Chapter 25 Flirting Might Actually Kill Me #2
We clamber up the stairs, our thumping steps dulled by the carpet runner, and stop in front of a closed door at the beginning of the hall.
Harley lets go of my hand, and I despise the rush of air against my palm; the loss of warmth; the slightly humid tack to the skin.
My fingers curl inwards, nails digging into the flesh, but they relax when Harley swings open the door with a dramatic flourish.
“Come right this way, mi’lady,” he drawls in a terrible fancy accent, peering at me over the frames of his glasses.
I play into our bit and roll my eyes. His smile grows—balloons really—to the point that I could pop his pronounced cheeks like one.
I stroll into his bedroom and am hit with the scent of him. Books. Cinnamon, fresh, like he had a candle burning not too long ago. Old wood and that house mildew that some would find gross, but I find endearing.
Harley follows but doesn’t shut the door behind him, shooting off to the walk-in closet and disappearing between the rows of clothing. The sharp swipe of hangers over metal poles fills the room.
I explore as I wait. A big bed takes up most of the space, with two nightstands on either end and a dresser with a TV across from it.
Bracketing the dresser are bookcases. Some shelves are filled with old, clothbound classics, some house newer releases with colorful sprayed edges facing out, and some are home to library books, sheathed in plastic with their barcode stickers peeling on the spines.
I trace my finger over all of them, and the differing textures scratch a sensory itch I didn’t know I had.
Maybe, in my next series, I could play with texture. I’m partial to a smoother canvas—I like my paint to blend unless it purposefully isn’t meant to. But an experiment could prove fruitful.
My tongue traces over my faint smile, tastes the possibility of a next.
Look at me, thinking about the future of my art.
Maybe I should do drugs more.
“Here,” Harley says, popping out of the closet wearing a brown cardigan and clutching a matching one between his long fingers. “I have two of these, so we can match.”
Or maybe they’re the drug. I should do them more. Or start doing them.
I giggle to myself.
Harley’s head cocks to the side with curiosity. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, stifling my laughter.
“Nothing?” he repeats.
“Nothing,” I tut, like I’m keeping a secret.
Harley hums. “Here.” He spreads out the cardigan, holding it so I can slip my arms through.
I turn around, stabbing my hands through the sleeves, and Harley pulls it up the rest of the way.
He adjusts it so it sits right on my shoulders and runs both hands down to my wrists.
He hums again, noting how the sleeves land past my fingers.
He pushes them up, gently, one by one. The soft cashmere fabric brushes pleasantly over my forearms, as do his fingers, as he rolls the sleeves to my elbows.
“This should warm you back up,” Harley whispers, and his breath is right there, on the back of my neck, where the earthquakes of my flesh originate.
That’s not what’s making me shiver, I think, hoping he can read my mind.
I spin around. “How do I look?”
I hook my hands into the pockets and pose dramatically—as if I’m a model on the other side of a camera lens. It’s silly, but it feels good to indulge my whims.
It also feels good to be looked at with such dopey, blatant desire.
“You should keep that,” Harley says, nodding to himself like he’s answering a question from his head. “It looks good on you.”
“It’s too big,” I say.
“It’s mine,” he counters.
“Fair.”
“You should keep it,” he repeats.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
Harley is a strange mix of always nervous and sometimes confident.
He isn’t only one thing at a time, which is very human of him, considering he’s not.
He’s like me; there’s a cautiousness to every choice, and a carelessness in the way he executes them.
As if once he’s committed to something, he can’t help but throw himself into it.
Right now, I want to throw myself into him. But I’m cautious with the how.
“You’re cute,” I say, because it’s the truth.
“So are you, in my clothes,” he volleys back, no hesitation.
Can’t he just kiss me already?
He’s so close. And he looks like he wants to. There’s no mistaking the flickering caress of desire by his eyes, as if they’re his lips and they’re kissing every inch of me.
His hand reaches up, and I hold my breath, waiting for the moment where he pulls my face to his. Except his fingers simply brush a curl from where it lays against my cheek and tucks it behind my ear.
Then he grabs my hand, and he’s pulling me back downstairs. My mind is slow to catch up to my body, but once it does, we’re already in the kitchen, headed straight to the backdoor.
“Harley.” I dig my heels into the tile, pulling him to a stop. He turns around, brows knitted in that cute and confused way of his, as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“What?” he asks.
“Are you not going to kiss me?” I ask.
