliefs of friars, marble columns, mosaics, and elaborate carvings adorned every surface. Despite its grandeur, the atmosphere was relaxed and welcoming.

We found a table beneath a whimsical relief of a friar enjoying his beer, and Emma immediately launched into her prepared history lesson.

"This place was almost demolished in the 1960s, but it was saved by a campaign led by the poet Sir John Betjeman," she explained as we settled in. "It's now a Grade II listed building. The artist Henry Poole did all these incredible Arts and Crafts decorations."

I looked around, taking in the stunning craftsmanship. "It's like eating in a museum."

"A museum where you can drink excellent beer," Emma amended, studying the menu. "I'm starving. Fish and chips?"

"Perfect," I agreed.

When our food arrived -- golden battered fish atop a heap of thick-cut chips -- it was accompanied by two pints of Timothy Taylor Landlord ale, a pale, golden beer with a reputation as one of Britain's finest cask ales.

Emma raised her glass. "To London. And to us."

"To us," I echoed, clinking my glass against hers.

As we ate our dinner, conversation flowed effortlessly between us. Emma pointed out her favorite details in the pub's décor -- a mischievous friar peeking from behind a column, the intricate mosaic floor, the way the brass light fixtures complemented the rich woods and copper reliefs.

"I love how you notice everything," I said, watching her eyes dance from one artistic detail to another. "You store it all away for your writing, don't you?"

Emma nodded, pulling a small notebook from her pocket--the same one she'd scribbled in furiously the night her story idea about Danish immigrants in New York had come to her. "Occupational hazard. I'm always collecting moments, details, feelings. My editor at The New Yorker said that's what made my last piece work--the specificity." She jotted something down quickly, her handwriting a familiar, elegant scrawl.

"What details will you remember from today?" I asked, genuinely curious, thinking about how her acute observations had transformed her from a bartender with a manuscript to a writer publishers were beginning to notice.

Emma considered the question, her expression softening. "The way your face lit up in front of the Turner painting. The taste of London Pride in that tiny hidden pub. The feel of your hand in mine as we walked through Westminster Abbey." She paused, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I'll remember how completely at peace I felt, even with jet lag, because I was finally here with you."

I reached across the table, taking her hand. "Thank you for today. For making me step away from work and actually experience London."

"That was the plan," Emma admitted. "You've been so focused on this pitch, I wanted to give you one day to just... breathe."

As we finished our meal, I couldn't help but notice how exhausted Emma looked. Her blinks grew longer, and her responses came just a beat too late. I paid the bill, and we stepped back into the London night, the air now bitingly cold.

"Hotel?" I suggested, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Emma nodded, leaning into me. "Hotel. But this was perfect, wasn't it?"

"Perfect," I agreed as we walked toward the nearest tube station, the city lights shimmering on the Thames beside us. "And we still have tomorrow."

On the cab ride back to our hotel, Emma slept lightly against my shoulder. I watched her relaxed face and felt deep gratitude. Despite my nervousness about the upcoming pitch, with Emma beside me, everything felt right.

Sunday morning was clear and cold, with pale winter sunlight shining on a thin layer of frost covering London. I woke before Emma and watched her sleep for a few quiet moments before getting up to order room service. By the time Emma woke up, drawn by the smell of coffee and pastries, I had set up a small feast by the window overlooking the city.

"Is this how every morning in London begins?" she asked, wrapping herself in the plush hotel robe and joining me at the table.

"Only the good ones," I replied, pouring her coffee just the way she liked it.

After breakfast, we bundled up against the December chill and set out for Hyde Park. The park was transformed by winter--trees bare against the sky, the Serpentine Lake reflecting the cold blue above. We joined the scattered Londoners and tourists walking the paths, our breath visible in the crisp air.

"It's strange seeing a park so empty," Emma remarked as we walked, her camera appearing periodically to capture frost-rimmed leaves or the elegant silhouettes of winter trees.

"It's peaceful though," I said, watching a pair of swans glide across the lake's surface.

We walked through the Italian Gardens and along the Serpentine, stopping whenever Emma wanted to photograph something interesting--detailed architecture on a bridge, winter jasmine flowers, or a perfect view across the water. Sometimes my thoughts drifted to my presentation, mentally practicing important points, but Emma seemed to know when my mind wandered. She'd squeeze my hand or point out something beautiful to bring me back to the moment.

