Trapper and Emmeline by Lindsey Flinch Bedder Page B

attempt to disguise it. He had an incredibly open and unobstructed view into her blouse. To distract her, he moved his leg in front of hers and twisted her back.
    Mike was wearing shorts, so the skin of his leg connected with the skin of her thighs. When their legs crossed, she scissored him, her skirt splitting up her leg. She squeezed his neck in the crook of her elbow, which mashed her chest under his chin and his face against her shoulder. If Emmeline cared that she and Mike were in a ful -body clinch, skin-to-skin wherever it mattered, she didn’t show it. These days it never occurred to her to be self-conscious until someone asked why she wasn’t.
    She was a big contrast with Mike, who was clearly at war with himself. To her it was a flirty game with a buddy from class. To him it was open license to bend her across his body, twist her torso, and try to pop her breasts out of her top.
    She laughed, while he breathed in gasps.
    I remembered our first make-out session, in the elevator of my apartment building, then in the hal way, and then on Facebook. That was when I learned she liked to splay her body across mine, and let me move her. She liked being control ed with my hand on her crotch, like a deluxe hand puppet.
    Now here she was, doing it again—she had somehow maneuvered Mike into the same situation. She was at his mercy, muscle paired against muscle, and she was indicating submission to whomever could interpret her body correctly.
    Mike had no idea she was giving him the Emmeline equivalent of a completely free pass. His left hand, gripping low on her bared bel y, was mere inches from sliding between her legs—and it would probably not have been rejected.
    I was glad I walked up when I did.
    I couldn’t let this get out of hand.
    I eased her away from the guys—not before she kissed them good-bye—and we got on the elevator. We were packed in tightly with other people, so I limited myself to wrapping my hand around her waist. The fabric of her blouse did nothing to hide her curves from my palm. The silk was skin-warm to the touch. I could imagine what her breasts must have felt like to Mike when they pressed against him. I could imagine how it must have felt to have Emmeline in a ful -body clinch, while she strained against him, and gasped in his ear, and surged in his embrace.
    It must have felt like sex.
    Prickles of angry jealousy. What else was she doing when I wasn’t around?
    I told myself to calm down.
    I gave her a friendly squeeze, but it was a little hard. She jumped in my grip. Heads turned. She bore with me until we got off on the sixth floor, and then she peeled my hand off her waist.
    “That’s enough, Superman. What are we doing today? Just studying?”
    “Studying,” I said, feeling a little spiteful.
    “Boring. I want you to whore me out to strangers.”
    A few heads whipped around at that. Strangers’ eyes took her in, toes to face, and watched her whole-body shimmy as she walked next to me.
    “I was kidding, boys!” she said, pretending to be offended. She said to me in a theatrical whisper, “They’re all cute!
    Can you whore me to them? I can pul a train if it moves fast enough.”
    “Shit, Emmy!”
    I moved her quickly out of their view. But as I did, we entered the view of other male students studying. They glanced up at the sound of Emmeline’s shoes, and stared at the sexy vision she presented.
    This was Emmeline’s regular day, now. While she was walking around, she never left a zone where men watched her every movement. Of course she had stopped noticing them, I told myself. After being next to her for five minutes, I was already overloaded and blocking out the attention too. And I was merely the schmuck next to her that nobody saw.
    Emmeline watched me with eyes askance, a crooked grin on her lips. When I was awkward enough for her to notice it, and she could trace it back to some episode that had turned me on, she liked to give me shit about it. She enjoyed seeing me