The Schoolgirl Ch. 05byablondegoddess©
Emelie didn't even have to open her eyes to know that she was in an unfamiliar place.
She groggily surveyed the room she was in, growing more and more alarmed with the lack of recognition.
She was in a spacious bedroom, with pale gray walls and dark wood floors. The bed she was in was king-sized, upholstered with black leather and layered with luxurious charcoal linens. A single, continuous wall-length window covered the entirety of the right side of the room, and Emelie could faintly see sunlight appearing from beneath the cloudy curtains. She brought her attention to the opposite wall, and found huge, gorgeous photographs of the ocean. They were the only real source of color in the otherwise hyper-modern room.
She squinted to admire them, and was shocked to find that the photographs were actually canvas paintings. The detail was exquisite, so photo-like, that Emelie had to reach out and touch the canvas just to be certain.
Remembering she was in an unfamiliar place, Emelie looked down and surveyed herself, and her panic began to return. She was wearing a large white t-shirt, and no panties. Had Jake taken her back here last night? This certainly didn't look like any of the campus housing at State. Was this his parents' home? A hotel? Had they had sex?
Emelie fell back into the bed and tried to piece together what had occurred last night. Her memories became extremely hazy beyond drinking with her friends on the football field. She remembered leaving with Jake, alone, and then he was kissing her in the parking lot at school.
Emelie received a second, more powerful wave of anxiety when she remembered the pill that Jake had forced into her mouth. Her memories beyond that point were convoluted and impossible to piece together. She remembered Jake forcing himself on her, seemingly growing bigger no matter how hard she fought him.
Had he actually...raped her last night?
Emelie began to cry, aggravating her aching head. She wiped her tears with the corner of the T-shirt, and suddenly was filled with a strange sense of calm.
She inhaled the scent of the T-shirt deeply, and it seemed to cause her nerves to settle. The shirt smelled like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. Even though she didn't know where it came from, the scent was still somehow familiar. It smelled clean and fresh, highly masculine, and also...safe.
It was then that the most crucial memory of the night came back to her: Carlisle.
Emelie exited the bedroom and crept down a long hallway. Like the room she'd been sleeping in, the apartment was dark and hyper modern, almost sterile, with the exception of the vibrantly colorful paintings that hung on the walls. There were stunning canvases of oceans, lakes, waterfalls, and even glaciers, all with exceptional detail that bewitched her eyes like photographs.
Emelie eventually reached a staircase and tentatively walked down to the first floor, careful not to move too fast and aggravate her head. She didn't feel sick, exactly. This was nothing like how hangovers had been described to her. Instead, she felt incredibly...weak, as if all of her energy had been depleted the night before.
When she reached the first floor, Emelie realized that she was not in any ordinary apartment.
She was in a penthouse.
Luxurious modern furniture in glass and dark leather tastefully decorated the huge open area of the two-story living room, along with even more paintings of natural waters and ices. Emelie walked over to the wall of windows and surveyed her surroundings, in an attempt to place where she was. Through the distance, she could see the glittering high rises of downtown, and the immediate view from the penthouse largely consisted of thick trees and grassy parks.
Emelie exhaled in relief. This was an area she recognized. She was no more than twenty minutes away from home.
A sound to her right jolted her to attention, and Emelie began to tentatively walk toward its source. She passed through a large, doorless entryway, and was immediately greeted by the sight of Carlisle, in a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt, making breakfast.
"Hi," Emelie called quietly.
Carlisle glanced at her and smiled softly.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
Emelie sat down on a barstool, slightly jumping at the feeling of the cold leather against the bare backs of her thighs.
"Like I was in a coma...what happened last night?" Emelie asked. Bits and pieces were beginning to fill the gaps in her memory, but she didn't trust herself to determine what had actually happened. Her memories seemed fanciful, as if she'd been on some kind of hallucinogenic.
Carlisle looked uncomfortable as he began plating breakfast. Emelie's stomach growled in hunger when she noticed the eggs, bacon, potatoes, and Belgian waffles that had been prepared.
"Well...your date gave you ecstasy. Since you were already drunk, I didn't think it would be safe to leave you at the school. Or with him," Carlisle said carefully.
