Emersyn

Returning to our corner table, the laughter and playful conversation continue. We're all feeling the effects of the drinks by now, our movements looser, our speech a bit more slurred. My body is warm, a mix of the alcohol and the arousal that's been pulsing deep in my core. I need to do something about it, but I can't right now.

I don't know, maybe I can go to the bathroom and find a quick release in there. It only takes me a few minutes to bring myself to orgasm. I think I could do it and be back in time as thought not to draw suspicion to myself.

"Emmie," Fowler declares, taking me out of my thoughts, his words drawn out and a little tipsy, "you should join the professional pool circuit!"

I laugh, shaking my head, my thoughts still drifting back to Marx at the bar. "I think I'll leave that to the experts," I reply, looking over to the bar where Marx's white hair is visible as he mixes another cocktail. His movements are graceful, his concentration focused, but there's a rigidity to his posture I can't ignore.

Cruz nudges me, his eyes bright with mischief. "Come on, Em, don't be so modest! That was one hell of a shot!"

I roll my eyes, laughing with them, but my attention is suddenly caught by someone approaching our table.

The man is strikingly handsome, his features finely chiseled and symmetrical. His dark, wavy hair is impeccably styled, giving him a slightly rakish appearance. His eyes are a deep, captivating green, framed by thick, dark lashes that any woman would envy. His lips are full and expressive, and they quirk up in an inviting smile as he looks directly at me.

Standing at least six feet tall, his build is athletic, with broad shoulders that taper down to a narrow waist. His black t-shirt hugs his body perfectly, and the way he carries himself exudes an air of confidence and charisma. He radiates a warmth that draws people in, and I find myself unable to look away.

"Hi," he says, his voice smooth and melodic, with a hint of an accent I can't quite place. "I've been watching you and your friends having a great time, and I couldn't help but notice you. Would you like to dance?"

I'm taken aback, but before I can respond, Fowler, Locke, and Cruz are all cheering me on.

"Yes, yes she will," Fowler urges, pushing me in the direction of the man.

"Don't let us hold you back," Locke adds, smiling at me.

I glance back at Marx and see that he's watching us closely, his eyes dark and intense. Something in his expression sends a chill down my spine, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

Looking back at the attractive stranger, I feel a spark of excitement. "Sure," I say, smiling back at him. "Why not?"

As we head to the dance floor, I can feel Marx's eyes on me, and I glance back at him one last time. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes hold a deep intensity that makes my heart race.

The music changes to a lively beat, and the handsome stranger takes my hand, leading me into the dance. His movements are fluid and confident, and I find myself swept up in the rhythm, losing myself in the music and the intoxicating sensation of his body moving in perfect harmony with mine.

The dance continues, and the man's smooth movements keep me enchanted. His hand finds the small of my back, and we move together as if we've been partners for years. His green eyes lock onto mine, and I can see a spark of something more.

"You're really beautiful, you know that?" he says, his voice low and inviting.

I blush, caught off guard by the compliment but pleased all the same. "Thank you," I stammer, trying to maintain my composure.

He pulls me closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "No, really. I mean it. I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

I smile, but there's something in his tone that makes me a bit uneasy. I glance towards the bar, and Marx's intense gaze is still fixed on us.

The man notices my distraction and leans in closer, his lips just inches from mine. "I've never met anyone quite like you," he whispers, and then his lips are on mine, warm and insistent.

I gasp, pushing him away. "What do you think you're doing?" I demand, my voice shaky.

He looks surprised but not apologetic. "Just kissing you," he says, his eyes gleaming with arrogance.

Before I can respond, he leans in to kiss me again, and I push him harder this time. "I don't want to kiss you," I say firmly, my heart pounding.

He doesn't seem to hear me, or perhaps he doesn't care. His lips find mine again, and this time I push him hard enough that he stumbles back.

"What's your problem, you stuck-up bitch?" he snaps, his eyes filled with anger.

