Emi's Night (III)

The elevator doors on the Master’s Suite level opened with a pneumatic sigh, but Emi hesitated on the threshold. The hall was empty and dim, the usual hush holding its breath, but she stood motionless with all six of her arms folded tight across her body. For a moment, she looked like a child at the entrance to a classroom: every shoulder hunched, every wrist tucked in, every movement a study in the geometry of self-doubt.

Andy waited, not wanting to break her trance. He could see from where he stood in the kitchen—half-shielded by the curve of the granite island—the subtle tremor in her posture, the way her head bowed and her hair fell to create a soft, black curtain. It was so different from the Emi of the Forest, the one who’d guided him through alien blue trees and let her laughter carry them both. This version was quieter, but she radiated a new kind of energy—a liminal charge, like she wasn’t fully returned from wherever she’d been.

After a long minute, Emi stepped forward. The motion was tentative, her feet padding noiselessly across the hardwood, her six arms never unfurling. It wasn't until she reached the edge of the living room that she paused again, her gaze catching on the far wall. There, in a simple oak frame above the fireplace, hung her watercolor—three children with dangling feet at a riverbank, sunlight dappling their shoulders. Her middle right hand twitched slightly, as if remembering the brushstrokes. A small, private smile crossed her lips before she continued her survey: the long sectional, scattered pillows, the wall of glass overlooking the dark lagoon. Only then did she look up at Andy.

"You made it," he said, his eyes warm with recognition.

She nodded, the movement almost invisible. “I got lost,” she murmured, her voice smaller than usual. “I thought the hallway would be the same as always, but I turned a corner and it was… not right.” She blinked twice, then **** a smile. “Maybe I’m still dreaming.”

He crossed the room, closing the distance slow enough that she could watch every step. “If you are,” he said, “it’s a good dream.” He stopped a few feet away, close enough to offer comfort, far enough not to startle her. “Can I show you something?”

She nodded, and finally, her lower arms unlatched from her waist, the gesture involuntary and trusting. He held out his hand, palm up. Emi’s topmost hand hovered, as if she had to pick which set of fingers to use, and then she settled for two hands: one from the topmost pair and one from the middle pair, overlapping his in a crisscross that felt impossibly soft.

He led her to the couch, where they sat together, side by side. Emi folded herself small, six arms creating a shell around her as she tucked her legs up, feet hidden beneath the hem of her sundress. She smelled faintly of watercolor paint and something floral, a perfume that suited her in a way he could never name.

For a few breaths, neither spoke. Andy waited, letting the moment expand. He watched the way she picked at the seam of a throw pillow, how two of her hands gripped the cushion while another idly traced a spiral on her thigh. The air felt thick, like summer before rain.

“You left the forest too quickly,” Andy said, finally. “I thought you might want to stay longer.”

Emi’s cheeks flushed, and all her hands paused at once. “I wanted to,” she said, looking down. “But I was scared I’d forget to come back. Or that you’d get bored.”

Andy laughed—soft, so it wouldn’t startle her. “You are physically incapable of boring me,” he said. “You built an entire world out of light and glass and moss. I could’ve stayed there for days.”

She laughed, too, but it was breathless. “It’s not real, though,” she said. “It’s just something I made up.”

He reached out, brushing his thumb along the inside of her wrist—a touch so gentle it might have been imaginary. “It’s as real as this,” he said.

She looked at him, eyes wide and a little wet. “When you say things like that, it feels like you’re looking through me. Not at me, but inside. Is it always like that for you?”

He shook his head. “Just with you.”

For the first time, Emi smiled in full. It was shy and tilted and utterly beautiful. She released the pillow and let her top pair of arms drift up, resting her hands on his shoulders. The other arms unfolded, one set bracing against his chest, the last pair snaking around his waist, a careful and incomplete hug.

“I like being close,” she said, the admission so **** he wanted to hold it like a secret. “But it’s so hard to… I don’t know. Do it right. My body is still learning.”

“You can take all the time you need,” Andy said. “I’ll wait.”

Emi shook her head, hair falling over her eyes. “You don’t have to. I want this, too.” She pressed her forehead to his jaw, her arms tightening, and breathed him in. For a few seconds, it was like the world paused—no fans, no glass, no lagoon outside. Just the delicate tremor of her body, the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her heartbeat.

She pulled back a little, just enough to look him in the face. “You know what’s funny?” she said, voice barely more than a sigh. “Showing you the Forest felt more… naked than actually being naked in front of you. I was embarrassed the whole time. Like you could see all the strange parts of me.”

Andy squeezed her gently, his hand on the small of her back. “The strange parts are my favorite,” he said, and meant it.

She hid her smile behind a curtain of hair, but the laugh that escaped was genuine, unguarded. “That’s so unfair,” she said, grinning. “You always know exactly what to say to make me feel better.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “I don’t always. But I’m glad when I do.”

