Chapter 39
39
HARPER
T he penthouse smells like coffee and vanilla, and faint music drifts in from the kitchen—Brody’s playlist, all oldies. The songs make me take a longer breath without even realizing it, and they remind me of being back at the cabin. I roll onto my side and stretch, feeling the delicious ache between my legs from the incredibly rough sex I begged for last night. Brody didn’t hold back, and I think I might feel him for weeks after that.
My phone is still on the nightstand, face down but buzzing with notifications. When I finally flip it over, it lights up with unread texts and photos that were taken yesterday at the hospital.
Weston
The caption for this photo is: Most Iconic Uncle of the Century.
He attached a picture of him holding two babies at once.
Carlee
You look like you stole them.
Billie
He did.
Weston
Blaze loved it.
Easton
We’re not naming one Blaze. Stop.
Asher
Too late. I think Weston already monogrammed some onesies.
They love trolling Easton because they know how easy it is to get a rise out of him. I smile and scroll through the pictures. Lexi is in bed, glowing and exhausted. Easton stands beside her, looking like he’s been hit by a truck full of emotions. The babies, tiny and swaddled, are all sleeping like they didn’t just rearrange the entire world by arriving.
I stop on one photo of me and Brody, taken by Carlee when we weren’t looking. He’s holding one of the boys, eyes downcast and focused. My arm is looped through his, my head tilted against his shoulder.
We look like a family. Not someday. Not maybe. Now.
I close the photo and place the phone back on the nightstand.
I hear the sound of a mug being set down in the kitchen, then Brody’s voice humming. I don’t call out. I don’t move yet.
I just lie here, wrapped in linen sheets, smiling, trying to convince myself this is really my life.
A breath later, the bedroom door creaks open, and Brody appears in the doorway, holding a mug in one hand and wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung pajama pants that should be illegal.
He leans against the doorframe and looks at me like I’m his sunrise.
“I was going to let you sleep in.”
“I know,” I say, stretching lazily. “But I missed you.”
He lifts the mug like an offering. “Forgive me. I brought coffee.”
I sit up, the sheet slipping from my chest. His eyes slide down my half-naked body, and I feel fully seen and appreciated. He crosses the room, sets the mug down on the nightstand, and then slides into the bed beside me, reaching for my waist like it’s second nature.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he says, brushing a kiss against my bare shoulder. “You look so fucking sexy. I just can’t help myself.”
His hand drifts lower, fingers skimming over the curve of my hip, and I don’t stop him. I tilt into his touch, hungry, wanting to come undone together.
“You didn’t come back to bed just to give me coffee, right?” I ask.
His mouth brushes the edge of my jaw as he kisses up my neck until he meets my ear. “I missed my favorite view.”
His fingers slide beneath the sheet, warm against my skin, and when he kisses me this time, it’s laced with something sweeter than urgency—it’s gratitude. His tongue slides against mine, his hand gripping my thigh, pulling me closer, and suddenly, there’s no air between us. No distance at all.
“You looked good with him,” I whisper, breath catching as he moves back to the softness of my neck.
“Who?” he asks, smiling against my skin.
“The baby,” I mutter, threading my fingers into his hair. “The picture.”
He lifts his head and meets my eyes, and for a moment, everything goes still.
“One day,” he says, rubbing his strong hand against my belly, “I’ll give you a baby.”
My heart flips, then lands, steady and sure.
I pull him back down to me, lips brushing his. “One day, I want that. When we’re both ready.”
“We’ll get lots of practice until then.” He smirks.
“Hell yes,” I say. “Lots and lots and lots of practice. We’ll be pros.”
And just like that, the coffee goes cold on the nightstand, completely forgotten as he slides between my legs. His cock is hard, thick, pressed right up against the curve of my thigh, like it woke up already desperate for me. I’m still half asleep, but my body is awake, ready and wet. I ache for him, and I shift just enough to press back into him.
His hand slides down my side to my waist in a possessive but gentle way. His palm cups my pussy like it’s his to hold. My nipples harden instantly as he flips me onto my back with one fluid motion, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, the other skimming down to my thigh.