He put the plate in front of her, and Emelie felt her stomach growl in appreciation. It smelled delicious.
"So you brought me back here?" Emelie asked, beginning to eat the waffles. She'd tried to take ladylike bites, but she was far too hungry to sustain them. It tasted like buttery sweet heaven, perfectly prepared, crisp on the outside and gooey on the inside, and Emelie couldn't contain her delight.
"Yes. You were really...out of it," Carlisle said.
Emelie tried to swallow her embarrassment with the perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes. The more she ate, the more she remembered the night before, and her behavior was nothing short of humiliating.
Perhaps that was the reason why Carlisle looked so uncomfortable.
When she finished eating, Carlisle quietly took her plate and began doing the dishes.
"Thanks for letting me stay here last night...I hope I didn't put anyone out," Emelie offered. Carlisle shook his head, but it seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at her.
"Don't be silly. It was the right thing to do," he said, although it almost sounded like he was talking to himself.
"So just to be clear...there's no wife? Or...girlfriend?" Emelie asked.
Carlisle finally looked at her then, and he gave her a weak smile.
"No, Emelie," he replied. Emelie bit her lip, unsure of how to ask the obvious follow up question.
"So...you live here with your...parents?" Emelie asked. Carlisle frowned, clearly not understanding the direction of her thoughts.
She should have abandoned the curiosity, but it simply didn't make sense — Carlisle was a school teacher. How was he able to live in a penthouse?
Recognition finally seemed to appear in his eyes, and Carlisle's face hardened in the grim expression Emelie recognized the most. It was that same curt, annoyed, almost-scowl that he maintained every day in class.
"This place is mine, Emelie. No wife, no girlfriend. No parents or roommates here," Carlisle replied sharply.
Emelie immediately felt guilty for offending him, far more guilty than she'd expected. She could feel her face turning red as her heart began to race, and she became frantically desperate to apologize. It was like she was a child again, and had been caught doing or saying something naughty.
And the look on Carlisle's face silently guaranteed that she would be punished for it.
"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be rude. Your home is very beautiful. Especially the paintings," Emelie offered.
He didn't immediately answer her, but she could feel some of his tension begin to dissipate.
"Here. Now that you've eaten something I imagine you could probably use this," he said. He handed her a bottle of ibuprofen, and it was only then that Emelie remembered her pounding headache.
The sight of Carlisle in the kitchen was a very effective distraction.
Emelie quickly swallowed two pills with a generous sip of juice, dually unsettled and charmed by the attentive way Carlisle was immediately at her side to refill her glass. The feeling of guilt was suddenly disrupted by a not entirely negative feeling of debt, and Emelie found herself desiring to...thank him, somehow.
"Why'd you do it?" Emelie asked eventually. Despite the pause of silence between them, Carlisle seemed to know what she was talking about. He sat down at the barstool in front of her, and seemed to weigh his words before he spoke again.
"I couldn't just let him...violate you like that. I know I shouldn't have brought you here, but...I was just trying to keep you safe," Carlisle replied.
Emelie reached out and placed her hand over his.
"Thank you, Mr. Carlisle. I don't know what I would've done if it weren't for you," Emelie said. She meant the words with all her heart, but for some reason, they didn't sound as sincere or profound as she'd intended. Carlisle had saved her. She was terrified to think about what could have happened if it weren't for him.
She owed him more than she could fathom.
Emelie ran her fingers across Carlisle's forearm, fascinated by the strong sinews of muscle and dilated veins. She felt him flinch beneath her touch as his breathing increased, but he didn't move away.
Emelie raised her eyes, and offered Carlisle her best smile. But his expression hardened even further, and Emelie quickly pulled her hand away.
"Would you like me to call a car for you? I left your dress, shoes, and purse on the nightstand in the room you slept in. Your phone is there, too," Carlisle said gruffly.
Emelie crossed her arms in front of her body, finding herself chilled by the sudden frost that seemed to permeate through the kitchen. There was no way she could properly thank Carlisle if he insisted on keeping his distance from her.
She couldn't understand why he was still pushing her away. They weren't at school or any public place — they were in his penthouse, completely secluded. She was wearing his shirt. She'd slept in his bed. Surely, whatever connection they had was more personal than that of a student and teacher. Emelie was certain she hadn't imagined his tenderness, his attention.
