Off Script

Early December had settled over the city bring with it a chill hinting at the coming winter. Afternoon light streamed through the curtains in our apartment. Emma moaned as she leaned back on the couch, her fingers in my hair.

Her hips moved as I used my tongue, and she gasped when I added my fingers. Her breathing quickened as I found a rhythm that made her grip my shoulders.

"Ja, for fanden, Matt..." she said in Danish, her voice desperate. My tongue was insistent, lapping at her clit. My tongue pressed and flicked, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body.

My fingers slid inside her, pumping in and out with a fierce, unyielding rhythm. I curled them to hit that sweet spot deep within her, my mouth never leaving her clit. Emma's hips bucked wildly, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. She was lost in the sensation, her body aching for more.

"Matt... I'm close... make me cum," she moaned. Her words made me work harder to push her over the edge. I attacked her with an increased vigor sucking her clit.

Emma arched her back as she came, gripping my hair while her body shook. She cried out as the pleasure hit her, and I kept going until she finally collapsed on the couch.

For a moment, all I could hear was her breathing. I watched her from where my chin rested on her thigh, enjoying seeing her like this - my Emma, completely vulnerable.

Her eyes opened, blue and dazed, finding mine with a soft laugh. She smiled and brushed hair from my forehead.

"I take it that was... acceptable?" I asked playfully.

"You... are fucking amazing," she said warmly.

I grinned and kissed her quickly. "I know," I murmured.

Emma traced patterns on my chest as we lay there. She noticed my expression and glanced up.

"You're thinking about tomorrow, aren't you?" she asked.

I nodded. Tomorrow I was flying to London for two weeks of meetings and preparation for my big pitch, and I was feeling the pressure despite my confident front.

Emma propped herself up on one elbow, looking into my eyes.

"You're going to nail this," she said. "You're ready."

I leaned into her touch with my eyes closed. "You always know what to say."

"That's because I know you. And I believe in you."

I looked down at her, this amazing woman who made me feel capable of anything. I kissed her softly and whispered, "I love you, Emma."

"Her breath caught as she pulled me down, her lips soft against mine. "I love you too."

Later that evening, I sat at our kitchen table looking at the London trip itinerary. My heart raced thinking about the meetings and the big pitch that could change my career. The same presentation Emma had helped me practice for weeks.

I squeezed her hand. "I'm excited, but nervous too. Two weeks in London, pitching to people with more experience--it's intimidating."

Emma leaned forward, her black hair falling over her shoulder. "Matt, you've earned this. You're smart and prepared. Besides," she smiled, "I'm joining you the second week. You won't be alone for long."

I reached for her hand. "I love seeing you excited. Having a weekend with you before the pitch might be just what I need."

Emma's blue eyes held mine. "That's the idea. You need to breathe before the big day."

She kissed my cheek. "You've got this. And I'll be there to remind you if you forget."

The next day, I methodically packed my suitcase with shirts and ties while Emma circled the apartment like a tornado, adding "essentials."

"Protein bars? Really?" I asked, holding up a handful. "I'm pitching to executives, not surviving the apocalypse."

"London food," she said with a shrug. "You'll thank me when you're stuck in meetings with nothing but those sad little biscuits they serve with tea."

At the airport, Emma hugged me tightly. "Text me when you land," she said against my chest.

"No, I thought I'd maintain an air of mystery and just show up in your Instagram feed posing with the Queen's Guard," I deadpanned, then kissed her forehead. "Of course I'll text. And call. Probably pathetically often."

"I'll see you in London, Matt Harris. And don't you dare forget how amazing you are," she said with a smirk.

"If I start to forget, I'll just check my reflection in the hotel mirrors. I hear they make everyone look 20% more amazing in London. It's a city ordinance."

As I walked toward the gate, I turned back for one last glimpse of her standing there, coat pulled tight around her slender frame. The nerves were there, but her belief in me felt substantial enough to carry me through whatever challenges lay ahead.

My first week was a blur of meetings and late-night preparation. London sprawled around me--historic and beautiful--but I barely noticed, caught up in the growing pressure of work. Each night, I called Emma as promised, our conversations anchoring me when I felt adrift in doubt. After hanging up, I'd sink into my hotel bed, her voice lingering in my thoughts, a reminder of what waited for me beyond this professional crucible.

