Color Me Pretty

health, in the solid feel of him.
    Our gentle kisses become more frenzied as he unbuttons his jeans and kicks off the designer shoes he bought just for me, just to please me. I'm more than happy to participate until he gets ready to take my shirt off. My underwear, sure, get those away from me, so we can keep going, so we can melt into each other's arms and find solace in a place that's just outside of this world. But my shirt? No. I can't.
    I tell Emmett this, and he sits back, one knee propped on the bed, pants open, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He worries at his lip and slides one hand up to his hair. The beanie comes off and goes flying – into the dirty clothes pile, of course.
    “It's okay, Claire,” he tells me, and that phrase makes goose bumps spring up all across my pale skin. Now that I know what he means by it, that simple phrase has transformed into something much more complex, something capable of bringing down my walls and destroying my pain. All I have to do is let it. It's okay. I understand you. I'm just like you, and I overcame it. You are not alone, and it is going to be okay. It's going to be alright.
    I touch my fingers to Emmett's white scars, the ones that are nearly invisible in this light, and I close my eyes, take a deep breath.
    He lifts my arms above my head and slides his hands under my shirt, scalding my flesh as he goes, burning me deep, scarring me forever. But it's a good thing, this ardent heat. I only wish I had the strength to do the same to him.
    I let Emmett undress me, but I don't look at him, not even as he steps back and drops his jeans to the floor. I have just enough willpower to keep my breathing solid and my heart thumping. After this, he's going to ask me to eat, I know he is, and I'm going to have to. The difficulty of that should make this easy. All I have to do is let him see me as I am.
    My eyes flicker open as Emmett drops his mouth to mine and kisses the hell out of me. He doesn't give me time to worry or be self-conscious, only to be. Just to be.
    He slides his warm body into mine and joins us together, bringing me to the edge over and over, until I've got tears pouring down my face, until my nails are digging into his flesh and drawing blood. All of the pain I have inside is nothing against this rush of pleasure, this cleansing of fire. Tangled bodies and greedy mouths, hands that can't stop touching, feeling, because they know that the person you are is only half visible, that underneath, there's someone else altogether. Emmett touches my soul, and I let him.
    “I'm glad you're still here, Claire,” he says and these are the only words either of us speak because they're too powerful to be followed up, too true to be answered. Inside, I know that I am, too, that I'm glad I didn't die that night lying on a bathroom floor with an empty heart and bloody arms. Emmett saved me then, and he'll save me now, take me as far as he can. I have to make sure that when I get there, I'm ready to walk the rest of the way on my own two feet.
    We switch places, so that I'm on top and Emmett is beneath me, trapped between my knees, one hand on my ass, the other in my hair. I ride him until the pleasure becomes painful and breaks, like waves against the shore, bringing us closer together, drawing a scream from my throat and a groan from his.
    Afterward, Emmett disappears and comes back with a plate, padding naked across the floor and slipping into the bed next to me. He doesn't say anything, but he does hand me the fork and watches as I bring a bite to my lips, just one single bite. Emmett isn't an orderly, isn't there to pass judgment or make me do things. He lets me do what I need to do and then holds me while I cry. And I cry. And I cry. When I'm finished, I'm pretty sure that there's nothing left to cry about.
    Guess we'll see about that.

The next morning when I wake up, Emmett is gone and there's a note on the counter. Job interview, it says, and I smile. Emmett Sinclair doesn't waste any time. He lives each day like it's his last, like he should cram in as much living as humanly possible. I kind of love that about him. I, on the other hand, am not that way, not anymore. I actually end up sitting naked in the chair in the living room, wearing only the twin bandages on my wrists, staring at the sewing machine while I try to rearrange the thoughts in my head. They've been focused for so long on modeling that I don't know what to do with them now. Do I go to