33. Harrison
Chapter 33
Harrison
B lake and I are playing with dough. Real fucking dough. Not Play-Doh like I played with when I was a kid. Nope. Hunter made edible dough for his daughter to play with and added natural food coloring. We’re not encouraging her to eat it, and it doesn’t taste good. It’s just safe.
We smash it around in our fingers, and I give her some spoons, measuring cups, a spatula, and a silicone whisk. We push around the dough with the tools, and she experiments happily with ear-splitting squeals of joy.
“So, do you feel like you’re going to be able to handle saying goodbye in a few weeks?” Hunter’s tone is warm but authoritative.
He and Cassidy are sitting at the table watching B and me while the three of us have a drink. I filled them in on everything. I figure since Harlow has Meg, it would be nice to have someone in my corner, too. At first, I considered Silas, but his advice really isn’t the kind that I need right now. Hunter is, in the end, my best friend and brother. Cassidy and I are close, and she can give me more perspective.
“Yeah, I guess a part of me feels guilty for this other guy. Like, he doesn’t know I’m over here sleeping with Harlow before she goes back home to marry him.”
Cassidy sticks a hand up to pause me. “If. If she decides to do it. Harlow is her own woman she doesn’t have to marry anyone she doesn’t want to,” she states firmly. Just as I anticipated, Cassidy is upset about Harlow’s lack of freedom.
“We don’t come from the kind of family she does. No one around here does. I don’t think we can really even wrap our heads around the kind of life Harlow has,” I say a little defensively. I care for her as more than a friend. I don’t want them to think that she’s weak or fickle. She’s not either of those things. If she accepted this engagement, it would be because she’s loyal. I don’t think we can truly understand the complexity of the proposal she’s considering. It’s not as simple as saying no.
“Well, I can’t imagine anything being more important than her freedom,” Cassidy states firmly.
“What about family?” I ask, and I see her head jerk back. She looks over to Blake and then to Hunter before looking back to me.
“I would do anything for the people at this table right now. But I could never ask Blake to marry someone she didn’t love.” How can Harlow let her family down? How could her family ask something so huge of her? We really can’t understand it.
I leave my brother’s place, not having much more figured out. As I drive past the path leading to the fork that divides us, I think about what I want to do for the next few weeks .
I don’t know how I’m going to feel after she leaves, but I do know that until she does . . . I want her.
I take a right and head toward the bunkhouse to see what she’s been up to this evening. There’s a glow coming from inside, and a warmth permeates the front door. I wouldn’t call the current weather frigid, but it’s too cold for a bonfire. If we were to hop into the tub, I could imagine Harlow tiptoeing as fast as she could to get in.
I don’t even get to knock at the door before Harlow pulls it open. She likely saw my headlights as I pulled into the spot next to hers. A warm, yellow glow creates an inviting halo around her tall, thin frame. Her hair is wet, hanging over her shoulder, and loosely braided without a hair tie. She’s wearing her crew neck sweater and leggings with a pair of gray fuzzy socks that go a little above her delicate ankles.
Before I can truly take her all in, she leans forward and kisses my lips lightly.
“Hey, kid,” she breathes against me before going in again.
I don’t think, I just act. Scooping her up into my arms, I carry her into the house and kick the door closed behind me.
How can a woman look more beautiful after a shower and wearing pajamas than any model I’ve ever seen on social media?
I kiss her harder than she had kissed me, and she answers back with as much fervor. I’m lucky I never laced my boots when I left Hunter’s because stopping to get out of them would have been a total bitch.
I hear the heavy thud of my boots being kicked off as I carry her up the stairs and into her room. I’ve never really kissed someone with my eyes open before, and, if I had, not like this. Maybe when I was younger and awkward. This time, it is with intention. Her charcoal eyes look at me intensely. Baiting and pulling me in until I’m lost.
I think about tossing her on the bed, but instead I turn and sit so she’s straddling me. We kiss and bite at each other, using our tongues to trace the wounded and abused flesh. Moans and soft pants fill her room.