"The client asked all these questions I wasn't prepared for," I confessed during one particularly exhausted late-night call.

"And yet you're still standing," Emma replied, her unwavering faith traveling clearly across the Atlantic. "Remember what Chris told you--they're testing to see if you'll break."

By Friday, the constant knot in my stomach had become so familiar I'd almost forgotten what calm felt like. Emma's text confirming her flight details--JFK to Heathrow, arriving at 7:45 a.m. London time--washed over me like a cool wave of relief. She would be here Saturday, giving us the weekend together before work resumed, with the all-important pitch scheduled for the following Friday.

When Emma finally emerged through the arrivals gate, I stood waiting with two coffees in hand. Her black coat was buttoned against the December chill, a soft scarf wrapped closely around her neck. Despite the overnight flight, she looked effortlessly beautiful--her dark hair slightly tousled but perfectly framing her face, her blue eyes lighting up when they found mine.

"How's my favorite pitchman?" she teased, stepping into my arms.

"Better now," I admitted, handing her a coffee, the warmth between us immediately dissolving the week's tension. "I missed you."

As we settled into our seats on the Heathrow Express to Paddington, I smiled, feeling my chest tighten with contentment. "We've got all weekend. What's the plan again?"

She pulled a small folded paper from her coat pocket, her eyes sparkling with sudden determination. "Actually, I've been doing my research. We're going sightseeing--the full tourist experience. I think you need to get out of your head before this pitch week, and I need to see London with you."

London greeted us with crisp December air and morning mist. My breath clouded in front of me, the cold biting at my face even as my body stayed warm beneath my coat. For the first time all week, my chest loosened. The pitch was behind me. Emma was here.

She tugged me toward the waiting taxi, her gloved fingers curling around mine, the leather soft but cold to touch. The distant rumble of buses and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement provided London's morning soundtrack. "I was fully prepared to take the Tube like a proper Londoner," she said as I held the door open for her, the taxi's interior releasing a wave of warmth scented with leather seats and the driver's coffee.

When we pulled up to The Ned, Emma let out a low whistle. "Okay, fine. This place is worth the cab ride."

The grand 1920s stone façade towered above us, its art deco entrance leading into a lobby bathed in warm, golden light. Inside, the air carried rich scents--freshly ground coffee, polished mahogany, leather-bound books, and the faint trace of expensive cigars--like old money and quiet power distilled into fragrance. A pianist played soft jazz on a gleaming grand piano, the melodies floating above the gentle clink of crystal glasses and hushed conversations.

I guided her through the lobby, past inviting velvet sofas and the brass bar where ice clinked in cocktail shakers, toward the elevators. When we entered my suite, Emma sighed and kicked off her boots with a satisfied groan. The plush carpet sank beneath our feet, muffling the city sounds below.

The room was filled with soft morning light, making long shadows across the velvet armchairs and king-sized bed. The tall windows showed a wide view of London, with St. Paul's Cathedral standing out against the winter sky. A marble-topped desk sat in the corner, perfect for someone who wrote for a living.

Emma ran a hand over the soft linen duvet and let out an exaggerated gasp. "Look at this place. I'd start writing poetry just to justify staying here longer."

I stepped up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. "You deserve nice things," I murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

Emma tilted her head back to meet my gaze, her expression softening. "As much as I'd love to crawl into that ridiculously oversized bed and sleep for a year, I need a shower and fresh clothes before I feel human again."

When Emma reappeared, she was effortlessly stunning--fresh-faced, her damp hair swept back, glowing with a kind of easy confidence that made my breath catch. She'd changed into a thick sweater and jeans, the soft fabric hugging her in ways that made it impossible not to look.

She grinned, looping an arm through mine. "Let's go see the city."

I was struck anew by her beauty, her presence, and they fact she was here with me in this city in this moment. Emma caught me watching her and smirked. "What?"

I shook my head, smiling. "Nothing. Just... welcome to London."

"Ready for Westminster Abbey?" Emma asked, pulling on her coat. "It's only a short ride from here."

When we arrived, the abbey rose before us, its intricate stonework and towering spires striking against the pale winter sky.