I'm shocked by his reaction, but before I can respond, Marx is there, his fist connecting with the man's face.

The music seems to stop, the crowd parting as Marx's punch lands with a solid thud. The handsome stranger falls back, a hand to his face, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

"What the hell, man?" he yells, blood dripping from his nose.

"She said she didn't want to kiss you," Marx growls, his voice low and dangerous.

I'm frozen, watching as the two men square off, the anger and tension palpable. Did Marx hear me say I didn't want to kiss this guy? I don't see how he would have, it's so noisy, and he was all the way at the bar.

Fowler, Cruz, and Locke come rushing over, and the room becomes a mess of shouts and confusion.

Marx never takes his eyes off the man, his body poised, ready to fight if necessary. His protectiveness is both touching and terrifying.

The guys grab ahold of the man I had been dancing with, dragging him out of the bar.

Marx's eyes find mine, and the intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice full of concern but his eyes still dark with anger.

I nod, still in shock. "I'm fine," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He reaches out, gently touching my face, his touch both comforting and electrifying. "Come on," he says softly, leading me away from the chaos.

Marx leads me through the crowd, his hand firmly grasping mine, as we make our way toward the bar. The events of the past few minutes feel surreal, and my mind is still reeling from the sudden change in the evening. His touch is grounding, though, and as we approach the bar, he guides me behind it and towards a door.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"My office," he says, his voice terse. "It'll be quieter there."

As he unlocks the door and ushers me inside, I notice his knuckles are bleeding. He must have hit that guy harder than I thought.

Marx shuts the door behind us, and the noise from the club becomes muffled, almost distant.

The office is small and unassuming, filled with shelves lined with bottles, paperwork scattered about, and a simple wooden desk in the center. Marx walks over to a small fridge and pulls out two water bottles, handing one to me.

"Here," he says softly. "Drink this. It might help."

I take the bottle, my hands trembling, and we both sit down, him behind the desk, and me in the chair across from him. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken questions and emotions.

Finally, Marx breaks the silence. "Are you sure you're okay?" His voice is full of concern, and his eyes search mine, looking for any signs of distress.

I nod, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just a bit shaken, that's all."

He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm sorry I didn't step in sooner. I should have seen that coming."

"No," I reply, my voice firm. "You couldn't have known. And you did step in. Thank you for that."

He looks down, his jaw clenched, and I can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface. "He had no right to do that. No right at all."

"I know," I whisper, my own anger mixing with a sense of gratitude towards Marx. "But it's over now. He's gone."

Marx's eyes flash up to meet mine, and the intensity in them takes my breath away. I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

We sit in silence for a moment, our eyes locked. Finally, Marx leans back, running a hand through his hair. "We should probably get back out there. See how the guys are doing."

I nod, following him out of the office. To my surprise, the bar is empty. Like, completely empty.

"Where did everyone go?" I ask, my voice rising in disbelief. It's like a scene from a movie. One moment, the bar was bustling with people, and now it's deserted.

Fowler looks over at me, a grin spreading across his face. "We cleared them out. Figured we could use some privacy."

Marx doesn't seem surprised by this, as if he knew the guys were going to do this. His eyes meet mine, and I see a knowing look in them.

"You did what?" I ask, still trying to grasp the situation.

Cruz steps forward, shrugging nonchalantly. "Well, the place was getting rowdy, and after that little altercation, we thought it best to shut it down for the night."

Marx nods, his expression unreadable. "It was the right call."

The guys start gathering their things, and Cruz offers, "I can drive. The drinks I've been having were actually nonalcoholic."

Before anyone can respond, Marx cuts in. "You guys go ahead, but Emersyn's going to ride with me."

I'm caught off guard by his declaration, my heart doing a little flutter. I look over at him, searching his face for some explanation, but all I see is a determination that brooks no argument.

"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice hesitant.