By noon, we'd reached Buckingham Palace and joined the tourists watching the changing of the guard. Even I was impressed by the red-coated soldiers in their tall bearskin hats moving with perfect precision, though I usually didn't care much for ceremonial displays.

"Did you know the King's not actually home?" Emma whispered as we watched. "They only fly the royal standard when he's in residence. That's the Union Jack up there."

"How do you know these things?" I asked, genuinely impressed by her seemingly endless store of trivia.

Emma shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

After the palace, we walked through St. James's Park, ate lunch at a small café, and spent the afternoon in Covent Garden. Street performers entertained the weekend crowds, and the covered market sheltered us from a brief, cold rain shower. Emma bought a handmade scarf from a local artist, while I found myself buying a small watercolor of the Thames--something to remember this weekend by when we returned home.

As the afternoon turned to evening, we both felt tired from walking all day and went back to our hotel. I knew I'd need to focus on work soon, with the important week ahead, but for now, I was happy just being with Emma. She sat in the armchair by the window with a book she'd bought earlier, her face peaceful in the warm light of the nearby lamp.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

She looked up, her blue eyes questioning. "For what?"

"This weekend. It was exactly what I needed."

Emma smiled, setting her book aside. "Consider it my contribution to your success this week. A clear mind for your big pitch."

As Monday arrived, the rhythm of our week took shape. Mornings found me leaving early for pre-pitch meetings, kissing a sleepy Emma goodbye in the dim hotel room. She'd stay in bed for another hour, then set up her writing space by the window--laptop open, coffee steaming, the discipline that had finally earned her publication now a daily habit she wouldn't break even on vacation.

Tuesday evening, I found a Foyles bookstore bag with a note: "Saw this and thought of you. Found a literary café in Bloomsbury today--sat where Virginia Woolf wrote! Finished revising two stories. The creative energy here is incredible. Stories for dinner. --E."

Inside was a pocket edition of Turner's works. I ran my fingers over the cover, forgetting the pressure for a moment.

"You know this material cold," she said Wednesday night, working on my tight shoulders as I stared at my laptop. "You're just making yourself nervous now."

"I know," I admitted. "But everything depends on Friday."

"What did you see today?" I asked later, needing distraction.

Emma brightened. "The British Museum. Three hours in the Egyptian wing. Found a Japanese restaurant where nobody spoke English--just pointed at pictures. It was perfect."

By Thursday evening, I was too wired to focus. Emma suggested we walk along the Thames, the cool air clearing my head as we strolled past the London Eye, its lights reflecting in the dark water. The river itself had a distinctive scent--ancient, silty, tinged with salt from the distant sea--while the wooden boards of the promenade creaked beneath our feet. Wind whistled through the cables of nearby bridges, creating an eerie, musical hum that competed with distant boat horns and the rhythmic lapping of water against stone embankments.

"Look," Emma said softly, her breath visible in frosty clouds, pointing to an elderly couple seated on a bench nearby. They were huddled together against the cold, sharing what looked like a bag of bread crumbs as they fed the persistent river birds, whose wings created soft rushing sounds as they swooped and dove. "Fifty years from now, that could be us. Still finding joy in the simplest things."

For a moment, the presentation was forgotten as I squeezed her hand, imagining that future with sudden clarity. "I'd like that," I said quietly.

"Tomorrow will be amazing," Emma said as we continued our walk, pausing beneath the dramatic silhouette of Tower Bridge.

"I can't wait," I replied, though my mind was already drifting back to tomorrow's presentation.

That night, we fell asleep with my arm wrapped around Emma's waist, her steady breathing eventually lulling me into restless dreams of boardrooms and projector screens.

Pitch day. I woke before the alarm, staring at the ceiling while mentally rehearsing key points for the hundredth time. Beside me, Emma stirred, her dark hair fanned across the pillow.

"Morning, superstar," she said, her blue eyes finding mine through sleepy lids. "Ready to conquer London?"

I exhaled slowly. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Which is more than ready enough," she said, sitting up and reaching for her robe. "You've put in the work. Now it's just delivery."

"And not throwing up on anyone important," I added.

Emma laughed, the sound cutting through my tension. "Save that for the celebration after."

I dressed methodically, each button and cufflink a meditative act. When I finished, Emma straightened my tie, her hands steady against my trembling ones.

"I'm terrified," I admitted quietly.

Her eyes held mine. "Good. Use it." She smoothed my collar and switched to Danish, something reserved for our most intimate moments. "Min modige mand."