Emma stepped out first, adjusting her coat as she took it all in. "It's even more beautiful than in photos," she murmured, her breath visible in the cold air.

The abbey swallowed us whole--soaring arches, stained glass filtering colored light onto stone. The air hung cool and damp, smelling faintly of incense. We spoke in whispers, our footsteps joining others against the marble floor.

"This way," Emma said, leading me toward the south transept. "Poets' Corner."

Her excitement grew as we entered the memorial-filled space. She moved quickly between stones, pointing.

"Chaucer here. Dickens there. Hardy. Kipling." Her fingertips brushed the worn markers. "Not everyone's buried here--some are just memorials."

I watched her, captivated more by her enthusiasm than the monuments themselves. "Who's your favorite?" I asked.

Emma's face lit up as she led me to a simple stone on the floor. "Jane Austen," she said softly. "She's not buried here--she's in Winchester Cathedral--but this memorial means so much to me."

I looked down at the modest marker. "I've never actually read any of her books," I admitted.

"Pride and Prejudice was the first 'grown-up' book I read in English," Emma said, her Danish accent becoming more noticeable as she slipped into memories. "I was twelve, struggling with all those English idioms. My mother found me a Danish-English dictionary, and I would sit with both books open, determined to understand every word."

She knelt down, her fingertips hovering just above the stone. "She writes about such a specific time and place, but she understood people in a way that transcends centuries. The way she captures human folly and resilience--it's what I aspire to in my own writing." Her voice took on that passionate intensity I recognized whenever she talked about her work-in-progress--the collection of interconnected stories about immigrants that had earned her the New Yorker publication.

I knelt beside her. "What was it about her writing that connected with you as a kid from Denmark?"

Emma smiled; her eyes distant with memory. "She wrote about constraints--social, economic, gender-based--and how people navigate them. As a girl between two cultures, always trying to figure out the unspoken rules, I found that... illuminating." She looked up at me. "Plus, she's wickedly funny. People forget that."

"Like you," I said softly.

Emma's eyes met mine, surprised and pleased. "What?"

"Wickedly funny. Observant. Seeing through people's performances to who they really are." I took her hand. "It makes sense she'd be your favorite."

Emma's expression softened. "This is why I love you, Matt Harris. You actually listen when I ramble about books."

"I listen to everything you say," I replied simply.

We stood, continuing our tour through the abbey, Emma pointing out more literary giants--Tennyson, Browning, Lewis Carroll--until we paused at the memorial to Shakespeare.

"Kind of the ultimate, right?" I asked, gesturing to the grand statue.

"Actually," Emma said with a mischievous smile, "he's not buried here either. This monument was erected over a century after his death. He's actually in Stratford-upon-Avon."

"So, all these writers I've heard of aren't even here?" I laughed.

"Some are. But it's not about where their bodies lie," Emma said, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality. "It's about creating a place where we can honor what they gave us. Words that outlived them. Stories that still matter."

I watched her face, illuminated in a shaft of colored light from the stained glass above. "You'll be in here someday," I said suddenly.

Emma burst out laughing, then quickly muffled it as several tourists turned to look. "I think you might be overestimating my literary prospects just a bit."

"I'm not," I said with complete conviction. "The New Yorker was just the beginning. You have the same thing they all had--you see people clearly, and you make them see themselves."

Emma's cheeks blushed slightly, and she squeezed my hand. "I'd settle for a small shelf in a good bookstore, but I appreciate the vote of confidence."

As we left Poets' Corner, I felt more relaxed than I had all week. My upcoming pitch seemed less important now, fading against centuries of human achievement and Emma's passionate enthusiasm for it all.

We stepped from the Abbey's ancient shadows into weak winter sunlight, the sudden temperature change making me shiver. Big Ben's distant chimes traveled through the crisp air as we paused on the steps.

Emma pulled out her detailed itinerary. "National Gallery next," she said, pointing toward Whitehall. "We can walk through Trafalgar Square to get there."

We walked hand in hand along the wide street, passing government buildings and memorials. The December air had grown colder, and Emma moved closer to me, her cheeks pink from the chill. Trafalgar Square opened up before us, pigeons flying away as we crossed toward the gallery's impressive entrance.

