Chapter 4
FOUR
HARLOW
“Yes, I want to go home with you.”
Did I actually say that out loud? Who am I?
Seriously, this isn’t like me, I don’t do these kinds of things.
I never go home with anyone for a one night stand. Actually, that’s a lie. I did, once . It was back when I was in college under the influence of a steady stream of cheap beer, and false confidence. I regretted it the second I slept with the douchebag, whose name I can’t remember. Pretty sure he only wanted me because I let slip who my mother was.
And that’s generally the problem with the men I’ve been surrounded with my whole life, they’re interest in me only extends to their fascination with my beautiful, gregarious, famous mother. There have been countless times that I've been taken out on a date by men who only feigned interest in me until they met my mother, then it was as if I no longer existed. Once my mother got her claws into them, I was long forgotten.
But this time it’s different. He’s different.
I also don’t have the buzz of cheap alcohol running through my veins as an excuse to do something this reckless. Right now, there’s just this strange kind of wanting . I want to get to know Sterling more. I want to know why he seems so in pain, why he fainted. I want to explore what this strange feeling is in my chest. Is it purely lust? Is it sympathy? Is it a culmination of my own loneliness? Is it simply the need to escape for a while in the arms of a beautiful, albeit troubled man who looked at me like I was someone worthy of their attention?
As we step into his exposed brick apartment, I don’t regret my decision, not in the slightest. People do this all the time, right? Go back to someone’s place for ‘coffee’, which everyone knows is a euphemism for sex. I can’t deny the magnetism between us, and for once in my life I’m throwing caution to the wind and acting on instinct. All I know is that I don’t want coffee, or tea, I want to get lost in him, even if it is for just one night. At least I hope it will be.
“I’m sorry my place is a mess,” he apologises, grabbing some clothes thrown over the back of his battered, brown leather sofa and shoving them into a closet across the room. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“And I wasn’t expecting to end up back at a stranger’s place this evening either,” I reply honestly, biting down on my lip as I watch him stride around his spacious apartment, gathering empty glasses and dirty plates, and dropping them into the sink.
Whilst there are a lot of his belongings strewn around the place, there isn’t much by way of furniture. Just the beat up leather sofa, a wooden island separating the living space from the kitchen, and a bed raised off the floor by a platform and several steps. I can see a door ajar in the far corner of the apartment, and a bathroom beyond.
“You want to leave?” he asks, his startling blue eyes drilling into me as he stills, a frown creasing his brows.
“Not at all.”
“You don’t seem certain,” he continues.
“I don’t want to leave, not even a little bit,” I admit, then bark out a strained laugh, shaking my head at this woman I’ve suddenly become.
He cocks his head studying me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… I don’t…” Dragging in a breath, I puff out my cheeks. “I don’t normally do this.”
“Drink coffee?” he deadpans, and I’ve no idea if he’s trying to make a joke or if it’s an honest to goodness question.
His lack of, I don’t know, seductiveness is surprising, and I’m honestly not sure how a man who looks like him could be the exact opposite of what I’d expect. It’s kind of judgemental to assume that just because he’s good-looking he would know how to charm a woman into bed, but I can’t seem to help it. Maybe I’m more like my mother than I’d care to admit. She’s the queen of judgy.
“Go back to a man’s house for…” I clear my throat. “ Sex .”
“You want to have sex with me?” he asks, and I suddenly feel as though I’ve read the situation wrong. God, what am I doing?
“You want to have coffee?” I counter, cheeks blazing with heat as he stares, and stares, and stares. I don’t know where to look. Why does the way he looks at me make me feel so… exposed? “Oh my God, I’ve read this so wrong. I should probably–”
“I don’t want to have coffee,” he interrupts, swiping a hand through his hair, the silver striations in his eyes glinting with a sudden smouldering heat that resonates deep inside my chest.
“And the sex?” I squeak.
Why the hell am I pushing the subject? This is so damn reckless. Perhaps I’m more lonely than I’d thought? It’s been over a year since I’ve slept with a man, and whilst that’s never really bothered me, tonight I just need… Christ, I don’t know. I guess I just need to be someone else for a few hours. Harlow Richards would never, ever, do something like this. But my alter ego, Friday Love? I guess she would. She is .