Harlow’s delicate hand splays across my chest, pushing me back to lie down. I take in the space around me. It’s the same as I had set up for her, but in many ways, it’s different. The closet door is open, revealing her black wardrobe. The room smells like sea salt and a light floral scent, something like orchids. Cleo’s bed is in the corner with a heating pad on top. The feline lays there, content and asleep.
She must recognize my distraction; her slender but strong fingers grip my chin and force my gaze back to her. When I make eye contact, Harlow slips off me to pull my pants off. I pull my shirt over my head, then quickly get back to lying on the bed where she left me. I’m smarter than to disobey her when she’s like this. She wants to take the lead, and I enjoy letting her.
Her warm lips wrap around me as she takes me in as far as she can. I want to touch her, but I know better than to touch without permission.
“Harlow,” I moan as I feel her tongue massage the underside of my length. “Can I touch you?”
I feel the nod of her head against me. My hands move to her head, not moving her, but bobbing with her motion. I love the connection. Not even a dozen words between us before we were in each other’s arms.
My dick twitches with its need to release, but Harlow pops off before I can finish .
When she kneels back, I see her hand between her legs, fingers massaging her clit.
She moves to straddle me, and I grab her hips to stop her.
“I won’t last,” I admit, and an almost malicious smile crosses her face.
“Good.” She climbs atop me, parting her lips with her two fingers and sliding down my shaft. My whole body shudders, thighs flexing, and a rush of air leaves my chest. My eyes are fixed on where we connect, and when I look up, I see that her eyes are fixed on me.
“So fucking good,” she moans.
Harlow rides me, my hands gripping her hips. I want to buck up, flip her over, and fuck her with complete abandon. But I fight all those urges and let her use me. She’s beautiful like this, and she doesn’t even know it. She’s not trying to be hot; she’s just bringing pleasure to us both.
“Oh, fuck,” she hisses, and I feel the tightening of her cunt around me.
“Shi—” I start, but Harlow drops down and takes my mouth in hers. With a desperation I’ve only ever experienced with her, we kiss messily.
I can’t help my next movements; my body is on autopilot as I pump up into her, meeting her thrusts. Harlow pushes herself back up, places her hands on my chest, and rides me harder than anyone has before. The rhythmic pulsing and a loud moan that leaves her pushes me over the edge. I come inside her, making a mess of us. The minute she lifts herself off me, there is going to be evidence of our passion all over the place.
A sick impatience takes over and I lift her hips. She gasps in surprise, and I press my fingers inside her, feeling the mess we made. My cum slides over my fingers as I massage her sensitive walls.
“Yes!” she screams, and I feel her come once again, but this time it pushes a large gush of fluid, likely my own, down my hand and forearm.
Harlow falls forward, catching herself with her hands, and looks me directly in the eyes. She looks exhausted, sated, and beautiful.
“Damn, that was good shit,” she states before giving me a quick, chaste kiss.
“It was great.” I kiss her back.
My mind might not know what the fuck is going on, but my body does.
“This is really good,” I tell Harlow after reading a poem she wrote. We’re sitting on the couch, Kill Bill playing in the background, her feet in my lap. She’s wearing that crew neck sweater with just her underwear.
It wasn’t her intention to share this with me, but it was laying out with other “scribbles” as she calls them on the coffee table. When I asked her if I could read it, she said yes right away.
“You’re my muse, after all.”
As I read the pages on the top, I realized how talented she is. Her writings are deep, emotional, and a little tortured. I see a larger stack of papers and move to grab them, as well.
“That’s a book I’m kind of working on.”
“A book?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll do anything with it, it’s just been really therapeutic to write it. I haven’t read anything like it myself, so I can’t say I’m doing the genre any justice.” A light blush crosses the apples of her cheeks, but she turns and looks at the screen where Uma Thurman continues to kick ass.
“What genre?”
“Umm.” She rolls her lips together and squints a little before taking a deep breath. If it’s anything like her poetry, it would likely be psychological romance. I know she edits thrillers, suspense, and horror. So it can’t be that. That’s her favorite genre and she said she’s never read anything like it.
