Chapter 28 – Harper
TWENTY-EIGHT
HARPER
It’s been five days since telling everyone about the designs and two days since our little sabotage of Jeremy's car.
For a while after we got home, I worried someone would come knocking at the door to arrest one or both of us, and this whole mess would start over again. Fortunately, Wes reassured me his security contact at the garage confirmed that Jeremy thinks the culprit was some annoying local kids messing with things, and so far, we’re in the clear.
Each night, I’ve fallen asleep with Wes, usually after he fucks me senseless, and woken up in his arms, something so foreign and yet so comfortable. The little voice in my head keeps whispering things are too easy, that this too, like almost all good things in my life, will end and blow up in my face. But for the first time in a long time, I’m forcing her to be quiet.
This morning, though, I woke without my husband. I squinted at the clock and saw it was nearly ten, then spotted the lime green Post-it, the same hue that was on the stack of cookie dough a month ago, beside it.
Little wife,
Let you sleep in. I couldn’t bear to wake you.
-Wes
After reading that, I let out a tiny squeal, kicking my feet with the all-consuming joy of liking someone— falling for someone—before I rolled out of bed to do my morning routine. Once I was done, I went downstairs to make my coffee with the creamer Laurel begrudgingly buys now, then wandered the house to find my husband.
I think I find him when I hear the low bumping from where Wes told me his makeshift studio is, though I’ve never been there. I open the basement door, the beat getting louder, and I assume Wes has loud music on to play along with. Opening the door, I start to step down, and I’m quickly blown away by the setup. The walls are covered in egg carton-looking padding, creating what I assume is a sound barrier, and there are a dozen instruments along the walls.
Wes plays guitar for Atlas Oaks, but from the look of the room, he can play everything. That’s confirmed when I look to the corner of the room where a shirtless Wes is wearing big, noise-cancelling headphones, sweating as he slams on the drums in front of him. It’s magic to watch, his body moving smoothly and somewhat chaotically in what could be an absolute racket, but instead, sounds perfect. It’s the beat of some song I somewhat recognize, despite not hearing any other part. As he ends the song, I start clapping. He must hear me, or maybe he catches a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision, because he smiles, slipping off the headphones.
“Wow,” I say, leaning in the doorway as Wes wipes his forehead with a towel. He’s wearing no shirt and just a pair of loose shorts, toned muscles on display, and I’m reminded just how hot my husband is. “That’s so much more intense than I realized,” I say, and his lips tip up in a smile as he reaches down, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long drink. I definitely don’t watch the way his throat moves with each swallow. “I didn’t know you could play drums.”
“I can play it all, for better or worse,” he says, then tips his head, telling me to come closer.
I do as he asks, stopping a few feet from where he sits. “What do you like best?”
He shrugs. “I like them all. Drums are great when you have some pent-up…” His eyes slowly move over my body before he smiles. “Feelings.”
“Oh,” I say, my eyes going heated, my body doing the same. “I, uh. I can see how that would help to release those…feelings.” I clear my throat, looking around the room to distract myself. “You can play that?” I ask, my eye moving to the trombone in the corner, and he nods.
“My first instrument. Started in fifth grade. Chose it because I thought I could make fart noises with it.”
I let out a little laugh and move closer to him, my fingers shifting toward a wide golden symbol, a light chiming coming from them as I run my nails over the metal.
”You play anything?” he asks, and I laugh, shaking my head while forcing myself to not look at his bare chest.
“God, no. I’m about as untalented musically as one can be.”
“I doubt that. Anyone can learn anything.”
I give him a small shake of my head. “I tried three different instruments in middle school and sucked at all of them. In eighth grade, my music teacher, Mr. Fieldman, very kindly and very gently told me maybe I should try something else. Anything else, I think.”
“Maybe you’ve just never had the right teacher.”
“No, I unfortunately have absolutely no rhythm.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe it, then tips his head toward the giant drum set. “Everyone has rhythm. Come here. I’ll give you a quick lesson. Drums are a good one to start with.”
I step back with a laugh. “Oh, god, no. No, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” I pause unsure of how to answer. “That must be worth a billion dollars,” I whisper, indicating his drum set.
“It’s replaceable.” And then he stands, grabbing my wrist in his calloused fingers and moving me until I’m standing before the massive set. He fiddles with the stool, lowering it so my feet can touch the ground, then pulls me down to sit. Next he messes with the heights of some kind of cymbal.
“Wes, you don’t have to mess with your whole setup,” I say.