Emelie quickly wiped away a forming tear before Carlisle could see her cry. And when she looked down at her fingertips, she noticed the unmistakable smear of last night's mascara. She glanced at her hair, and was instantly reminded of the fact that she'd gone to sleep with it wet. It was now a horrifying bird's nest.
Coupled with the fact that she'd barbarically eaten so much food that her stomach was starting to extend, Emelie knew for certain that Carlisle was distancing himself from her because she was absolutely repulsive to look at.
"Can I...umm...can I use your shower first? And then I can call my own car," Emelie said quickly.
She heard Carlisle sigh. Probably in annoyance.
"Of course. Do you need me to show you—"
"I can find it myself," Emelie interrupted, and she quickly hopped off of the barstool.
Nicholas only exhaled when he heard the sound of the shower faucets activating upstairs. Now that Emelie was bathing, safely away from him and his perversions, perhaps he could rein control over himself long enough to keep from falling into even more trouble than he was already in.
When she'd arrived in the kitchen late that morning, after sleeping over eleven hours, Nicholas could tell she was suffering with a bad hangover. But even with her obvious pain and discomfort, the utter magnitude of her beauty conquered him to the point of near reverence. Her hair was tousled in that 'just had sex' way, and the faint shadow of makeup on her lips and around her eyes seemed to magnetically draw his attention to her stunning features. Just as she'd said in her intoxicated stupor the night before, she was very much a princess.
And Nicholas, the lowly knight, unworthy of her beauty, wanted nothing more than to bow before her.
Nicholas laughed bitterly to himself. This was an all new low for him. A pathetic regression to the quiet, awkward nerd he'd been in high school, Nicholas found himself replaying their short conversation, and over-analyzing her words.
She liked his apartment.
She liked his art.
She liked his cooking.
Perhaps that meant she liked...him?
There was no longer any doubt that his heart reacted to her presence just as strongly as his libido. Nicholas wanted to impress Emelie just as much as he wanted to fuck her.
Nicholas put the remaining dishes away, and aimlessly organized and re-organized the contents of different cabinets and shelves — anything to kill time. He found a few loose business cards in a miscellaneous drawer, and paused on the card of psychiatrist his sister had recommended after his breakup with Kate.
Nicholas needed therapy now far more than he did after Kate left him. At least then, he'd been appropriately grieving over the end of a relationship with a long-term partner, a woman his age, whom he'd truly loved and planned on marrying.
But now, an eighteen-year-old girl was the singular object of his inappropriate lusts and affections.
Nicholas shoved the card in his back pocket, resolved to make an appointment first thing Monday afternoon.
Almost an hour later, the faucets ceased, but Emelie didn't return. He wondered if maybe she was feeling sick from the alcohol and drugs, and he found himself hurriedly running up the stairs to check on her health.
But the guest bathroom was empty, steamy with the scent of the body wash he used every day. Nicholas checked the room she'd slept in, and it too was empty. He saw that she'd made the bed, and had removed her belongings. There was no evidence whatsoever that she'd even been there.
He checked the second guest bedroom, his office, and each additional bathroom down the hallway, but he still couldn't find Emelie. It was as if she'd vanished, evaporated, as if she were a beautiful figment of his lonely imagination.
He paused in front of the double doors to the master bedroom, his bedroom, and detected a faint whisper of movement beyond the threshold.
On an impulse, Nicholas pushed the door open.
And he found Emelie kneeling at the foot of his bed, with nothing but a small towel protecting her naked body.
"Please don't be mad," Emelie said quickly. She couldn't tell if Carlisle was about to yell at her, or...something else. His brow was deeply furrowed in a powerful scowl, but there was no denying his heavy breathing and wide eyes. Mixed with his anger was a look of distant lust, and Emelie tried to focus all of her energy on the unmistakable hint of that latter feeling.
"What are you doing, Emelie?" he asked. His voice sounded lower, almost hoarse. But he wasn't yelling at her or telling her to leave — surely, that was a good sign.
Emelie swallowed her fear and stood from the bed, and slowly walked towards Carlisle. She only stopped moving when she was directly in front of him, and she felt his gaze drop to her cleavage, propped up by the knot of a small bath towel.
