In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) (30 page)

Free at last, he came
over to me, suddenly looking shy. “That didn’t go how I’d
planned.”

“It didn’t?” I
asked, heart in my throat.

“No.” He shook his
head, looking out the window. “When your parents told me I could
find you here, I pictured coming over and seeing you and it would
just be the two of us.”

Then he looked at me
with those light blue eyes and I swear, it pretty much felt like it
was just the two of us, even as others milled around on the pool deck
watching our every move.

“Do you have
somewhere you have to be right now?” he asked. I could see his hand
move as if he were about to raise it up to my cheek and touch me. But
then, as if catching himself, he dropped it back to his side.

“Yes.” I gazed up
at him, answering the wrong question. Yes, I wanted to go somewhere
with him. But he hadn’t asked me that.

“Oh, OK.” He looked
crestfallen. “Well, maybe later on? Or tomorrow? I’m hoping we
can talk.”

“No.” I continued
making it worse as now he looked hurt. “What I mean—” I shook
my head. “I mean, no I don’t have somewhere I have to be right
now and yes I’d love to talk with you.”

“Oh, OK.” That “Oh,
OK” sounded a lot happier. He waited for me while I rinsed and
changed into a sundress and flip-flops, my hair up in a ponytail as
always.

We headed out to his
rental car, bigger than mine, and sat in the front seats as if we
were going to head somewhere. But he didn’t start the engine. He
turned toward me.

“Emma, there’s
probably a lot we need to discuss.”

“I know. I want to
explain. I’m so sorry about so many things. I was so stupid.”

“Well,” he exhaled,
not disagreeing with me. “Before I go any further, are there any
other secrets I should know about? Are you secretly related to me in
any way?”

“No.” A hint of a
smile started tugging at my lips. Teasing was a good sign, wasn’t
it?

“Are you currently,
or have you ever been, a major league baseball pitcher?”

That made me laugh.
“Where did you come up with that one?”

“Yeah, it’s
unlikely. About as unlikely as I thought you being a secret blogger
would be.” He looked at me, more serious. “I could barely believe
it when I read that article.”

I felt a stab of pain
at the mention of it. I could still vividly remember the sick lurch
in my stomach when I’d seen it and realized that I couldn’t stop
it. It was out there, and he’d already seen it, too. That had been
a bad day.

“You’ve got to be
honest with me, Emma. If you want to be with me.”

What was he asking me?
Was there an offer on the table?

“I’m sick over it,
Chase, honestly. The thought of hiding something from you ever again,
I don’t even think I could do it if I tried.”

“Please don’t try.”

And that was it, I was
over in his lap, in his arms, crying and kissing and apologizing and
kissing again. “I’m so sorry. That was so awful.”

“OK,” he rubbed my
back, kissing my mouth, my cheek, my eyelids. “I believe you.”

“I stopped having any
plans to write anything about you so soon after we met, Chase. But I
let it all go on too long. I should have explained everything to you
straight away.”

“I wouldn’t have
worked with you, if you’d told me you were a blogger, too.”

“No, you wouldn’t
have.”

“So, I’m not
exactly ready to say I’m glad you didn’t tell me the truth. But I
am glad I met you.”

“You are? Really?”
I couldn’t believe I was there with him, in his arms, touching him
again. I could feel myself taking what felt like the first, deep
breath of air I had in over a month, since I’d seen him last.

“Yes.” We didn’t
talk for a little while then, letting our actions speak more than
words, kissing, touching, holding. I shivered at the way his hand
pressed against my lower back, held my waist, stroked my shoulder. He
made every touch sensual, filled with promise.

“I don’t know
what’s next for me, Emma,” he finally murmured. “I don’t have
a plan.”

“That’s OK,” I
reassured him. I understood how hard he’d been training, all
focused on one goal. He hadn’t had time to wonder, “What’s
next?”

“I’ve been kind of
a mess lately, actually,” he admitted.

“Me, too.” Hello,
moving back in with my parents and crying myself to sleep every
night.

He kissed me again,
then cupped my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Want to find out
what’s next together?”