“Erotica,” she whispers.
“No one else can hear us, Harlow, and I’m certainly not going to judge you. Do you mean like open-door romance?” I question. I adore a good romance, and I haven’t been afraid to admit it. That’s probably why I’m so excited for my own happily ever after. I want to make fiction a reality.
“No, it’s truly just erotica. I don’t even think there is much substance to it, and I think it’s too agonizing for anyone else to read.”
I hold the papers in my hands, and I can tell this is hard for her to share. It’s not like the poetry. It’s dark, but not malevolent.
“Well, I’d like to know more, so instead of my reading it, why don’t you tell me about it? You said I inspired you, should I be worried?”
She lets out a small laugh, still looking at the screen. She glances over at me, and then she shakes her head.
“You know how we kind of do a few power plays when we are fooling around?”
I nod.
“I don’t know what it is about you, but it’s like you’ve awakened this curiosity into the BDSM world. I’m not saying I want to do all that stuff, but I do know that when I watch some submission videos, it really turns me on. I know that whenever we kiss, touch, or fool around, I get these thoughts of ways people could pleasure each other. To find release in ways only they can understand with the right partner.”
I’m floored by her admission. Does she want to find a partner to better understand her sexual desires? She just told me that she doesn’t want to actively do it, but she wants to help people understand and maybe get comfortable with it. I don’t speak as I wait for her to continue.
“So, I started writing about this girl who escaped from being sex trafficked. She seeks therapy and falls in love with her counselor. Every single word I wrote seems taboo, but her counselor heals her in more ways than one . . . you get it?”
I nod again.
“So, when I’m fooling around with you, or we spend time together how does that help?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I just feel more at ease than I ever have. I feel creative and free. I enjoyed my actual job more than I ever have. And trust me, when I first started my job, I really fucking loved it.”
“Do you think you’ll always want to be the editor and never the writer?”
She rolls her neck from side to side as Uma kills another opponent in a bloody mess. I squeeze her feet harder letting her know she's in a safe space.
“Yes, I do. I think I’m always going to want to edit books. I love getting the first look. I love cheering on my writers. I love helping get a book into other people’s hands and watching them enjoy it.” She smiles softly at the gorefest in front of us. “I like writing for me. ”
“Well, I like readin’ it, so when you go back home . . . make sure you send me your stuff.”
“Only if you share your drawings with me, too.”
We sit there looking at each other, the screams of men and women in the background. I’m not a horror or gore fanatic, but they don’t bother me. If they are done right with a good story and effects, I think they hold a lot of weight in the film world.
“For—” I’m interrupted by Harlow’s phone. It buzzes in front of us on the table next to the pages I had put back down.
Heath
I read the name and look over to Harlow; it only takes a moment for me to realize this is the guy she was talking about. Her brows pinch together, and she bites the inside of her cheek. She looks over at me, and I offer her what I think is a supportive smile.
“Don’t avoid answering on my account, take it if you need to. I don’t want you to have to deal with any drama later.” Harlow’s eyes squeeze shut as if I had hit the nail on the head. Pulling her feet off my lap and standing, she picks up her phone before walking over and taking a seat on the stairs. It’s not far from me, but with the movie on, it’s enough.
I hear murmurs and short, clipped responses. I can make out that she’ll be back soon and the weather’s perfect, but not much else. Saying that I’m not trying to hear would be a lie, and somehow that makes the movie that much louder. I decide that I should do the right thing and pay attention to the movie again. I forgot that there is an animated scene in this movie, which is just as gory as the rest of the film.
When Harlow joins me back on the couch, we settle into each other the way we always do. Maybe everyone is right. After going through something like this, I will be able to tell when I meet the one because spending time with Harlow is as easy as breathing. Damn, that’s cheesy—it’s more like it’s as easy as knowing I prefer fall over spring. It’s as easy as knowing that the first dip in our family pond every summer will be refreshing. It’s as easy as getting into the saddle on Star. It’s just easy.
When I meet the one, it will have to feel perfect after weeks like this with her.