“I’m in control this time,” he growls against my skin, nibbling along my jaw until his lips crash into mine.
I grin, loving every damn second of it.
He unapologetically claims me with his tongue, taking what he wants, and I give it all to him. I moan as my hips roll up instinctively.
“So fucking wet for me,” he mutters against my lips when his fingers part me. He rubs gentle circles against my clit, adding just enough pressure to make me gasp. “You gonna be good for me today?”
“Wreck me,” I breathe, knowing I’m still sore from last night.
“What do you need?” His voice lowers as he continues playing with my clit. “Say it.”
“I need your cock ripping me in two,” I moan, writhing beneath him, desperate now. “I need you to fuck me like I’m yours to keep.”
“Oh, you fucking are,” he says.
I buck into his hand, the orgasm building so fast because he knows exactly what my body needs. I nearly cry out when he pulls away, not giving me what I want.
I groan in frustration.
“Not yet,” he says, that wicked smirk pulling at his mouth. “Greedy little thing.”
“Maybe that will be my next tattoo,” I whisper as he kisses his way down my body like a man memorizing a map. His lips trail over my throat, my collarbone, my breasts. His tongue flicks over one nipple before his mouth closes around it, sucking hard while his hand continues teasing that clit. He parts my thighs, opening me like a feast he intends to devour.
When he gets low enough to breathe against my pussy, I shudder.
“You want my mouth?” he asks.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Then take it.”
I arch up into his face, rocking against him, but he’s there, tongue lashing over my clit with a rhythm that drives me wild. Two fingers slide deep inside me, and I cry out, hips grinding helplessly into his face.
He groans into me, and I love the way his scruff feels against my soft skin. He works me in sync, tongue and fingers, relentless and merciless. He’s making low, feral, hungry growls, like he’s claiming every inch of me with his mouth.
The build happens fast, and it’s impossible to outrun or hold back even if I wanted to.
“That’s it,” he encourages, flicking my clit just right. “Come for me. Let me taste you, Harp.”
I fall apart with a scream, the orgasm ripping through me like fire. My vision goes white as my legs tremble and shake. I can feel myself pulsing around his fingers, soaking his mouth, but he’s not done.
He flips me onto my hands and knees, grabs my hips, and drives into me in one brutal thrust.
“Fuck!” I cry out, the stretch overwhelming, but oh-so perfect.
His pace is relentless and deep. Every thrust slams into the spot that makes me see stars, the one that makes the world around me disappear. His hands grip my hips like he owns me. Fuck, he does. Every inch of me.
“Like being fucked so hard that you forget your name?”
I can’t speak, so I just moan and nod.
Another orgasm builds again, but this time, it’s fast and brutal. When he reaches around and rubs my clit in tight circles, I scream and shatter all over again, my pussy clenching around him like a vise. He fucks me through it and keeps going as I beg him to split me in half.
Another orgasm hits and then another, until I’m screaming his name, shaking, with my face buried in the sheets.
“Give me another one,” I demand, and he chuckles as he drives into me.
I chase something sacred, and I worship these moments together.
He wraps my hair around his fist and slams into me until I come again. I’ve lost count. I don’t even have words left. Just sounds and pleasure and him. Brody’s muscles tense, and he buries himself deep inside me. He whispers my name like a prayer, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes. He collapses over me, panting, his chest against my back, both of us soaked in sweat and satisfaction.
We lie there, breathless, ruined in the best way as we stare up at the ceiling. I turn my head just enough to see his sparkling blue eyes.
He gives me a smile, and I feel like the luckiest woman on the planet. To be loved and understood is officially my kink, and Brody gets it.
* * *
I’m curled into Brody’s side on the couch, still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and the kind of dazed glow that only comes from multiple orgasms from a man who knows how to use his mouth, hands, and cock. I like to call it the trifecta.
He has one arm slung around me, the other scrolling on his phone when he stills.
“Oh,” he says.
I glance up at him. “Oh?”
He turns the screen toward me, and there it is—an article about me.
The Ring. The Man. The Silence.
Let’s Talk about Harper Alexander.