“Every time Reed is down here, he fucks everything up. I’d much rather have my pretty wife doing it than his ugly mug.” I try to protest again, but he ignores me again before grabbing a fresh pair of drumsticks from a container. He then pulls up another stool to sit behind me so my back is to his warm front. The heat of him sears through my shirt.
“We’re going to do the first song I ever learned on drums.” I look over my shoulder and smile.
“So, the musical memory associated with it is learning how to play drums for you?” I ask, referencing the game we played on our honeymoon.
He stares at me, long and hard, before smiling.
“Not for long.” A chill runs through me before he moves, his hand covering mine to show me how to hold the drumstick. “Like this. Hold them steady, but not too tight. You want some looseness. Same with your wrists—you want control, but you also want to be able to easily move them.”
“That kind of sounds dirty,” I say with a laugh, and Wes is quiet before he clears his throat. “I’m sorry that was?—”
“Nope, nope, just trying to distract myself. Would be weird to get a boner right now.”
I snort out a laugh and shake my head. I follow his instructions, then hit the drum in front of me a few times.
“Good, you’re doing great. Now you can add in the kick,” he says, praising me before moving his hand down the outside of my leg and to my knee, rough fingers wrapping it and moving my leg in toward the larger drum on the floor until my foot is resting on the pedal. He shows me how to hit the kick drum, snare, and hi-hat cymbals together, and after a few minutes, the familiar sounds of “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire can be heard.
“I think I’ve got this. I could put Beck out of a job,” I joke. He laughs, and the rumble of it along my back is distracting, making my hand lose the beat.
“Hardest thing to do as a drummer is keep time,” Wes says, and I let out a small laugh.
“You don’t say,” I say, going back to the moves he taught me, but then he presses his lips to the spot beneath my ear. A shiver rolls through me, my hands hesitating and losing that beat again.
“Not so easy, is it?” he asks, his hand on my knee moving up just an inch, and, despite myself and all common sense, I shift ever so slightly, my legs sliding open a bit further. The skirt of my shirt dress I threw on this morning slides up my thighs, leaving little to the imagination. The groan he lets out reverberates through his chest and into my back, forcing a soft gasp from my lips.
“What are you doing to me?” he asks, his breath ghosting along my neck.
“Not sure, but I think you’re doing it right back,” I whisper like I’m worried that if I speak out loud enough, I’ll break this moment, and I very much do not want to break it—not when his fingers are slowly grazing along the inside of my thigh, teasing and taunting. Until his hand is under the fabric of my shirt dress, meeting the delicate lace of the thong I’m wearing.
“You know, I saw these in the laundry and wondered just how flimsy they’d be.” A finger slides under the lace as his lips leave wet kisses along my neck, sucking and nipping, my body reacting with heat and need, and again, I spread my legs just a bit, letting him have more room if he so desires.
God, I hope he desires.
Thankfully, he uses the invitation, sliding along the band of my underwear to my hip then down toward my aching core, then back up. He continues the circuit until I’m about to go crazy. My body melts into his, the drumstick falling to the ground with a clatter just as his fingers move further under the fabric at my hip, twisting, then tugging until a tearing sound fills the room.
“Wes!” I yelp, turning to look at him, a small smile on his lips.
“Just as I thought.”
“Those were expensive,” I say remembering the trip to the lingerie store with Ava before the wedding even though I told her Wes Holden was never going to see them.
“I’ll buy you a dozen more,” he murmurs, his hand tearing the other side before tugging until the flimsy fabric is away from my body, leaving me bare.
“Wes, that’s—” I start to argue, looking over my shoulder at him, but then his lips are on mine and I’m forgetting what I was annoyed by, especially when his fingers start to trail up the seam of my pussy. “Oh,” I whisper.
“Fuck,” he groans, his lips trailing down my neck, my head tipping to give him more room. “You’re so wet, aren’t you?” He adds a bit of pressure, pressing until he’s touching my center, then running up and over my clit before repeating the cycle.
It’s amazing. It’s blissful. It’s erotic.
It’s not enough.
“Please,” I whisper needily.
“Please what?” he asks casually, like he has all the time in the world, as if he’s not actively torturing me.
“Finger me. Fuck me. I don’t care, just do…something,” I plead, and he laughs against my neck. The man laughs . I turn my head again to argue, to glare at him, to yell at him—I’m not sure exactly, because before I can do any of that, he’s sliding a finger into me and I’m groaning.
“I have to leave soon, so I don’t have enough time to fuck you, but I’ll take care of you, baby,” he says, voice low as he pulls his finger back out of me, then slides it in.