My brave man.

Her confidence in me felt like armor. I kissed her once, hard and quick.

"I love you," I said at the door.

"Go make them wonder how they ever managed without you," she replied, her smile the last thing I saw before heading out.

At the office, I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. My phone buzzed, and I expected another last-minute note from Chris or Jeff--but instead, it was Emma.

Emma: Just a little something to boost your confidence before you go in.

Attached was a screenshot of a text from Ashley.

Ashley: "Tell Matt to stop overthinking, walk in there, and wreck their shit. He's a fucking star. Also, remind him that when this is over, he gets to fuck you. If that's not motivation, I don't know what is."

I huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as a ridiculous amount of tension bled from my shoulders.

Me (to Emma): Tell her I appreciate the strategic use of both profanity and incentive-based encouragement.

Emma's reply came instantly.

Emma: She says you're welcome, now go be brilliant.

With that Jeff and the team arrived and it was time to go make my presentation. The moment I opened my mouth to speak, something clicked into place. All those late nights with Chris reviewing the numbers, all those practice presentations with Emma asking the tough questions, all the research and preparation--it was all there, ready to be deployed. For the first time in my career, I wasn't second-guessing myself or worrying about who might be undermining me. I was simply doing what I knew I could do.

I stepped out of the conference room floating. The executives' nods and smiles confirmed what the applause had already told me--I'd nailed it. Jeff's firm handshake brought me back to earth.

"Amazing, Matt," Jeff said, clapping my back. "The client loved it. I couldn't be prouder."

"Thanks," I managed, adrenaline still flowing. "Couldn't have done it without the team."

My phone buzzed. Chris: Just got word from the London office grapevine. Absolute legend status achieved. Never doubted you, Harris.

I smiled. Chris had helped push me to this point. I typed: Couldn't have done it without your kick in the ass.

His response was instant: That's what friends are for. Now celebrate like you mean it.

Jeff turned to me as we stepped into the hallway. "Let's celebrate. There's a pub down the street. First round's on me."

We gathered our materials and made our way through the building's marble lobby, the team's excited chatter echoing off the polished surfaces. The late afternoon sun was already setting as we stepped onto the street, the city's workers beginning their Friday exodus.

A short walk later, we stepped through the grand entrance of The Old Bank of England, a pub that looked more like a cathedral to drinking than a casual watering hole.

Despite the grandeur, the atmosphere wasn't stuffy. The soft hum of conversation mixed with clinking glasses, creating that celebratory mood that only comes after a successful day of business. Groups of professionals sat in booths with velvet seats, while others stood at the bar holding pints and laughing away the week's stress.

I had barely taken a sip of my pint when Jeff turned to me. "You need to text your girlfriend and tell her to join us," he said with a knowing smirk. "After the day you've had, she deserves to be part of the celebration."

I didn't hesitate, pulling out my phone.

We're at The Old Bank of England. Come celebrate with us!

Emma's response came almost immediately.

On my way. I have a surprise for you.

When Emma walked in twenty minutes later, the pub seemed to pause. Not just conversation--I swear the air particles themselves stopped mid-movement.

She wore a sleek black dress that fit perfectly, heels that made her legs look endless. Her hair fell in loose waves, her makeup highlighting those blue eyes I couldn't look away from.

I caught the murmurs around me--my team's impressed glances, the sudden dip in conversation.

"That's your girlfriend?" Robertson from accounting whispered, with what sounded like disbelief, as if the numbers didn't add up.

"I know," I murmured back. "I'm as confused as you are. Pretty sure she lost a bet."

Her eyes found mine across the room, and that familiar feeling returned.

Jeff let out a low whistle. "Harris, you've been holding out on us."

"Not holding out," I corrected him. "Just spending everyday waiting for her to realize her catastrophic error in judgment."

I barely noticed the murmurs around me, but they were there.

Emma's eyes locked onto mine, and the moment she spotted me, her face lit up with a warm, knowing smile.

As she approached, I rose from my seat, my chest tightening with something between pride and pure desire. I reached for her hands, unable to stop the grin that pulled at my lips.

"You look... incredible," I murmured, my voice dropping lower as I pulled her in for a quick kiss.

Emma's smirk deepened as she tilted her head slightly, her gaze glinting with something deliberate. She leaned in just enough that only I could hear.

"This isn't the only surprise I have for you tonight," she said, her tone cool, smooth, like a promise waiting to be unwrapped.

