Off Script

When I started writing this story, I wasn't aiming for romance--I just wanted to explore the connection between two people who have great chemistry and even better sex. But as I wrote the first two chapters, I realized I'd given Matt and Emma more depth than I expected, and the story ended up feeling closer to romance erotica.

This chapter is where that changes a little. While the focus is still on Matt and Emma's relationship, it's more about the physical discovery and the time they spend together than a traditional love story. It's about two people figuring each other out in every sense.

So if the first two chapters felt like romance to you, this one might feel a bit different. It's still about connection--sometimes a raw, physical one. And that's exactly the story I wanted to tell.

TL:DR - The first two chapters were categorized under romance, this one is under erotic couplings

______________________________________

The November light filtered through Emma's apartment windows, casting long shadows across the kitchen counter. The radiator clanked and hissed, filling the space with the kind of warmth that made the city's edge softer. She sat with her laptop open, a half-empty cup of coffee forgotten in her grandmother's Royal Copenhagen mug, the blue and white porcelain catching the morning sun.

She wore one of my sweaters, the dark fabric hanging loose on her frame, slipping just enough off one shoulder to make my breath catch. Her black hair was twisted up in a messy bun, but rebellious strands had already escaped, which she was doing her best to keep tucked behind her ears. Gone was the confident bartender who'd first caught my eye months ago -- in her place sat a writer lost in her world, muttering Danish under her breath as she deleted and rewrote the same sentence.

Though I still had my place across the Hudson, I'd been spending more nights here. What started as practicality had become deliberate. My apartment in Jersey felt like the last holdout of the man who waited for life to happen--before Emma showed me how to choose my place in the world.

I lingered in the doorway, tie hanging loose. Chris would understand if I was late. Watching her fight with words, the way she'd taught me to fight for my worth, felt too precious to rush.

I smiled, taking in the scene--her in my clothes, the scattered books and note-filled journals on her counter (some in English, some in Danish), the way her apartment had started to feel more like home than anywhere else in New York. It was the kind of belonging I'd stopped expecting to find, before her.

Emma looked around the apartment with a teasing glint in her vivid blue eyes. "You know," she started, turning toward me with a smirk, "I've noticed something. You spend most nights here now, and it's not just your presence that's sticking around." She gestured lazily to the clutter around us--my jacket draped over the back of the chair, a pair of my shoes by the door, and the unmistakable hint of my aftershave lingering in the air. "Your toothbrush lives here now. Your clothes have somehow migrated into my closet. And," she paused, her lips curving in amusement as she pointed to the sweater she was wearing, "I'm pretty sure half your wardrobe has defected to my side."

I crossed to the counter, settling onto the stool beside her. 'Is that a complaint?'"

She turned to me then, her lips curved in that knowing smile that never failed to make my heart skip. 'More of an observation.' Her fingers traced the rim of her mug, deliberate and teasing.

"To be fair," I said, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "that sweater looks better on you anyway."

"Charmer." She caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm, the gesture intimate in its familiarity. "But you're deflecting."

I exhaled, brushing my thumb across her cheek. "You're right. About all of it." I glanced around the apartment--at the stack of finance books beside her worn Danish poetry, my bag by the door, and the morning sun casting light on how our lives had slowly intertwined. "I'm on a month-to-month lease. Keeping a place in Jersey... doesn't make sense anymore."

Emma's eyes held mine, steady and sure. "No," she agreed softly. "It doesn't."

The morning light painted golden streaks across her face, and for once, my overthinking brain didn't have a PowerPoint presentation of pros and cons ready. Just the certainty that this was right--even if I still couldn't figure out how to fit my coffee maker into her already overcrowded kitchen.

"So," she said, her voice carrying that particular mix of confidence and vulnerability that I'd grown to love, "maybe we should do something about that."

I smiled, my heart racing with the certainty of what we were about to step into. "Maybe we should."

Emma set down her coffee, turning to face me fully. "Matt Harris," she began, her accent thickening slightly the way it did when emotion took over, "would you like to move in with me?"