She exhaled, hoping this meant that he was admiring her.
"You saved me last night, Mr. Carlisle. I really, really want to thank you," Emelie said, absently reaching for his torso. Her hand settled on his hard chest, and Emelie bit her lower lip in excitement. She could feel his heartbeat hammering beneath her fingers. He flinched beneath her touch, but to her delight, he didn't retreat or push her away.
Emelie felt her sex begin to pulse as she slowly trailed her fingers across his stomach and chest, outlining the strong abdominal muscles hidden beneath a thin layer of cotton. Even his scent was beginning to arouse her, masculine and confident.
Boldly, Emelie lowered her hand, and couldn't help her gasp when her fingers came in contact with his growing erection. She squeezed him curiously, fascinated by how he seemed to expand even further in her hand.
"Emelie...please...I don't think you realize how much trouble I ca—"
"Do you want me or not, Mr. Carlisle?" Emelie interrupted. She closed the distance between them, pressing her body directly against his. Almost as if in pain, she watched as Carlisle struggled to raise his gaze to meet hers. His pale blue eyes were wide and unblinking, and entirely hungry.
But still, he didn't speak.
On a frustrated impulse, Emelie reached for his wrist, and slowly guided it between her thighs, underneath the damp towel. She felt herself trembling as she led his hand closer and closer to her sex, his long fingers softly clinging to her inner thighs.
"Do you want me or not, Mr. Carlisle?" Emelie asked again. She held his hand mere millimeters away from her pussy, before releasing her hold on his wrist.
And to her delight, he didn't move his hand away.
There seemed to be a storm of thoughts in his eyes as he stared back at her. One moment, he'd look aroused, but the next, he'd look furious. Emelie couldn't tell if he was about to passionately make love to her, or kick her out of his home in disgust.
She swallowed hard, growing increasingly nervous as Carlisle's expression continued to darken.
He was going to reject her.
"God...yes," he whispered.
Before Emelie could take her next breath, or even fully process what he'd said, Carlisle crushed his lips against hers, and she couldn't help but squeal in utter enjoyment.
He wasn't kissing her quite the way he had in his office. There was nothing careful or remotely hesitant about the way his lips moved over hers. His kiss was aggressive and hard, and Emelie felt her arousal surge as his tongue probed deeper into her mouth, almost as if he was trying to devour her.
She felt deliciously subdued in his arms, feminine and sexual, as Carlisle held her against his body with a masculine strength and maturity that filled her with an overwhelming sense of comfort, and excitement.
He lowered his grip to her thigh, rapidly hoisting her legs around his waist as he continued kissing her, supporting her with a strong hand at the back of her neck, gripping her wet hair. He carried her as if she were weightless, not once hesitating or breaking stride, before dropping her in the center of his bed.
Emelie sat up on her elbows to reach him, but then he pressed against her shoulders.
"Lie down, Emelie," Carlisle said. His voice was husky and commanding, and that faint sense of gentle dominance excited her further. Emelie reclined on the large pillows, relaxing her body for whatever he wanted to do.
Her heart pounded in her chest as he brought his hand between their bodies, to the point where the towel was knotted. Suddenly, a sense of fear began to creep into her consciousness at the thought of Carlisle seeing her naked.
She hadn't yet had a workout, and she'd eaten only an hour ago. Would he be disgusted with her?
But the fear was silenced once he removed the towel in a single motion, and she lay before him, completely exposed.
She could feel his breath on her bare skin as he stared at her body, and she shivered in a combination of chill and excitement. It felt like her breasts were swelling as he stared at her, her nipples hardening almost painfully. The hot, insistent slickness between her thighs made it impossible for her to keep still, and Emelie slowly separated her legs to grant herself relief.
But to her surprise, Carlisle didn't immediately reach for her pussy, or even begin taking off his clothes. He simply continued...staring at her.
"Is...something wrong?" Emelie asked eventually. Was her stomach still large from everything she'd eaten earlier? Did he find her...unattractive?
Carlisle brought his eyes to her face, and the seriousness in his gaze nearly terrified her.
But when he spoke, she was filled with a strange comfort.
"You're beautiful, Emelie," he said.