The words sent a jolt through me, my mind instantly filling with possibilities. She had this effect on me--could shift my focus completely with just a few well-chosen words, a talent she was well aware of and clearly enjoyed using.

Then, just as easily, she pulled back, her expression shifting into effortless confidence.

"You crushed it, didn't you?" she asked, her voice soft but sure, as if she already knew the answer.

"I did," I admitted, my pride evident.

"Of course you did," she said, squeezing my hand. "I knew you would."

As Emma settled into the group, her natural charm won everyone over. She laughed easily at their jokes, engaged in their stories about work, and even made Jeff chuckle with a quick-witted comment about my perfectionist tendencies. The team was smitten, and I couldn't have been prouder.

After the second round, Jeff stepped aside to take a phone call. When he returned, he clapped his hands together to get everyone's attention. "Alright, folks," he announced. "I thought today would go as planned with Matt leading the team so I have made a reservation at Le Gavroche. Consider it a proper reward for a job well done. Emma, you're coming too. You're as much a part of this success as Matt is."

Emma blinked in surprise. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude--"

"Nonsense," Jeff said firmly. "You're part of the team tonight. Besides, someone's got to keep Harris humble."

The group laughed, and I placed a hand on Emma's back, leaning in to whisper, "Please come. You deserve this as much as I do."

She hesitated for a moment before nodding, her lips curling into a small smile. "Alright. Let's do it."

Le Gavroche welcomed us with low lighting, white tablecloths, and the scent of French cuisine. Candles flickered on each table, conversations hummed.

I felt a wave of gratitude as we sat. Just months ago, I'd struggled to be heard at the firm. Now I was celebrating success with executives at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Our private dining room balanced luxury with comfort. Jeff ordered champagne, then stood for a toast when our glasses were filled.

"To Matt," he said. "For leadership, dedication, and closing deals that make us all look good. And to Emma, who knows how to pick winners." Everyone laughed as Emma blushed, raising her glass with mine.

Under the table, Emma's hand found mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. In that small gesture was everything--her pride, her support, her shared joy in my success. It was moments like these that made me realize how much we'd grown together, how her belief in me had helped me believe in myself.

As the dinner at Le Gavroche began to wind down, the team lingered over their desserts and coffee, the conversation still flowing effortlessly. Emma had them all captivated, laughing along with tales of my meticulousness and trading quips with Jeff, who seemed as charmed by her as everyone else. I leaned back in my chair, watching her with a mixture of pride and desire.

Jeff tapped my shoulder. "Walk with me," he said, nodding toward the hallway.

Away from the table, Jeff turned to me with a rare, genuine smile.

"You know," he said, "I've worked with a lot of people, but I've never seen anyone grow like you have."

My chest tightened. "Thanks, Jeff." Coming from him, who rarely gave praise, it meant everything.

"It's not just today's pitch. It's how you've handled yourself these past months--stepping up, proving your value. There's a bonus coming your way, Matt."

"A bonus? I didn't--"

Jeff raised his hand. "Don't argue. It's happening. Keep this momentum. You've got a future here."

"Thank you. I won't let you down." I thought of Chris, who'd pushed me to see my potential. This was partly his victory too.

Jeff glanced toward the dining room where Emma laughed. "Speaking of not letting people down," he said, voice dropping, "keep Emma happy. Women like that are rare."

I followed Jeff's gaze, watching Emma as she charmed the entire table with her natural ease. She seemed to glow, her smile lighting up the room in a way that made me feel like the luckiest man alive. "Trust me, Jeff," I said, my voice steady, "I know exactly how lucky I am."

"Good," Jeff said, clapping me on the back. "Now go back in there and celebrate. You've earned it."

When I returned to the table, I found Emma mid-story, her hands animated as she described an amusing moment from her time bartending at The Dead Rabbit. The team was hanging on her every word, erupting into laughter as she delivered the punchline.

As I slid back into my seat, Emma glanced at me, her eyes sparkling. "What's that grin for?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head and taking her hand under the table. "Just appreciating how amazing you are."

Emma smiled softly, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. "I'm just glad you're enjoying your night, Mr. Big Shot."

We stayed with the group for a while longer, savoring the warmth of the evening. But as the clock ticked later, Emma gave my hand a gentle squeeze, a subtle signal that it might be time to wrap things up.

"Ready to call it a night?" she asked softly.

I nodded, already thinking about how I wanted to end this perfect day--with just the two of us.