His lips part as he blinks, his mind working double-time to process my question. The moonlight streams through the kitchen windows and sliding glass door, casting us in a cool glow.
“Do you want me to?” he finally asks.
“I thought the cardigan ploy was to get me alone so you could,” I say, stepping closer.
“It wasn’t a ploy, it was to make sure you were warm.”
“I wouldn’t have minded if it was.”
“Really?” His throat bobs.
I nod. “Kiss me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Harley, if you don’t kiss me right now, I might actually die.”
His head falls back with a groan. “I love how you speak in hyperbole.”
I fist his cardigan, uncaring if I stretch out the cashmere, and pull him to me.
Boom. Crash. Pow. Whatever other noises cars make when they hit each other. I’m okay with being charged with vehicular manslaughter though, if it means I get to be kissed like this.
Fuck, he’s a good kisser.
Not like I have that many people to compare it to, but still.
Harley’s lips are so soft, I could be kissing clouds. They’re tentative at first, but their confidence grows exponentially with every caress. A tortured sigh rushes out of his nose as my teeth graze his bottom lip, balmy breath coating me in his mounting desire.
My nails, even with the barrier of his cardigan against my palm, dig into my skin to the point of drawing blood. I’m tugging him closer and closer—he can’t get fucking close enough.
We stumble backwards and Harley’s arms catch us against the counter, bracketing me. His body is flush to mine, and he shamelessly grinds his hardening arousal against my hips.
I love it, crave it—the way he’s unraveling. Arousal strikes me so hard I’m almost knocked off balance. I lean my back into the counter, urging him to press me against it.
To devour me. To fuck me. We could absolutely fuck like rabbits right now and I—
I snort, unintentionally breaking our kiss.
Fuck like rabbits. I stifle my laughter with a hand over my mouth.
He’s a rabbit shifter. Oh my god, I’m fucking hilarious.
“What’s so funny?” Harley asks for the second time tonight. It’s not an annoyed question, it’s asked with genuine curiosity. He enjoys learning how my brain works, clearly loves the way it hops between topics, drawing connections where others might not.
“I’m just giggle-happy,” I say, biting into my lip.
The pain helps to bring me back down to earth, but it also makes me hornier.
I soak in Harley’s slightly unhinged appearance: lips puffy from our kisses and glasses fogged.
I release his cardigan, leaving the fabric indented with my handprint, and gently remove his glasses.
As I draw them to me, I notice the tiny smudges spread across the glass.
“Why are these so dirty?” I ask. “You can’t possibly see through them.”
He hums, nose bumping into mine teasingly. “Sometimes the world is more beautiful when you see it less clearly.”
A beat passes between us, one where we both realize how ridiculous his statement is. That beautiful blush fills his cheeks, and he clears his throat.
“Actually, that’s a complete lie.” He cringes. “Dirty glasses are the worst. It’s just too dark to care right now, and I’m trying to woo you with fancy words. Is it working?”
I place his glasses on the counter. “I’m going to steal that one liner for an art piece I think.”
“Steal away,” he says, then on a whisper adds, “You could take anything from me and I’d be happy about it.”
“Then that isn’t stealing,” I chide, reaching up to boop his nose twice. “That’s sharing.”
Harley releases a strangled, desperate sound. “Is it? I must need to refresh my vocabulary.”
“Do you like the idea of that?” I ask.
I don’t know what it is about Harley, but he makes me bold.
I’m addicted to pulling reactions from him; the tick of his jaw is great, but I want more.
I need that decadent shade of peachy pink in his cheeks to spread down his neck, so I can study it.
I still haven’t mixed it perfectly on my palette, only managed a good enough version for now.
“Do you like the idea of sharing me?” I press.
He nods, but the flush isn’t deep enough. I let my fingers toy with his belt loops, and his hips press harder against mine on instinct—chasing my touch.
“… of being shared?” I add.
There. That’s the bloom I’m looking for. Blossoming on the tips of his ears. Crawling down the taught tendon of his neck.
Memories of Jessa flash through my mind. But you are my good boy, she once said to him at the beach. It finally clicks as to why he hasn’t initiated more—why he didn’t kiss me first.
He’s waiting for permission.
“Ask for it,” I say, running my hands up his chest to hook around his neck. His breath stutters under my touch. My lips graze his as I speak. “You haven’t touched me yet. Ask me for it.”
Harley’s entire body melts.
“Can I touch you?” he mumbles into my mouth, a tortured rasp. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
I hum around his bottom lip, suckling it. “Make me feel good.”