The question hung in the air, but we both knew the answer. It had been written in every shared morning, every late-night conversation, every moment that made leaving feel harder than staying.

I hesitated, my thoughts racing. The idea of moving in felt right, but it also felt huge. I met her eyes, searching for certainty. 'Yes,' I finally said, the word settling between us. 'I would love to move in with you, Emma Sørensen.'

Her smile was radiant as she wrapped her arms around my neck. 'Good. Because I'm pretty attached to having you around.'

I laughed, but the sound caught in my throat as her fingers traced the nape of my neck. The touch was light, teasing, but carried weight - the kind that spoke of familiarity, of knowing exactly what it did to me. "Just pretty attached?"

"Fine," she conceded, but kept her distance, letting the tension build between us. Her accent thickened slightly, a tell I'd learned meant she was fighting to maintain control. "Very attached. Completely attached." A pause, her eyes meeting mine with deliberate intent. "Happy?"

"Getting there."

I waited, letting her make the first move. Since that night at the bar, she'd been the one to lead--each touch designed to keep me on edge. But here, in our apartment--officially ours--something shifted. When she finally closed the distance, the kiss wasn't frantic. It was slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the moment.

I grabbed her waist, feeling the heat of her skin as my hands slid under the sweater.

We broke the kiss, our foreheads touching, and eyes closed. "I guess you need to get to work," she said, her voice low.

"It's almost like you like me or something," I managed, already regretting the meetings that waited me in the Financial District.

Emma's smile turned wicked. Her fingers stilled on my chest, and she pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "You better get moving," she said, though her tone suggested movement was the last thing on her mind. "Jeff doesn't want you being late for those meetings at 9 AM."

Then, just as I started to protest, she pressed closer, her lips brushing my ear. "And if you think I'm letting you get anything more than a kiss right now, you're wrong, Mr. Harris."

The formality in her voice, coupled with the way she pushed me away with gentle firmness, sent a sharp pulse of heat through me. Her eyes held mine, playful but unwavering, the promise of later clear in her gaze.

I grabbed my bag, pausing at the door to take in the sight of her once more--my sweater hanging loosely on her shoulder, her messy bun, and that smile that still had the power to make leaving feel like a terrible idea. "I love you," I said, trying to keep it simple, though the weight of it hung between us like an unspoken promise.

"I love you too," she replied, then made a shooing motion with her hands. "Now get out of here before I change my mind about making you late for work." There was that playful confidence again, the kind that had helped me find my own.

The city felt different. As I made my way into the office, the usual weight of the commute was absent. The streets felt less overwhelming, the rhythm of the city humming beneath me. Every step wasn't just toward work--it was toward the future Emma and I had started building together.

The week flew by--long days at the office and longer nights hauling boxes from my old apartment to Emma's. Being barely three months into my six-month rotation meant I hadn't brought much from Ohio or accumulated much, but the little I had was packed into boxes, filling every available space.

By Friday night, the move was finished. The last of my things had been brought over, and my old apartment was now just a memory. I stood in the middle of the living room, taking it all in--my suits hanging in the closet beside her bartending blacks, our bookshelves a chaotic mix of my fantasy novels, finance books, and her fiction. Even my coffee mugs were neatly arranged in the kitchen.

I turned to Emma, who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, her laptop resting on a box beside her as she adjusted the final touches of her story. She looked up at me, smiling. "You know," I said, feeling a little silly for not asking sooner, "I should probably ask--your aunt Ingrid's okay with me moving in? Since she's technically the leaseholder?"

Emma paused for a moment, eyes glancing away from her laptop and back to me. "Ingrid? Yeah, she's fine with it. After almost five years in California, I don't think she's coming back to New York anytime soon. Plus, she likes that someone's taking care of the place."

I nodded, feeling the weight of it finally settle. The apartment felt like ours now. Not just in the physical sense, but in every corner where our lives had started to mix--my things beside hers, her work blending with mine. It wasn't just about the space; it was about how we were starting to fit together in it.

Now, I was collapsed on the couch, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, feeling the satisfying exhaustion of the day settle into my muscles.