Goodbyes and congratulations circled the table as we made our exit, Jeff giving me one final backslap before we stepped into the cool London night. The restaurant had been in Mayfair, and our hotel in the City was a short cab ride away.

"Worth the celebration?" I asked as our black cab navigated the still-busy West End, neon lights and theater marquees sliding past our windows.

Emma nodded, her body warm against mine in the back seat. "More than worth it. I'm so proud of you."

By the time we reached The Ned, the city had quieted. The cab pulled away, leaving us on the empty street, dotted with glowing streetlamps, their light reflecting on the rain-slick pavement. Emma leaned into my side, her heels clicking softly against the ground as we made our way toward our hotel. She had draped my suit jacket over her shoulders, the smell of my cologne mingling with the crisp night air.

"Tonight was perfect," I said, glancing down at her. "You were amazing in there. They couldn't stop talking about you."

I leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, as if trying to convey everything I couldn't put into words. When I pulled back, Emma's lips curved into a small, teasing smile. "If this is how you're going to thank me, I'm happy to take all the credit."

"Good," I said, lacing my fingers through hers as we continued our walk. "Because I'm not done thanking you yet."

When we reached our hotel room, Emma turned to me, her black dress hugging her body in a way that still made my chest tighten, even after an entire evening of admiring her.

"You know," she began, her voice low and steady, "watching you tonight, seeing you so confident and in your element... it was unbelievably sexy."

I chuckled, my eyes never leaving hers. "Yeah? Because all I could think about was getting back here with you. Taking control of you, showing you that you're mine, making you feel it."

The sexual tension between us had reached a boiling point. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist much longer. But as I looked into her eyes--deep, dark pools that seemed to hold all the secrets of the world--I didn't want to.

Emma turned to me, her eyes sparkling with something more than just desire, something deeper. "Make yourself comfortable," she said, her voice low, almost breathless. "I'm going to freshen up."

I nodded, my pulse quickening as I watched her walk toward the expansive bathroom. She moved with a grace that left me in awe, every step full of promise. As soon as she was out of sight, I slowly removed my jacket, tie, and shoes, my thoughts racing. I sank into the plush chair by the bed, my fingers drumming nervously on my leg as anticipation coiled tighter inside me.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open, and my breath caught in my throat.

Emma stepped out in black and red lingerie, the lace hugging her curves in a way that felt almost indecent--not delicate, not dainty, but sinful. The way it framed her full breasts, her toned stomach, the long, sculpted lines of her legs made my mouth dry. And the heels--Christ, the heels--gave her a dangerous, commanding elegance even as she stood before me, offering herself.

Her hips swayed deliberately with every step, a slow, methodical prowl across the plush hotel carpet. Her eyes locked onto mine, dark and filled with something unreadable. It wasn't just seduction--it was a test. A challenge.

She struck a pose, one long leg to the side with her hands on her hips. She looks me in the eyes filled with lust "I'm here to please you, Matt. To be yours completely. Tonight, I want you to take me like no one else ever has."

Wrapping my other hand around her waist, pulling her against me. Her lingerie offered little barrier, the heat of her body melding with mine. I kept my grip tight, letting her feel my control as our bodies pressed together.

When I kissed her, it was fierce and demanding. Our tongues clashed, a battle of desire and submission. Emma moaned into my mouth, her body arching against mine, seeking more. I let her grind against me once before breaking the kiss, holding her still.

"You wanted me to take you?" I asked, my voice rough with restraint.

Emma nodded eagerly. "Yes, Matt. I want you to take me," she said, her voice steady despite the sharp rise and fall of her breaths.

I ran my thumb over her wrist, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch. "Then listen carefully." My voice was low, measured, each word deliberate. "I'm going to tell you exactly what to do, and you're going to obey. No hesitation. No questioning. You'll take what I give you, and you'll ask for more. Understand?"

Her breath hitched, eyes darkening. "Yes, sir."

Our lips met again, hungry and urgent. Her body melted against mine, her curves pressing into me as her tongue danced with mine. My hands explored her body, gripping and teasing, feeling her tremble beneath my touch. She moaned into my mouth, her hands moving between us to rub against my hardness.

I pulled back, watching her face flush with desire. "God, Emma," I whispered, "You are stunning. A dream come true."

She giggled darkly, her lips swollen from our kisses. "And now, I want you to take whatever you want from me," she purred, tilting her chin in challenge.