I kissed my answer,
telling him yes with the nod of my head, the press of my lips, the
caress of my hands, yes.

Chase

Emma and I rented a
place together in Vero, a smallish one but right on the water. I said
yes to a few endorsements, with brands and products I actually used
and liked. Sure, Speedo could use my image to sell their gear. I’d
relied on the brand my whole life. It kept some money coming in to
combine with Emma’s while we figured things out.

We took our time. After
all the rush of training, getting ready for the games, all the
pressure of secrecy and the looming competition, it felt amazing to
just hang out. We lazed in bed, took baths, grilled out on our deck.
We had a phenomenal deck. Not as big or entirely private as
Liam’s—that was pretty hard to come by—it still made a sweet
spot to sit out on and watch the sunset.

We were all good. As
far as I was concerned, there wasn’t anything to apologize for or
even explain. What was done was done. I believed her completely when
she told me that she’d regretted her original intent soon after
having worked with me, and shortly thereafter decided she could never
betray my trust in writing a feature article.

But Emma still wanted,
or needed, to talk about it all. I knew what that was like. Guilt
could eat away at you, corroding your sense of self, your confidence
in your own abilities. I’d wasted years hating myself for what I
could now see was an event beyond my control. What I’d had control
over—and what I shouldn’t have done—was step on that stolen
boat. After we’d gotten caught in a near-hurricane-level storm? I
couldn’t judge myself for getting tossed overboard. I’d been a
mere chess piece in the hands of an angry giant, tossing our game
board around in fury.

I wanted to help Emma
get to the same place. Yes, she should never have accepted the
position with the intent of exposing my past in her blog. That was
bad. But life didn’t end there. She’d made a bunch of choices
afterward, and those I was much more interested in discussing.

Like what were we going
to do next? I said we because even though she was gainfully employed
and I was the one figuring out what the hell I was going to do with
the rest of my life, we were having a lot of fun together coming up
with ideas.

“What about a swim
school?” she suggested one night, her toned legs across my lap as
we sat outside enjoying the ocean breeze.

“I’ve thought about
that,” I agreed. It seemed like a natural path. I’d been around
swimming my whole life, surrounded by coaches. I was sure I could
figure it out.

She held up her hands
as if envisioning a sign. “The Chase Carter Swim School.”

“The Carter-Nelson
Swim School,” I countered. She’d have to be a co-founder. I saw
how much she liked giving those little kids lessons. That could be
her focus. I could zero in on the older swimmers, the ones with drive
and Olympic goals. I could train them, push them—

“But that might get
too intense,” Emma interrupted my thoughts. “It might turn into a
pressure cooker for Olympic hopefuls. But you know how few kids
actually make it to the games.”

“You’re right.”
It was a good thing she was there to keep an eye on the crazy in me.
It kept trying to surface, find a new, impossible goal to strive
toward in an endless quest. Except when I held her there in the warm
breezy night, stroking her thighs, listening to the sound of her
voice in the dark. Then I felt pretty happy to sit and enjoy.

“What about a rehab
center?” I suggested instead, thinking of her expertise. “A
center for athletes, with physical therapy and a fitness room.”

“Like a gym, but with
an emphasis on rehab?” She seemed to like the idea.

We discussed the pros
and cons, who the target audience would be. I liked the idea of a
center dedicated to helping others. I’d spent a lot of time looking
inward, focused on myself, working on my physical strength, stroke
technique and endurance all with the goal of improving my times. It
was time to widen my lens. I didn’t know how yet, but I was
becoming more and more sure that I wanted to give back.

§

I still hit the pool
every day. Old habits died hard. I found a high-caliber facility
associated with a local university and worked out harder than anyone
in it. Which wasn’t difficult, because most people there were
normal. I was the insane one.

Sometimes people would
sit on the pool deck and watch me swim. When I got out, they wanted
to talk about the Olympics, and how I should do it again. I’d only
be 30 years old in the next go-round. I could do it.

I knew they were
probably right. I might not match my performance, but I’d probably
get close. If I killed myself day in, day out, every day of the next
four years, devoting each shred of energy and time to that one goal.