Emma stretched; a languid movement that made my fatigue start to fade. "Well, I suppose we should christen this union of apartment and resident."

"What are you in the mood for?" she asked, already reaching for her keys.

"Pizza," I said immediately. "The kind that makes all this unpacking worth it."

Emma laughed, standing and stretching. "Lucky for you, John's on Bleecker is just down the block. Best pizza in the city, and I will fight anyone who says different."

She paused in the doorway, glancing back at me with that look that always made my heart skip. "What's your topping of choice, Mr. Man of the House?"

I kicked off my shoes, settling back into the couch. "Pepperoni. But if you throw in a few mushrooms, I won't complain."

"Deal," Emma replied, slipping on her sneakers. "And while I'm out, you better find the champagne."

My head snapped up. "How did you know I have champagne?"

She paused in the doorway, smirking. "You always have champagne." She pointed at me, eyes twinkling. "It's part of your whole 'I've planned for every possible scenario' vibe."

I shook my head, amused. "I don't have a vibe."

"Please. You totally do. Fancy spreadsheets, emergency backup plans, and a soft spot for Danish bartenders." She winked, then disappeared out the door before I could argue.

By the time Emma returned, she was balancing a large, grease-stained pizza box from John's on Bleecker with one hand, her cheeks flushed from the November air and her eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held up the box like a trophy. "I got the large."

I arched an eyebrow. "Confident, are we?"

"Strategic," she corrected, kicking the door shut behind her with practiced ease. "Leftover pizza in the morning? That's an elite breakfast. Sunday morning Emma is gonna be thrilled."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "Hard to argue with that logic."

Her gaze flicked to the champagne bottle chilling in its ice bucket, and she let out a low, appreciative laugh. "Honestly, though, champagne for pizza? Bold move."

I shrugged, grabbing plates and glasses from our newly reorganized kitchen. "Life's short. Besides, I like be prepared to celebrate the small things in life. Not that moving in with your beautiful girlfriend's subleased New York City apartment in the Village is a small thing."

She arched an eyebrow, but didn't argue. Instead, she grabbed the cork and popped it with practiced ease, sending a small cascade of bubbles spilling over the rim. The effervescent scent mixed with the warmth of melted cheese and garlic from the box.

We sat down, and the rich, cheesy aroma of the pizza filled the room, mingling with the warm glow of a few candles Emma lit. The decades-old tile of John's coal-fired ovens had left their mark - the thin crust crackled under the weight of gooey mozzarella and spicy pepperoni, glistening just enough to be indulgent. My half had fresh mushrooms scattered across it, their earthy scent melding with the buttery crispness of the dough.

She took one long inhale, then sighed, smiling to herself. There was something intimate about sharing this simple pleasure, sitting across from each other at what was now our table.

"Now this," she said, lifting her glass, the candlelight catching in her eyes, "is how you celebrate moving in."

The champagne flowed, most but not all of the pizza disappeared, and as the candles flickered low, I couldn't help but think--this was exactly how a home was supposed to feel.

Full of laughter. Full of warmth. Full of her.

We moved to the couch at some point, Emma's legs draped over mine, her fingers lazily tracing circles on my arm as we sank deeper into the stillness of the night. Her head rested against my chest, her hair soft against my chin, and for a while, neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.

My fingers traced her spine, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. Her breath was shallow, the soft sound of it mingling with the hum of the city outside. She shifted slightly, tilting her face up toward me, her lips just barely brushing my jaw. I couldn't help but study every detail of her face - the striking contrast of her raven-black hair against her fair skin, those impossibly blue eyes that seemed to hold entire oceans, the soft fullness of her rose-tinted lips. She felt my gaze on her, and I caught the knowing smile that played across her mouth before she spoke.

"You're staring." Emma's voice was thick with amusement, her cheeks still flushed from the champagne, eyes glinting.

I huffed a soft laugh, not bothering to deny it. "I'm admiring."

She stretched, slow and deliberate, her back arching just enough to make the loose neckline of her sweater slip further off her shoulder. The movement lifted her breasts, giving me the perfect view of how they pressed against the soft fabric.