I caught her wrist, leaning in to brush my lips against her ear. "Undress me," I commanded, my voice low and firm. "Slowly. I want to feel every second of it before you drop to your knees."

Emma's breath hitched, her fingers immediately reaching for the buttons of my shirt. She didn't rush--she followed my unspoken expectation, undoing each one with careful precision, dragging her fingertips over the exposed skin as she worked her way down. I held still, watching her, letting the weight of my gaze settle over her as she peeled the fabric from my shoulders and eased it down my arms.

She looked up at me for approval, her stormy blue eyes filled with eagerness and submission.

"Good girl," I murmured, tilting her chin up with my fingers. "Now my pants. And don't get ahead of yourself."

Emma's lips parted, but she obeyed. She unbuckled my belt with steady hands, then worked open the button and zipper, her knuckles brushing against me as she slid the fabric down my hips. She let them pool at my feet, her fingers grazing along the muscles of my thighs before she leaned back on her heels, waiting.

I watched her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her at my feet, her hands now resting lightly on her lap as if awaiting her next command.

Only then did I allow a smirk to curl at the corner of my lips.

"Now," I said, my voice dark with amusement and expectation. "You may worship me with your mouth."

"Like this, sir?" she whispered, her lips hovering near the tip.

A raw, primal groan tore from deep within my chest as Emma's lips parted, her tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive tip. "Just like that," I commanded, my voice thick with desire. "Now don't make me wait."

She took me into her mouth, her lips stretching wide to accommodate my thickness. The heat and wetness enveloped me, her tongue swirling deliberately around the shaft. She worked me with eager, precise strokes, her hand gripping the base and moving in perfect sync with her mouth. The sounds of her enthusiastic sucking and slurping filled the hotel room, a symphony of her devotion.

Emma's eyes locked onto mine, filled with a mix of submission and hunger. She took me deeper, her throat opening to welcome me, the sight of her lips glistening with saliva almost too much to bear. She gagged slightly but pushed through, determined to take all of me. The wet, sloppy noises grew louder as she bobbed her head, her cheeks hollowing with each eager suck.

"Fuck, Emma--you feel so good," I groaned, tightening my grip in her hair. I guided her movements, controlling the pace as she took me deeper still. The sight of her on her knees, her eyes watering slightly from the effort, was intoxicating. Her enthusiasm was palpable, her moans vibrating around my cock, sending waves of pleasure coursing through me.

She pulled back slightly, a string of saliva connecting her lips to my tip, before diving back down, taking me even deeper. Her hand worked in tandem, twisting and stroking, coaxing me closer to the edge. The room was filled with the sounds of her eager sucking, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as she worshiped me with her mouth.

I pulled her off me, lifting her effortlessly onto the bed. She let out a breathless, giddy laugh, her body trembling, already primed for me.

"Sir, am I worshipping your cock well enough?" she asked, her voice thick with arousal, hands still stroking my length, slick with her saliva.

I let out a slow, satisfied exhale, watching her--lips swollen, eyes dark with need, completely undone for me.

"You did very well," I murmured, brushing my thumb across her cheek, "but now I'm going to fuck you."

Her breath hitched, anticipation flashing in her eyes.

"Take off your lingerie and get on the bed," I ordered, my tone leaving no room for hesitation.

She obeyed instantly, slipping out of the delicate fabric, her movements slow--intentional. Teasing. My jaw clenched as she stretched out on the bed, watching me through hooded eyes, waiting.

I joined her, covering her completely, pinning her beneath my weight. A soft gasp escaped her as I claimed her mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, swallowing every sound she made.

She arched into me, her hips grinding against my length, desperate for friction.

"That's it," I growled against her lips. "Show me how badly you need it."

I broke the kiss, panting heavily, my breath hot and ragged against hers. Emma's skin was flushed a deep crimson, her pupils dilated with raw, unbridled need. I ran my thumb over her swollen, glistening lips, feeling the tremor of anticipation in her breath.

"Tell me what you want, Emma," I demanded, my voice a low growl, thick with desire. "Tell me exactly how much you need this."

Her chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths, her body arching desperately beneath me. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white with the effort of restraint. She was a vision of pure, unadulterated lust, every inch of her begging for more.

"I need you, Matt," she gasped, her voice trembling yet resolute. "I need you to fuck me so hard and deep that I can still feel you tomorrow. I want you to own me, to ruin me completely."

