Scott decides to take action

The credits rolled, and the lights came up. Around us, people stretched, gathered their belongings, began the slow shuffle toward the exits. Emily was still humming the film's theme song under her breath, her hand wrapped around mine as she stood.

"God, that was exactly what I needed," she said, beaming. "The bakery subplot was a little predictable, but I called the twist with the ex-boyfriend about ten minutes in. Did you catch it? When he mentioned the letter?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice flat. "I caught it."

She didn't notice. She was already chattering about the supporting cast, the cute moment with the grandmother, the way the lighting changed during the emotional scenes. Normal post-movie analysis. The kind of conversation we'd had a hundred times before.

I let her talk. I nodded in the right places. Made affirming noises. But my mind was elsewhere, replaying the dark of the theater, the soft rhythm of her hand, the stranger's silent release.

We filed out of the theater, past the concession stand, through the lobby and out into the cool evening air. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Couples milled about, laughing, discussing their own movies. Normal people. Normal lives.

"Should we grab something to eat?" Emily asked, still holding my hand. "I'm kind of hungry. Maybe that Thai place?"

"Sure," I said.

We walked to the Thai place. We ordered. We ate. Emily talked about the movie some more, then about work, then about a dress she'd seen in a shop window that she wanted to try on. I responded. I participated. I played my role.

I didn't bring up the handjob.

What would be the point? I could already imagine the conversation. The confused tilt of her head. The genuine lack of understanding in her eyes. The way she'd dismiss it as nothing, as a misunderstanding, as something I was imagining. She'd brush it off or claim it had somehow been an accident, just like she'd done with the bachelorette video, just like she'd done with the workout.

This wasn't her fault, I knew that. The man in the jacket - worn-out, tired, furious - had done something to her. To us. He'd whispered in her ear, and something had cracked inside her mind, and now she was becoming someone else. Someone who couldn't see the lines she was crossing.

Someone who jerked off strangers in movie theaters and called it a normal Saturday night.

We walked home hand in hand. Emily hummed. The stars came out.

We got ready for bed in comfortable silence, brushing our teeth side by side, changing into our pajamas. Emily slid into bed first, patting the space beside her. I climbed in, and she immediately curled into my side, her head on my chest, her arm draped across my stomach.

"Mmm," she murmured, already half-asleep. "I'll be out most of the day tomorrow. Meeting Mia for brunch, then hitting the shops. You'll be okay on your own?"

"Yeah," I said, staring at the ceiling. "I'll find something to entertain myself."

"Good." She pressed a kiss to my collarbone. "Love you."

"Love you too."

Within minutes, her breathing had evened out, soft and regular. She was asleep. Peaceful. Innocent.

I lay awake for a long time, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the city.

---

Sunday morning arrived pale and grey, light filtering through the curtains in soft, muted bands. I woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. Emily was still asleep, but she'd shifted in the night, her head now resting on her pillow, her body turned toward mine. Her hand was splayed across my chest, warm and familiar.

I watched her for a moment. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The soft part of her lips. The way her eyelashes rested against her cheeks.

Then her eyes fluttered open.

A slow smile spread across her face. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning," I said.

She leaned in and kissed my forehead, soft and tender. "I'll make coffee."

She slipped out of bed, padding out of the bedroom in her oversized t-shirt and underwear. I heard the kitchen tap run, the clink of mugs, the gurgle of the coffee machine. I lay there, not quite ready to face the day, listening to the familiar sounds of our Sunday morning routine.

A few minutes passed. Then:

"Scott? Can you give me a hand?"

Her voice, cheerful, floating from the kitchen.

I swung my legs out of bed and padded through the apartment, still in my pyjama pants and t-shirt. The kitchen was bright, morning light streaming through the window. Emily stood in front of the counter, two mugs of steaming coffee in front of her. Her hair still slightly mussed from sleep, a peaceful expression on her face.

"Thanks," she said, turning as I entered. She smiled, warm and genuine.

Then she moved.

She cuddled into me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressing into my chest. I hugged her back automatically, my hands finding the small of her back. For a moment, it was just a normal morning hug.

Then she moved behind me.

Her hands slid down my sides, around my hips, and then one hand dipped lower, slipping into the front of my pyjama pants. Her fingers found me, already stirring from the warmth of her touch and the morning.

"Mmm," she murmured against my back, her voice soft and pleased. "There he is. Good morning to you."