They let the silence return, not awkward but full—each breath a tiny truce. Emi shifted her weight until she half-lay against him, her head tucked under his chin. Her arms arranged themselves by degrees: two wrapped at his shoulders, two at his waist, and two laced around his hand, fingers threading through his. It felt like being swaddled in memory foam, only better.

After a few minutes, Emi whispered, “I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time we were together.” Her breath tickled his neck. “I dreamed about it. I dreamed about you.”

He smiled, feeling the warmth creep from his chest to his cheeks. “Good dreams, I hope?”

She nodded, pressing closer. “The best. But…” She hesitated, all six hands tightening at once. “I want to try something tonight. If that’s okay?”

Andy’s heart thudded. He tilted her face up to meet his, their foreheads almost touching. “Anything you want.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling slow. “Can we go slow this time?” she asked. “I want to remember every second.”

He kissed her, a promise. “We can do anything you want.”

And for a long while, they just sat like that—wrapped up, wordless, every hand holding on for dear life.

Andy learned, over the last few weeks, to read the language of Emi’s hands. The uppermost pair, usually reserved for tasks or painting, hesitated to touch unless she was certain it was wanted. The middle set—her comfort zone—handled conversation, food, gestures. The lowest pair only came out when she was at her bravest. Tonight, all six were active, forming a circuit around him, but it was the bottom-most pair that made the first bold move.

She let her hands drift from his waist, then slid them up under the hem of his shirt. The touch was featherlight, barely grazing the skin above his jeans, but Andy felt it everywhere. She traced his hipbones, then mapped the edge of his lower back, fingers exploring as if every patch of skin was a new continent. It was less seduction than study, less performance than a kind of cartography—she wanted to memorize him, and she was going to do it by hand.

He stayed still, letting Emi set the rhythm. She moved slow, careful, her breath hitching each time he reacted—a shiver, a flinch, a smile. The higher hands cupped his face, drawing his attention back to her eyes. When she kissed him, it was almost chaste, but the heat behind it was anything but.

They stayed like that for a long time, Emi moving in micro-adjustments, always seeking more contact, never quite satisfied. The silence between them thickened, but not from awkwardness. It felt, to Andy, like the pause before rain, that charged moment when the world holds its breath.

Emi finally broke, a sound escaping her that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “This is so weird,” she whispered, grinning against his neck. “I keep expecting to mess up, but I just want to keep touching you.”

“You’re not messing up,” Andy said, voice rough. “You’re incredible.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she pressed herself closer, her hands growing more adventurous. The next kiss was deeper, Emi’s tongue teasing at the corner of his mouth, then pulling away to leave him wanting. Her lowest hands worked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little, and when she finally got it open, she drew her fingers up along his ribs, then back down, palms flat and deliberate.

Andy let out a shaky breath. “You’re going to overload my system,” he said.

Emi laughed again, this time brighter, less self-conscious. “Good,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

He moved to return the favor, sliding a hand up her side, but Emi caught his wrist, not stopping him but guiding, as if she needed him to move in tandem with her. She wanted control, but she wanted it to be shared. He let her guide his hand to her waist, then to the small of her back, and then higher, where her dress gaped just enough to expose the warmth of her shoulder. She wanted his touch as much as she wanted to give it, and every time he complied, she rewarded him with another kiss, a deeper sigh.

Her hands grew bolder, mapping every inch of his chest, learning the shape of his muscles and the slope of his shoulders. She loved his scars, tracing the old karate marks with the pads of her fingers, and he found himself shuddering under her attention.

They tumbled sideways on the couch, Emi half-straddling his lap. Two of her hands braced on the cushions, two played with the hair at the nape of his neck, the last pair slipped beneath his shirt and drew lazy circles at the waistband of his jeans.

“I can’t believe this is real,” she whispered, cheeks pink. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and it’ll be gone.”

He squeezed her hip. “It’s real,” he promised. “I want it to be real.”

She smiled, then dipped her face into the hollow of his throat, inhaling deep. “You smell like the garden,” she said, then giggled. “Or maybe I do.”

“Let’s find out,” he said, and spun her gently so she landed on her back along the cushions, Emi’s hair splayed around her head like ink in water. Her six arms flared out in surprise, then wrapped him up, drawing him down on top of her.

They kissed again, this time deeper, more urgent. Emi’s hands—every one—moved as if choreographed: one set at his shoulders, one at his waist, one tangled in his hair. The multiplicity of sensation made him dizzy. He let himself get lost in the confusion, in the way Emi could touch him from so many directions at once. It was new, and strange, but also addictive; he felt like he was being remade under her touch.

He nipped at her ear, and she gasped, all six hands tightening at once.

“Did you like that?” he teased, whispering into the shell of her ear.