Her words sent a dark, primal thrill coursing through me, my grip tightening on her wrists. I could feel the pulse in her veins, the throb of her desire matching my own.

"Then beg for it," I murmured, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "Show me how desperately you want to be mine."

A slow, wicked smile curled at the edge of my lips as I felt her body respond, her hips bucking slightly, seeking more contact. "That's my good girl."

I trailed my fingers down her body, deliberately slow and teasing, never quite giving her what she craved. Emma writhed beneath me, her frustration palpable, her body arching toward my touch like a magnet drawn to its counterpart.

"You say you want me to ruin you," I murmured, my hands gripping her wrists firmly as I spread her thighs wide, exposing her completely to me. Her breath hitched, her body tensing in anticipation. "Then you'll take everything I give you, won't you?"

Her fingers clenched the sheets tightly, her voice barely a whisper but laced with raw desperation. "Yes, sir."

I rewarded her with a firm grip on her jaw, tilting her head up until her eyes locked with mine. "Louder, Emma. I want to hear you."

She swallowed hard, her lips parting as she repeated, "Yes, sir."

A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Good girl."

Lowering myself over her, I claimed her mouth in a punishing, dominating kiss that left no doubt about who she belonged to. She melted into me, surrendering completely, her body soft and pliant beneath mine. When I finally pulled away, her breath was ragged, her lips wet and swollen from my relentless kiss.

I dragged my fingers down her body, teasing her soft curves, feeling her tremble under my touch. "I want to hear you," I said, my voice rough with restraint. "Every moan. Every gasp. I want to hear exactly how much you need this."

Emma's eyes burned into mine, her voice shaking but resolute. "Then take me, Matt. Make me yours. Fuck me until I can't think straight."

As my cock slid into Emma, I was enveloped by the scorching heat of her soaking wet pussy. I held her down firmly, feeling her body yield beneath me as I began to pound her into the plush mattress, the Egyptian cotton sheets bunching under our frenzied movements. My pace quickened, each stroke long and deliberate, filling her completely.

"God, I'm cumming, sir!" she sobbed, her voice breaking with ecstasy as her body convulsed around me. Her inner muscles clenched, gripping me tightly as waves of pleasure washed over her.

As Emma descended from her climax, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with raw hunger. "Sir, I want you to cum all over my face," she pleaded, her voice thick with desire. "I want to feel your seed mark me, claim me as yours."

I pulled out, my cock glistening with her juices. She eagerly fell to her knees beside the bed, immediately taking me deep into her throat. She looked up at me, her eyes watering slightly from the effort as I leaned back on the edge of the bed, watching her worship me with her mouth.

She bobbed her head, her lips and tongue working in unison, pushing me closer to the edge with each eager suck. The wet, sloppy sounds of her enthusiastic blowjob filled the room.

As I neared my climax, I wrapped my fist in her hair, yanking her head back slightly, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Who do you belong to?" I snarled; my voice thick with primal possession.

"I'm yours! I'm Matt Harris's completely! I'm yours!" she cried out, her voice raw and desperate.

I pulled out, my body shuddering violently as I came, thick ropes of my cum splattering across her flushed, upturned face. Emma moaned, catching the last drops in her mouth, her tongue flicking out to gather every bit before taking me back into her mouth, deep and needy.

I shook with the aftershocks, my thighs trembling from the overstimulation. "Emma--Emma, please. It's too much," I gasped, my hands gripping her shoulders as she continued to suck me, her hums vibrating through my body.

Slowly, Emma rose up on her knees, her eyes locked onto mine. She scooped a streak of my cum from her cheek with her finger, sucking it off with an obscene moan, making a show of her satisfaction.

"Was it everything you wanted?" she asked, tilting her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "Was I everything you've dreamed of?"

I shook my head, smirking. "More than I ever could have imagined," I admitted, my body still pulsing with the remnants of our intense encounter.

"I have never seen anything so erotic," I muttered, simply collapsing onto the bed.

Emma's grin was pure, smug satisfaction.

After a quick, scalding-hot shower, we lay together in bed, wrapped in the thick, plush robes the hotel had provided. The heat of her body was still there beneath the fabric, a reminder of everything we had just shared. The room was dim, the glow from the city outside barely touching the edges of the dark, and beneath our window, London had finally begun to quiet.

I turned to her, and something shifted inside me. This wasn't teasing anymore. This wasn't lust. It was deeper.

"Emma, it's not just the sex," I said, fighting the tightness in my chest. "Or the confidence. Or how you charm everyone we meet."