I groan, my hips rocking to get more. My ass is on the very edge of the stool, but his arm is on my waist and his body on my back. It’s the only thing keeping me in place, and all I can focus on is the need spiraling around me.
Need for him.
His fingers slide out, and he glides them over my clit, making me moan loud. “God, you sound pretty.”
“Wes, please. Let’s…” I start, but my brain malfunctions as he slides two fingers back in and starts fucking me with them, his lips at my neck.
“This is enough for now.”
I want to disagree, to beg for more, to lay down on the floor and let him fuck me hard and fast, but I can’t focus on anything but the heat at my lower back, the pleasure between my legs, the way his voice sounds, his breath on my neck…my hips start rocking as he finger fucks me, trying to get myself there as I climb the hill of all-consuming pleasure.
“That’s it, little wife,” he groans into my neck, my head lolling to the side. His thumb rolls over my clit as my hips buck and shift to a new beat, one he’s creating and I’m powerless to. “Ride your husband’s fingers.”
“Wes,” I pant, my hand moving up to his neck, looking for something, anything to hold me in place. I feel like I’m going to float away, but inexplicably, I know he’ll always ground me. He breathes against my skin, as turned on by this as I am, his scruff scraping there and adding to the kaleidoscope of feelings.
My hips rock against his fingers moving inside of me. “God, it’s so good. I’m so close,” I moan, but then his fingers stop moving altogether, his teeth nipping at the skin of my neck as his arm holds me in place.
“Not yet, little wife. I’m enjoying myself.”
I groan, loving and hating this about him, the power he holds over my body as he so gently grazes over my clit. “Wes, please,” I mewl. “I need you so bad.”
He groans into my neck at my admission as he starts moving his fingers inside me again.
“When I get home,” he starts. His hard cock pokes at my back, and I shift toward it, trying to tease him the way he’s teasing me. “When I get home, I’m going to tease you for hours. Eat this pussy, play with it, never letting you come until I say so.”
I moan as the edge approaches quickly, bright, blinding pleasure coursing through me, but he slips his fingers out, moving them to just barely graze along my swollen clit.
“No!” I shout, and he chuckles.
The man chuckles.
I’d hate him if I didn’t need him so badly.
“Don’t worry, baby. I just want to make this last as long as I can. Has to tide me over until I get home.” His breath plays along my neck, and my eyes close as my head falls back again. My body is out of my control as I lift a hand to pinch a nipple through my thin bra, desperate for relief. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking beautiful. The next time I make you come, it’s going to be on my cock.”
“Yes, please,” I plead. “Now. Fuck me now.”
A pained laugh leaves his chest, reverberating through my back, but he shakes his head. “No, no. Not now. I like this for now.”
He slides his fingers down, filling me once more, but this time, he puts his thumb to my clit, circling it and sending me spiraling, moans and cries and prayers leaving my lips as I teeter on the edge. Somehow, someway, I hold on, though, knowing I need to wait.
Wes needs to let me fall.
“God, my little wife is such a good girl, isn’t she? Waiting for me to let her come,” he croons from behind me.
“Wes,” I whisper, unable to say any other word.
“Remember that name, baby. Scream it when you come.”
And then he’s fucking me fast and hard, his thumb rolling over my rolling over my clit as he does, and I’m falling, calling out his name as I do. His arm keeps me from falling to the ground as the pleasure pummels me, washing over me and leaving me what feels like a new person and basking in the aftershocks of my orgasm.
We sit there, panting for long minutes as I try and come back to my body, Wes’s fingers having slid out of me, his hands lifted and rearranged me at some point so I’m on his lap, limp and content, nuzzling into his neck.
Then his phone goes off, and he groans. “I hate to do this,” he says, voice low and filled with genuine regret. “But I’ve gotta get going to Riggs’s.”
“What about you?” I say, then blush because God, could I be less cool?
He looks at me, smiling wide and devious as he helps us stand, making sure my legs are settled before he presses his lips to mine, kissing me hard and deep.
Like a promise.
“When I come, it’s going to be inside you, Harper. But we don’t have time for me to do that right now, so it’s going to have to wait.” I pout—I actually pout at that—and he laughs, shifting and holding my chin in his hand, forcing his eyes to me.
“I won’t be home until late.” I nod, already knowing this to be the case. “Thank you,” he says against my lips.
“Thank me? ” I say, aghast. “I’m the one who came so hard I saw stars.”
His smile goes wide and boyish and proud. “And I promise you, I enjoyed it more than you could ever imagine.” Then he steps back and slaps my ass before grabbing my hand. “Come on. Upstairs. I gotta go.”