I didn’t want to do
it. I felt that with certainty. Even in the void of what next, I knew
that wasn’t it. I wanted a fuller life now, a broader umbrella, and
I wanted Emma right at the center of it with me.

Later that afternoon,
she came home. Her schedule was somewhat erratic, and her office
wasn’t too far from our apartment, so we’d meet up when we could.

“How was your swim?”
she asked, giving me a kiss. She wore one of her subtly sexy outfits,
the little tank top and short skirt revealing her fit and lithe body.

“Fine,” I nodded,
hatching an idea. “How long do you have before your next session?”

“My last client
cancelled!” She looked at me with excitement.

A whole evening
together, uninterrupted. “I think we have some time for a massage,”
I declared.

“Is that right?”
she asked, cocking her eyebrow.

“I’ll work on you
first.” I gave her a heated look and she laughed, teasingly,
turning to get herself a glass of water.

“But you’ve just
done your swim,” she reminded me, taking a sip. “I don’t want
you getting all tense.”

“If you insist,” I
agreed, knowing I’d still get to have my way with her. And it
wasn’t so bad, receiving a massage. Both options promised a high
likelihood of enjoyment.

We had a massage table
set up in the living room. Didn’t everyone? Or, at least every
serious athlete lucky enough to be hooked up with a professional
therapist trained in massage. I was a lucky dawg.

She was no longer
working in an official capacity as my physical therapist, of course,
but I still reaped the many benefits. No one touched me like Emma.
Especially now that there were no rules holding us back.

“Now get undressed
and lie down,” she told me, sternly. “I think I’ll really have
to use a lot of oil on you today.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief
as she lubed her hands. I stripped down to nothing and lay on my
back. She rubbed me, slowly, torturously, all over my chest, my
quads, everywhere but where I wanted the most.

“Emma,” I growled
in warning. I could take some teasing, but sooner or later I’d get
what I wanted.

She giggled, playful
with a hint of excitement and maybe even a bit of nerves. I still
surprised her sometimes, coming at her raw and dominant when she
didn’t expect it. I loved taking her breath away, then hearing it
come back in a needy pant and moan.

“You need to let me
work,” she chastised, stroking, kneading my muscles. “I have to
take care of you.” Wicked temptress, she slid her hands along my
hips, at my lower abdomen. As she rubbed and massaged, she could see
every inch of me, my swollen cock long and rock hard.

I loved seeing her get
caught up in her own lust. At first she was playful, teasing and coy.
Then something shifted. She glanced at my cock, a drop of pre-come at
the tip. Then she glanced again, her pink tongue darting out, licking
her lips.

She liked the taste of
me. My cock jerked in response, a little more pre-come leaking out.
She moved closer to my middle. She couldn’t take her eyes away.

“I think,” she
offered hesitantly. “I think you might need some attention here.”

But before she got her
treat, I sat up and turned the tables. Or who lay on the table,
anyway. She didn’t get what she wanted, not yet. Not when torturing
her was so much fun.

“Strip for me. And
lie down on your front. Now,” I ordered. I slathered my hands in
warm oil, too, watching her as she complied with my orders, slipping
out of her clothes, her panties and bra, too, until she was
completely naked, lying there waiting for me. Slick on her skin, my
hands kneaded, pulled and pressed into her. I loved seeing her hips
start to wiggle and grind into the sheet. As if pushing her clit into
the table could give her the kind of release she needed. No, I had
what she craved.

“Up on all fours,
baby.” I coaxed her, helping her up into the position I liked. Down
on her elbows, up on her knees, I got her at exactly the right angle.
With her knees spread apart, her ass tilted up, I could get right at
so much of what I liked, her round, pink cheeks, her pretty little
asshole, her dripping wet pussy.

I stroked and massaged
as long as I could. Until her whimpers and pleas got the best of me,
too, and I leaned down for a light lick.

“Ah!” she gasped,
so sensitive, raising up on her hands and turning around to look at
me.

“You need to let me
work on you.” I took pleasure in repeating her own words right back
at her. With my large hand at the center of her upper back, I pushed
her back down into position again. “Stay still or you won’t get
what you need.”