My breath caught as her hand wrapped around me, her grip firm and familiar. She gently pushed me forward, toward the counter. Toward the coffee mugs.

"Em, what are you—"

"Shh," she whispered, her lips brushing my shoulder blade. "Just relax."

Her hand moved, a slow, deliberate stroke. Up and down. Her thumb circled the head on each upward stroke before loosening on the way down. A teasing, practiced rhythm. Her soft breasts pillowed against my back, her pelvic area pressing warm against my ass.

My mind was still half-asleep, struggling to catch up. The pleasure was already spreading, warm and insistent, drowning out the questions. Her hand moved faster, her grip tightening. Her left hand reached around me, grabbing her coffee mug, holding it down and angling it just slightly toward my cock.

She was pointing me into her coffee.

"Mmm," she hummed, her breath warm against my spine. Her strokes quickened, a steady, building rhythm. "Daddy gonna give me some cream?"

Cream.

The word hit me like a splash of cold water.

Cream.

Extra cream in her latte at The Daily Grind. "Creamy," she'd said, licking her lips. The way she'd said it. The way she'd smiled.

How many times had she mentioned cream this week? How many times had she ordered coffee somewhere, asked for extra cream, and I hadn't thought anything of it?

And Harry.

Harry, who'd been sitting at my breakfast bar yesterday morning, a steaming mug in front of him. Harry, who'd scrambled out of the apartment the moment I walked in, who couldn't meet my eyes, who'd claimed he had things to do.

Harry, who I'd texted to come hang out. Who'd arrived before I got back from the shop. Who'd been alone with Emily for maybe five minutes.

Five minutes.

Long enough.

My breath quickened, but not from the pleasure anymore. My mind was racing, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. Emily's hand kept moving, relentless, driving me toward the edge.

"Mmm, almost there," she cooed. "Give it to me, baby."

I couldn't stop it. The pleasure built, crested, broke.

I came into her coffee.

One. Two. Three spurts, thick and hot, splashing into the dark liquid. A fourth spurt, weaker, undershot and hit the side of the mug, a white streak on the ceramic.

Emily's strokes slowed, then stopped. She released me, set the mug down carefully, and came around to my front. She knelt. Took the head of my softening cock in her mouth. Sucked gently, her tongue twirling underneath, cleaning away the last traces. A few seconds, maybe ten, before she pulled back, pulled my pyjama pants up, and tucked me away.

She stood, turned, and picked up her coffee mug. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer, scraped the errant streak from the side of the mug into the coffee, and stirred. A slow, methodical motion. She lifted the mug, blew on it gently, and took a sip.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Mm." A blissful smile spread across her face. "Oh yeah. So creamy."

She took another sip. Then another. Quick, satisfied sips, like she was savouring something rare and precious.

I stood there, my cock still half-hard, my pyjama pants slightly askew, my mind reeling. I watched her drink her coffee. Watched her swallow. Watched her lick her lips.

She threw the spoon into the sink with a clatter. "Right. I've got to get ready. I'm meeting Mia first thing for a quick bite before we hit the shops." She stepped past me, tainted coffee in hand, patting my chest affectionately.

She padded back through to the bedroom, leaving me standing in the kitchen.

I heard her steps. The soft rustle of her opening the wardrobe. The cheerful hum of a tune from the movie last night.

I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at my coffee mug remaining alone on the counter.

Cream.

I'd been so focused on Emily. On her changes. On her transformations. I hadn't once stopped to think about what was happening around me. To the people around me.

Harry. Harry had been here yesterday morning. Harry had a steaming mug. Harry had bolted.

The man at the movie theater last night. Had Emily picked him deliberately? Had the curse guided her to him? Or had there been something else at play? Had he been influenced too, somehow?

My mind went back further. To Dean, Emily's boss, who'd suddenly become "easygoing" and had pushed back on client demands. To Marcus, her trainer, who'd given her equipment and told her to film her "workouts."

How many people had been touched by whatever this was? How many people had Emily been with, in ways I didn't know about, in ways she didn't even remember?

I needed answers.

I couldn't wait any more. Couldn't hope it would go away and just pretend everything was normal.

If Emily was going to be out all day, I was going to sit in that coffee shop and wait. It was my best lead. My only lead. I'd sit there all day if I had to, nursing a drink and watching the door, waiting for a worn-out jacket and a pair of bottomless eyes.

I needed to find the man.

He needed to make this right.