"I'm surprised you're so excited about the National Gallery," Emma said, glancing up at me. "I didn't realize you were such an art enthusiast."

I smiled, a hint of sheepishness in my expression. "There's one painting in particular I've always wanted to see. The Fighting Temeraire by Turner."

"The one you mentioned when I was planning our trip?" Emma asked, recalling my unexpected enthusiasm when she'd mentioned the gallery.

"Yeah. My grandfather had a book of Turner's works. I used to flip through it for hours when I was a kid."

We climbed the steps to the gallery, passing between the towering columns and into the warmth of the interior. After getting our bearings, I guided Emma through the rooms with surprising confidence until we reached the Turner collection.

I froze when we entered the Turner Room. There it was--The Fighting Temeraire.

The painting was larger than I'd imagined, dominating the wall. A ghostly warship being towed to its destruction by a small steam tug, set against a sky ablaze with sunset. Gold and violet clouds seemed to pulse with their own light.

"There she is," I murmured.

Emma wasn't looking at the painting. She was watching me.

I felt her gaze on me, studying my reaction as I took in every detail--the delicate brushstrokes shaping the Temeraire's masts, the shimmering reflection of sky and water, the stark contrast between the noble warship and the squat, smoking tugboat pulling it toward oblivion.

She finally turned to the painting; her voice soft. "It's beautiful. And sad."

I nodded, still caught in its hold.

She squeezed my hand once before falling silent, standing beside me as we took in one last glimpse of the dying light on the water, the fading grandeur of the past, and the quiet inevitability of what comes next.

We stood before it in silence for a moment, taking in the luminous quality of the sky, the stark contrast between the ghostly ship and the dark industrial tugboat.

"It's about the end of an era," I said finally, my voice soft but animated. "The Temeraire was this badass battleship from the Napoleonic Wars, a hero at Trafalgar. Now she's just being towed away by some little steamboat to be scrapped."

Emma studied the painting, the vivid sunset reflecting in her blue eyes. "Beautiful and sad all at once, isn't it?"

"That's what I love about it," I continued, my passion evident in my voice. "Look at the colors--that sunset is almost supernatural. Turner's saying goodbye to the age of sail, but he's doing it with this incredible celebration of light and color. It's an elegy, but it's not bitter."

Emma glanced at me, a small smile playing on her lips. "I've never heard you talk about anything this way."

I looked slightly embarrassed. "Too much?"

"Not at all." She squeezed my hand. "I love seeing this side of you. We all have these hidden passions we rarely get to share."

As we wandered through the gallery, we discovered shared favorites--both admiring the drama of Caravaggio's shadowy figures and the vibrant humanity in Rembrandt's portraits. At a small Monet, a scene of water lilies bathed in twilight, we found ourselves standing in comfortable silence, shoulders touching.

"Art museums always make me feel both incredibly small and somehow connected to everything," Emma said softly. "All these artists, across centuries, trying to make sense of what it means to be human."

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That's why I love that Turner. He's looking back and forward at the same time, finding beauty in change."

Emma leaned her head against my shoulder. "Like us?"

"How so?"

"We're both in these moments of transition. Your career shifting, my writing finally finding an audience. Everything changing, but beautiful in its own way."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her familiar scent. "I never thought I'd have philosophical epiphanies about my life in front of a painting of a boat."

"Emma laughed, the sound drawing a stern look from a nearby security guard. "That's what art is supposed to do, isn't it? Make you see your own life differently?"

We reluctantly left the gallery as closing time approached, stepping out into the early winter darkness that had descended over London. The streetlamps were already glowing against the darkening sky.

"I don't know about you," Emma said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "but I think we've earned a drink. I've researched some historic pubs that I've been dying to visit."

She led me through narrow cobblestone streets, her phone's map occasionally illuminating her face as she navigated us away from the tourist thoroughfares and into the historic heart of the city.

"Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese," Emma said, pointing to an unassuming entrance. "Rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666."

We ducked through a narrow door into rooms that smelled of wood smoke and centuries of spilled beer.

"Dickens drank here," Emma said as we descended to the cellar bar. "So did Johnson, Twain, Tennyson, Conan Doyle."