“Too much,” she said, her voice thin. “Do it again.”

He did, and Emi’s whole body arched beneath him, her hands pawing at his shirt until she could slide it off his shoulders entirely. She pressed her face to his bare skin, lips grazing his collarbone, her lowest set of hands gripping his back, holding him tight.

Andy shifted, one knee between her thighs, and Emi moaned—quiet, but not shy anymore. He cupped her face, looked into her eyes, and saw the wild, happy fearlessness that had first drawn him to her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

She shook her head, but not in protest. “You make me feel beautiful,” she said, and then she kissed him, as if she could transfer all the gratitude and hope in her body through her lips.

They fumbled with her dress next. Emi’s hands made quick work of the buttons, but she hesitated before sliding the straps off her shoulders.

“Can I?” she asked, her voice small.

Andy nodded, then traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Please.”

She shrugged the dress down, exposing her shoulders, her arms, her chest. She wore nothing beneath it, and the pale skin of her breasts—perfect, soft, and real—glowed in the lamplight. Her six arms framed them, two crossing beneath, two above, two at her sides.

He stared, unable to help himself.

Emi laughed, shy and delighted. “You like?”

“I love,” Andy said, and meant it.

He bent to kiss her, first at her lips, then at the hollow of her throat, then down to the delicate rise of her breast. She made a sound—high, breathless—and one of her hands came up to cradle the back of his head, keeping him there. The other hands found new perches: some tangled in his hair, some wrapped around his arms, some squeezing his waist.

Andy lost himself in the rhythm of her body, the way every inch of her responded to touch. He drew circles on her skin with his tongue, then flicked at her nipple, and Emi gasped, arching up to meet him. He alternated sides, using his hands to cup and hold, his mouth to tease. She writhed beneath him, her legs opening further, her hands tightening with every pulse of pleasure.

When he moved lower, she shivered, a ripple running through her from head to foot.

“Wait,” she said, voice trembling. “I want to try something.”

She pushed him gently onto his back, then sat up, straddling his hips. Her hair fell forward, framing her face. All six hands moved at once, some bracing on his chest, some tracing the lines of his abs, some working at the buttons of his jeans.

She undid them, slow, and then peeled his jeans away, leaving him in only his boxers. She looked at him—hungry, nervous, wanting—and then leaned in, kissing down his chest, her hands following in perfect choreography.

She palmed him through the boxers, gentle at first, then firmer as his arousal grew. She squeezed, then slipped a hand beneath the waistband, fingers curling around him, drawing a low moan from his throat.

Andy’s world dissolved under a storm of hands. He’d tried, at first, to track each motion—where a palm pressed, which finger curled, where lips hovered or tickled—but the effort was hopeless. It was like trying to follow the swirl of wind in a typhoon: beautiful, destructive, and ultimately pointless to chart. Emi’s touch consumed him, not just in number but in intent. She was everywhere at once, inside and outside, above and below, a choreography so fluid that his body surrendered all pretense of resistance.

She started slow, almost reverent, as if mapping him for a second time—this time less cartographer, more explorer. Two hands kneaded his thighs, coaxing every muscle to slackening, while another set trekked higher, stroking his chest and teasing at the thump of his racing heart. The last pair, always the shyest, dipped between his legs with a growing confidence, fingers splaying wide to cup and weigh, then curling around his length with an easy, practiced grip.

Andy felt himself split along the axis of sensation. Above, Emi’s gaze never wavered, her lips parted with concentration and wonder; below, every nerve ending in his body funneled toward the heat of her hands, the friction and intimacy of skin on skin. She stroked him, starting with a slow pulse that matched his breath, then quickening with each intake, as if tuning him to her own rhythm.

When she leaned down and kissed the head of his cock through the thin barrier of his boxers, Andy made an involuntary sound—half groan, half plea. Emi smiled against him, her hair brushing his stomach, then did it again, this time letting her tongue draw a line along the seam. He nearly bucked off the couch. It was like being devoured by curiosity itself.

“Not yet,” Emi whispered, her breath hot and trembling with excitement. She tugged his boxers down, exposing him fully, and then—without hurry, without any shame—studied him. Her fingers swept along the shaft, tracing veins, measuring weight, testing responses with a delicate care. When she stroked harder, Andy’s vision blurred at the edges. A pulse of white noise filled his brain, anticipation tumbling into need, then into a kind of helpless gratitude.

Only a fraction of him noticed that Emi had, somewhere in the midst of this, shed her dress and was now gloriously, unselfconsciously naked astride him. Her skin was still marked with faint lines of pink where his own hands had gripped, and the contrast made him dizzy with affection. She moved to straddle his lap, her knees bracketing him, the wet heat of her pressed shamelessly to his thigh.