"Am I supposed to blush and say something demure now?" she murmured, lips curling as she reached for her glass, taking one last slow sip.

I didn't answer. I reached out, trailing my fingers along her exposed collarbone, then lower, brushing the edge of her sweater on her exposed shoulder where her skin warmed beneath my touch.

I leaned in, voice low. "No. You're supposed to kiss me."

She didn't hesitate.

Her mouth met mine, soft at first--then hotter, wetter, demanding. The faint taste of champagne lingered on her tongue as she pressed against me, her hands sliding over my chest, fingers playing with the buttons of my shirt.

I let her take the lead for a few seconds, but when she rolled her hips, grinding against me just enough to make my cock twitch beneath my slacks, I decided I should take control.

I grabbed her waist, flipping her onto her back against the couch, pinning her beneath me.

She gasped--then let out a quiet, pleased moan, her legs parting just enough for me to settle between them.

"Better?" I murmured, my fingers slipping beneath her sweater, palming the soft swell of her breast.

She exhaled sharply as I rolled her nipple between my fingers, her back arching into my touch. "Hmm. You tell me."

I didn't. I kissed her instead--deeper, rougher, swallowing the soft sound she made.

Emma's hands roamed lower, fingers teasing over my belt, then lower still. She cupped me through my pants, her palm pressing just enough to feel how hard I was, rubbing slow circles that made my pulse pound.

"Jeg vil have dig," she whispered against my lips, the Danish making her desire sound like a secret meant only for me. 'What did you say?' I asked.

She pulled back slightly, her smile softening. 'I said I want you.'

I groaned, my grip on her tightening, rocking against her hand. "Say that again."

She tilted her head, smirking. "Jeg vil have dig."

Fuck.

I pushed her sweater up, dragging my tongue over her exposed nipple, sucking lightly before grazing my teeth over the sensitive peak.

Emma gasped, her fingers clenching in my hair, tugging just enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight to my cock.

If we stayed on this couch any longer, I wasn't going to take my time.

I pulled back, brushing my thumb across her swollen lips. "Bedroom," I murmured. "Now."

Emma arched an eyebrow, clearly pleased with herself, and slid off the couch, her sweater slipping down just enough to keep my attention on her bare skin.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Emma led the way to our bedroom, where the glow of the Village's street lights filtered through the pre-war windows, painting patterns across her skin. Even after months together, these moments still felt surreal - her wearing my sweater loose off one shoulder, the constant hum of Jones Street below, the way this tiny bedroom in a century-old building had become more home than anywhere else in the city.

I followed, my body still thrumming with heat, my cock already straining against my pants.

She stopped by the bed, glancing over her shoulder as she gripped the hem of her sweater. With one smooth motion, she tugged it over her head, tossing it aside without hesitation.

The sight of her bare back and her black wave of hair cascading past her shoulders was an instant shock of desire.

Jesus.

I dragged my shirt off, tossing it next to hers, but my hands stalled at my belt when Emma turned to face me, standing there bare from the waist up, watching me with a slow, knowing smile.

"Let me."

She sank to her knees in front of me, fingers ghosting over my stomach, tracing the lines of muscle before hooking into my waistband.

My breath hitched, and I froze, watching her.

She tugged my pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, freeing my cock, letting it spring up inches from her face. Her gaze flicked up, and my pulse thundered at the sight of her kneeling between my legs, bare-chested, completely unhurried, completely in control of how fast this was happening.

Emma licked her lips, dragging her nails lightly up my thighs, teasing but deliberate.

"I like you like this," she murmured, voice lower now, her accent thicker. "You standing. Watching me."

Her fingers wrapped around my cock, stroking slowly, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

"Fuck, Emma..."

She smiled, leaning forward, running her tongue over the head, flicking softly before taking me just barely between her lips. A quick bob then then she licked a slow, deliberate line up the underside of my cock, before taking me in again hollowing her cheeks as she took me deeper, her lips warm, wet, and so fucking soft.