The Best is Yet to Come

Forty Eight: Noah

What a frustrating, broken and beautiful girl I have. I press Emma tightly against my chest as she clings to me, digging her fingernails into my shoulder.

"Say it again," she begs and my heart breaks into a million more little fragments.

"I love you, Emma." I bury my fingers into her hair, relieved to finally have her in my arms again.

"I love you. I love you," I repeat between planting kisses in her hair. I'll tell her as many times as I need to. I'm determined to do whatever I have to, sacrifice anything needed to keep this woman happy and in my arms. Emma buries her face into my jacket, the fabric muffling her sobs. Well, we can work on the happy part.

I guide her legs to wrap around my waist and lift us off the floor. Emma tangles her arms around my neck and slides her lips against mine. Her mouth is wet and she tastes like tears but I happily mold my lips to hers.

Emma's legs construct my middle as I walk us toward the bed, her fingers threading purposefully through my hair. She tugs at the brown roots and I moan against her mouth as pleasure shoots tingles down my spine. God, I love when she does that.

Without breaking our kiss, I carefully dip us onto the mattress, scooting back to lean against the headboard. Emma straddles my lap and her fingers are everywhere; in my hair, around my neck, caressing my shoulders. Her lips are insatiable, barely allowing the inevitable pauses between kisses. I have to reluctantly pull away every few seconds just to gasp for air.

"Emma," I chuckle beneath her lips, "I still need to breathe." She pulls her mouth away, only to drag her lips to my neck to torture me there instead.

Her purple dress is bunched up around her hips, revealing the white lace hidden underneath. Christ... if I'd known she was wearing that all night...

I need to clear my head. Images of her naked and beneath me are all I can think about but as badly as I wanted to, I'm not sure if sex is the right step. Today has been a rollercoaster of emotions for both of us. I don't want my desperation for her to ruin any of the  progress we made only five minutes ago.

I distract myself from the tempting fabric by brushing my fingers against the softness of her hips and down her thighs. The thin, black lines of her tattoo are striking against her pale skin and I trace the pattern of the daisy with my thumb. I idly wonder why she chose the flower to permanently mark into her skin. I decide to ask, hoping the question would redirect the blood back to my brain; anything to distract me from her tongue swiping across my jaw.

"Emma?"

"Mmm?" She hums against my ear and I bite my lip in agony. Suddenly it's way too hot in here.

I struggle for words, "Why the daisy?"

Emma pulls away, her lips pink and swollen. Her brows push together in confusion or frustration, I couldn't tell. "Why the what?"

"Your tattoo," I prompt, "Why did you decide to get a daisy?"

Her face falls, "Oh." She looks down at her thigh, using her index finger to trace the lines just as I had, before meeting my eyes again, "It was my mother's favorite flower."

I'm such a dick. Good job, Noah, bringing up her dead parents in bed.

I brush the flyaway hairs away from her face. Her blue eyes are so sad, piercing my heart with sympathetic daggers. "Do you want to talk about it? You could tell me more about them."

As painful as it was to speak about my father, I appreciated the people who helped keep my memory of him fresh and alive. I wanted to offer the same kindness to Emma and surprisingly, I wanted to know more about them, too. What were their names? Who gave her their blue eyes? Would they have approved of me?