I paused, searching for words that would fit.

"It's everything. How you've changed me without trying. Made me stronger by being you. I can't remember my life before you. Can't imagine it without you."

I swallowed hard.

"I thought I knew what love was. You've redefined it."

Emma's eyes searched mine. Her smile came slowly.

"I love you too, Matt," she whispered. "So much."

The warmth of her words settled into my chest, grounding me, making it impossible to breathe anything but her. But then, just as the moment stretched between us, her lips curled into a smirk. "And from time to time, I don't mind being your dirty little slut."

I choked on my own breath, my moment of emotional vulnerability completely shattered.

"Jesus, Emma," I wheezed, barely getting the words out before breaking into a laugh, my chest shaking as I pulled her closer. "I swear you do this on purpose."

She grinned up at me. "Of course I do. Keeps you on your toes."

I kissed her--deep, slow, lingering--before pulling back just enough to press my lips to her forehead.

Pressing my chin against her hair. "I'm all yours, Emma Sørensen."

She smiled at the way I said it, nuzzling closer, fitting against me like she belonged there.

As the night gave way to the early morning stillness, we drifted off to sleep, our bodies entwined, our hearts completely in sync, ready to face whatever came next--together.

Morning light cut across our rumpled bed. London woke outside our window--traffic humming, occasional sirens.

I balanced room service on my lap, watching Emma pour coffee. She wore my dress shirt from last night, the white fabric stark against her dark, messy hair. Without makeup, slightly disheveled, she looked completely at home.

Emma tucked her legs under her, balancing coffee on one knee. "So," she said, tearing a croissant, "now that you've conquered London's business world, what's our tourist agenda? The Tower? Borough Market? The London Eye?"

"Whatever you want," I said. After a week of schedules and pressure, the freedom felt like a gift. "We've got the weekend, plus a few days next week."

Emma's eyes lit up as she reached for her phone on the nightstand. "Let me pull up my list. I've been adding to it all week while you were in meetings."

I watched her, a profound sense of contentment washing over me. This was exactly how I'd wanted to end this trip--wrapped in the comfort of her company, planning adventures together, celebrating not just my professional success but our partnership.

Emma's phone chimed. She set down her coffee and checked it, her expression changing instantly.

I watched her face--eyebrows lifting, lips parting. "What is it?"

"The Danish Literary Foundation," she said quietly, showing me her phone. "A residency grant for emerging Danish writers."

I caught fragments: "impressed with your publication" and "reconnect with Danish heritage."

"That's incredible," I said.

"I applied months ago. Before we met." She kept reading. "Housing, stipend, mentorship, publishing connections..."

A cold realization spread through me. "You'd move to Denmark?"

She looked up, nodding slowly. "For a year. Starting in March."

March. Three months away. My mind calculated the distance, the time zones, the emptiness she would leave behind. Coming home to silence. Cold sheets. Achievements with no one to share them. After everything we'd just found together, the thought of an ocean between us felt like a physical pain.

"When do they need a response?" I asked, working to keep my voice steady, fighting to conceal the sudden hollow feeling in my stomach.

"They'd like to know by the end of January," she replied, setting the phone down and running a hand through her hair. "So, about six weeks."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on what this meant for her rather than for us. This was her New Yorker moment multiplied tenfold--the validation she'd worked for since long before we met. I couldn't let my fear overshadow her achievement.

"This is huge, Emma. You've busted your ass for this kind of recognition." I meant every word, even as part of me hoped she might hesitate, might say it wasn't the right time.

Her eyes searched mine, looking for something beyond my supportive words. Looking, perhaps, for the conflict I was trying desperately to hide. "It's just... the timing, you know? Us moving in together, your career blowing up... and now this comes out of nowhere."

I pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, partly to comfort her and partly so she wouldn't see the flash of relief I felt at her own hesitation. "We'll figure it out," I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. Long-distance relationships were difficult under the best circumstances. An ocean between us for an entire year... that was something else entirely.

For now, though, I pushed down the knot of anxiety forming in my throat. This moment belonged to Emma's achievement, not my fears. We'd survived so much already; surely, we could weather this too. Couldn't we?

________________________________________

Thanks again for sticking around to complete another chapter with Emma and Matt. Chapter 5 covers the Christmas Holiday and I promise Emma will decide if she's taken the residency by the end of the chapter. If you've got thoughts or comments I would love to hear from you.