For the briefest moment, Emi hesitated, looking down at the intersection of their bodies as though verifying reality. Then she reached between them, guided him to her entrance, and with a slow, trembling exhale, pressed him inside. Her hands all found new positions: two braced on his shoulders, two splayed across his chest, two at his wrists, pinning him in place. She enveloped him—physically, emotionally, gravitationally.

Emi rocked her hips, testing the angle, and the first movement drew a shudder from both of them. Andy’s hands found her waist, then the gentle flare of her hips, then wandered upward, unable to choose a favorite spot. He wanted all of her, always, but it was her eyes—alive, electric, slightly incredulous—that held him most.

She moved in a slow grind at first, every motion careful, designed to make the moment stretch. Then, as her own need increased, she picked up speed, each bounce more confident than the last. The hands at his chest slid down to his abs, then back up again, sometimes gripping, sometimes tracing, sometimes just holding the moment in place. Emi’s head lolled back, hair shifting from neat waterfall to wild river, and the sounds she made grew louder, climbed the scale from sigh to moan to something wordless and sharp.

Andy tried to stay with her, to match her pace, but the sensation of six coordinated hands and the impossible tightness of her body was overwhelming. He lasted longer than he thought he could, but not as long as he wanted. When he reached up to touch her face—a gesture meant to slow things, perhaps, or just to remind her that he was still present—Emi caught both his hands in her own, all six of them, and pinned them above his head. She leaned forward, bringing her lips to his, and kissed him with an intensity that bordered on ****.

The world telescoped. Emi’s hips sped up, the friction building, her own moans now wild, uncaring. When she climaxed, it wasn’t delicate; it was a shattering, her entire body shaking, every hand clawing at him as though she might pull him inside out. The **** of her pleasure sent Andy over the edge as well, pleasure detonating through him in a rush of heat and lightning. He came hard, his body spasming under her, and for a moment he forgot where he was—forgot there was a world outside the tight, quivering knot of arms and legs and melting pleasure.

They collapsed together, Emi’s full weight on his chest, her limbs still wrapped around him like the world’s most affectionate octopus. Her breath came in little gasps, her hair stuck to his face, and her skin was slick with sweat. For a long time, neither of them moved. The room spun down, the universe receding to a pinpoint of shared heartbeat and the quiet hiss of afterglow.

Eventually, Emi rolled to the side, pulling Andy with her so they lay together in the crook of the sofa, a tangle of flesh and euphoria. She stroked his cheek with one hand, her other five hands holding him close.

“That was…” she said, but the word failed her.

He finished for her: “Everything.”

She nodded, eyes bright. “Everything,” she agreed, then nestled into the crook of his arm, all six hands still holding on.

The Suite was always quiet at night, but tonight the silence was heavy and golden, like syrup poured over the bed. The air was thick with the afterglow of their bodies—salt and heat and the fading static of skin-on-skin. The only movement was Emi, half-draped across Andy, her six arms tangled in a loose, luxurious sprawl.

Three of her hands rested on his chest, splayed like starfish, each fingertip tracing idle shapes—circles, ellipses, the softest tap-tap-tap. The fourth curled around his thigh, never quite still, kneading and exploring as if to convince herself he was really there. The last set pillowed beneath her own head, cradling her face and flattening her hair across his shoulder.

She breathed slow, but not asleep. He could feel the subtle quiver in her fingers, the little stutters of her heart as she settled into the unfamiliar pleasure of being held.

“I think,” Emi whispered, barely louder than the fan, “this is the first time I forgot about my transformation.”

Andy turned his head, just enough to see her eyes half-open, glazed with satisfaction and wonder. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice soft.

She smiled into his skin. “Usually, I’m always thinking—about technique, about how I’m supposed to move, about what comes next. Like there’s a test, and I have to pass it.” Her hands flexed, unconsciously, a ripple passing through all six. “Tonight I just… didn’t. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just wanted. And it was perfect.”

He brushed her hair away from her cheek, tucking the black strands behind her ear. “It was perfect for me, too,” he said, and meant it.

They lay like that for a while, Emi’s hands finally slowing, her breath even and content. She closed her eyes, a smile curving her mouth, subtle but unmistakable.

Andy thought of the Forest, the impossible blue trees, the quiet pools of light. He thought of Emi’s laughter, bright and real, and the way she’d looked at him like she’d invented him out of pure need.

He wondered if she was dreaming again now, or if the dream had finally become the real world.

Outside, the lagoon shimmered in the moonlight, but inside the Suite, there was only warmth and the delicate, intricate knot of two bodies fitting together in ways neither had ever imagined.

Andy let himself drift, Emi’s hands still tangled with his, the strangeness of her body now a comfort, not a surprise.

He closed his eyes, and the last thing he remembered was the feel of Emi’s thumb stroking his wrist, gentle and steady, as if to say: I am here, and this is real, and I am not going anywhere.