Marx's eyes lock onto mine, and his voice is soft but firm. "Yes, I'm sure."

The guys exchange glances but don't protest. They say their goodbyes and head out, leaving Marx and me standing in the now-empty bar.

As we head out of the bar and into the cool night air, I can't help but feel that something has changed. The night began as a fun outing with friends, but now it's something more, something deeper. Marx walks me to his van, the same one I thought was eerie when I first saw it. He opens my door, and I slide into the passenger seat.

The ride back to the house is quiet, but it's a comfortable silence. Marx pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine. We sit in the darkened van, neither of us moving to get out.

Finally, Marx clears his throat, breaking the silence. "We should probably head inside," he says, his voice soft but steady.

I nod, feeling the buzz from the drinks. "Yeah, we should."

We both exit the van, and as we walk towards the front door, my legs feel wobbly, and I stumble slightly. Marx is there in an instant, his strong arm around my waist, steadying me.

"You alright?" he asks, genuine concern in his eyes.

"I think the drinks are catching up to me," I mumble, embarrassed but grateful for his support.

Marx chuckles lightly, his arm still securely around me as he guides me to the door. "We'll get you to bed then."

Once inside, he helps me to my room, his touch careful but firm. I can feel his eyes on me, and it sends a thrill through me. He's been nothing but respectful, but there's a tension between us that's palpable.

When we reach my room, he opens the door and helps me to the bed, sitting me down gently.

"I can take it from here," I assure him, but my voice lacks conviction. I don't want him to leave, but I'm struggling to put my thoughts into words.

Marx doesn't move. "Are you sure?"

I glance down at my clothes, realizing I'm still dressed in what I wore to the bar. "I can't sleep in these," I mutter, fumbling with the button on my shorts but failing to undo it.

Marx watches me, his expression unreadable. "Do you want help?"

I look up at him, my eyes wide. Did he really just offer to help me undress? The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

"Yeah," I finally whisper, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. "Please."

He steps closer, and I can feel his breath on my skin as he leans down to help me with the button. His fingers brush against mine, and I shiver at the touch.

Marx works deftly, undoing the button and then the zipper, his movements careful and respectful. He helps me stand, supporting me as I step out of the shorts. I struggle to get my arms out of my shirt, but Marx is quick to help me. I'm left standing there in my bra and panties.

His gaze roams over my body, and I can feel the heat in his eyes. It's not lecherous or inappropriate, but appreciative, admiring. I suddenly feel very exposed but also strangely empowered. The arousal that had died down after Marx punched that guy, is once again flaring to life.

Marx's eyes meet mine, and I can see something in them, something that makes my heart race. He's fighting something, I can tell, but what?

"Goodnight, Emersyn," he says softly, his voice thick with emotion.

I want to ask him to stay, to spend the night with me. To help me with the ache between my thighs. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but before I can say them, he's heading for the door.

"Goodnight, Marx," I whisper, feeling a pang of disappointment.

He pauses at the door, glancing back at me one more time. His eyes hold a promise, a longing, but then he's gone, closing the door behind him.

I'm left standing in my room, feeling both exhilarated and empty.

As I crawl into bed, I can't help but think about Marx and the way he looked at me. My fingers slide under the fabric of my panties, finding my slick wet core. A soft moan escapes my lips as I slide one finger through the wetness.

My mind is filled with images of Marx, his strong hands on my body, his lips on mine. I wonder what it would feel like. My fingers move faster, bringing me closer to the release I crave.

I imagine him taking me, his cock thrusting deep inside me, filling me completely. My moans grow louder, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. My climax hits me hard, and my body trembles with the waves of pleasure.

As I come down from my high, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to experience all of that with the real Marx. Would he be gentle or rough? Passionate or controlled? Would he be able to give me the release I need, the release only he can give me?

I sigh, pulling the covers over myself. As I drift off to sleep, my last thoughts are of him, and the possibilities of what could be.