“Oh no, ” I groan, grabbing the phone from his hand like I’m defusing a bomb.
FROM THE DESK OF LADYLUX
LuxBabies,
If you’re new here, just know that this post is based on speculation about public figures, using information that’s readily available online. My opinions are my own and purely for entertainment purposes. Now, since we have that out of the way, let’s talk about the woman who just broke the internet without saying a single word.
Harper Alexander.
Yes, her. The Bellamore co-founder who’s built an empire on quiet elegance, sharper-than-sin tailoring, and a PR strategy so tight that it could suffocate a scandal before it breathes. She’s been missing from the front-row circuit, the headline carousel, and every red carpet worth photographing. Until now.
Because while you were sleeping, Harper Alexander stepped back into the spotlight—ring first.
That’s right. No teaser post. No I said I DO caption. Just a diamond that could make an heiress weep and a man who looked like he’d burn the city down before letting go of her.
So, who is he? Brody Calloway.
Military background.
Zero social media presence.
Related to the Calloways—yes, those Calloways—by blood.
If Billie Calloway is a storm in stilettos, Brody’s the hurricane that doesn’t announce its landfall.
And if you’ve been paying attention—really paying attention—you’ve seen him. Behind her. Beside her. Quiet, steady, lethal if necessary.
Some of you are asking if this relationship is real or if it’s another scandal. Let me clear that up for you.
It’s more real than real.
And here’s why: Micah Rhodes—yes, the very same Micah she was once engaged to—is currently serving the rest of his life in federal prison. The charges? Too many. The damage?
Measurable only by how long it took Harper to show her face again.
Except … she didn’t just show up. She arrived. And this time, she wasn’t alone.
Word is, the engagement between her and Brody Calloway isn’t new. It just wasn’t ours to know about until now. Which, if you ask me, makes it even more iconic. Because while Micah made headlines, Harper made moves. She burned quietly. She rebuilt in silence. And now, she’s wearing the kind of calm only survivors earn.
Let’s also take a second to talk about that last name. Soon, she’ll be Harper Calloway. And something about that just fits, doesn’t it?
Maybe it’s the fact that she and Billie have always moved like two sides of the same blade—opposite but equally dangerous. Maybe it’s because Harper’s always belonged to power, and now she gets to belong to a family that knows what to do with it. Or maybe it’s just because she looks happy for the first time in her life. But it’s right. It’s meant to be. It’s the real deal. And of course, that’s just a LadyLux opinion.
But if you’ve been here a while, you know I tend to 99% accurate.
So, here’s to the softest launch that ended with the loudest statement. Harper’s story is encouragement to the other women out there who don’t owe anyone their survival story. And now she has the kind of love that doesn’t ask for applause—just permanence.
Harper Alexander, soon-to-be Calloway, didn’t just walk away from the fire. She is the fire. Maybe I’ll get an exclusive invite to the wedding.
Stay tuned, LuxBabies. I have a feeling this love story’s just getting started.
xo,
LadyLux
I read it. Every damn word, every deliciously dramatic, perfectly penned word.
Harper Alexander, soon-to-be Calloway, didn’t just walk away from the fire. She is the fire.
My mouth falls open, and my cheeks are somewhere between flushed and stunned.
“She’s not wrong,” Brody says, still holding me.
“She makes it sound like I conquered a country.”
He leans in, kisses the edge of my jaw. “You did.”
I scroll back to the top, skimming again, shaking my head. “Did she really say burned quietly ?”
“ Iconic ,” he tells me. “I might get it tattooed.”
Laughter falls out of my chest and makes me feel lighter. Like someone else saw the worst version of me and still managed to write an ending where I won. Maybe that’s proof that this is reality.
We won.
Brody doesn’t look away. “She protected you. That’s all I care about.”
I lean into him, my head on his shoulder, our fingers laced on his chest.
“Do you think people will believe that I’m okay now?” I ask.
He kisses my temple. “They don’t have to believe it. Show them. The truth always sets you free.”
For once, I don’t feel like I’m surviving the narrative someone else wrote for me.
I finally feel like I’m the one holding the pen.