He hauls in a breath, rounding the kitchen island and steps towards me. “It’s been a long time.”
“Since you’ve drank coffee or had sex?” I ask, my mouth running away with me once again.
“Both,” he replies, and it’s strained, his response. In fact, his whole body is.
I see it in the way he holds himself. I see it in the tightness in his shoulders, the tenseness around his jaw, and the way his fingers flex and curl into fists.
“Yet here I am,” I murmur, my arms falling to my side, my bag slipping from my shoulder and onto the floor as he approaches. I’m completely bewildered, uncertain of myself, yet willing to step into whatever’s happening, despite his tension and my very apparent lack of sexual history. As a woman heading towards her thirties I should be more experienced, but I’m not, and I guess it shows.
My palms press against my jeans, the humid air still clinging to the material as I watch him approach. As he steps closer, there’s a fierce kind of control in the way he moves his body, how he zeroes in on me. It’s not in a way that scares me, but in a way that makes my pulse spike and my skin heat.
“Here you are,” he agrees, that same intense look on his face as he reaches up and grazes the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. My breath stills, his hands are surprisingly warm, his touch gentle, and so different to his intense demeanour. “Cotton candy pink.”
“Sorry?” I ask, blinking up at him as a tentative smile softens his angular features with two sexy dimples. I imagine kissing them, and heat rises up my neck.
“Your lips, they're cotton candy pink,” he murmurs, serious once more. Which seems an odd thing to say given I’m wearing purple lipstick.
“I–”
“I’m going to kiss you now?” he says, a question more than a statement as he palms my cheek with one hand, whilst the other reaches behind my back and tugs me close, waiting for my approval.
“Okay.” I nod, giving him permission.
“Okay,” he mutters, edging closer until his lips hover over mine, tentative.
I feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and that strange pull between us tightening as the tip of his nose brushes against mine. He angles his head to the side, his breath soft as his lips trail over my cheek. My heart thunders, racing to a beat that appears to match his own as I press my palm against his chest.
“You’re wet,” I say, the dampness of his hoodie seeping into my skin. It’s a stupid statement, and it’s not as if I hadn’t already noticed.
“Got caught in the rain,” he explains, his lips lingering on my cheek.
“Shouldn’t you take it off… So you don’t catch a chill?” I add quickly, likely ruining the moment.
He nods, then pulls back, eyeing me as he reaches for the hem of his hoodie pulling it, and the t-shirt he’s wearing, off in one go. “There,” he says, dropping them both to the floor with a wet slap.
My eyes drop to his chest, to his sculpted pecs and six pack, and his smooth, lightly tanned skin. God, he’s even more beautiful naked. Well, almost naked. It has me wondering just what the rest of him looks like. Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I press my hand against the centre of his chest, and say, “Wow.”
“You like what you see?” he asks, and there isn’t an ounce of flirting as he says the words. It’s simply a question, as though he doesn’t realise just how attractive he is.
“From where I’m standing, you’re pretty perfect.”
He frowns as he steps back into my space, placing his hands where they were moments before stripping off. “Pretty sure I’m not.”
I open my mouth to protest, but his thumb captures my bottom lip as his fingers caress my cheek once more. Warmth coils deep and low in my stomach, arousal blooming outwards. I have to bite down on a whimper.
“So this is happening,” I blurt out instead, feeling like a teenager who’s never been kissed before, let alone fucked. I really should shut up now.
“Yes,” he mutters, and moments later his lips meet mine.
I expect softness, a kiss that’s exploratory even, but what I get instead is a knee-trembling intensity. His lips are firm, his kiss verging on desperate, and I fall into it headfirst as my lips part and his tongue licks brazenly into my mouth.
Oh…
Damn…
I feel his desire and lust resonating deep within my chest as he plunders my mouth with his tongue. His kiss is passionate, commanding, and sexy. Yet I feel his damage, a strange kind of brokenness too. Is that weird? That I can feel his pain as much as his lust? I don’t get to linger on that thought for long, because my body is reacting in a way I’ve never truly experienced before, and I’m lost to the taste of him, the feel of him, his… I don’t know. His essence, his aura? Something undefinable.
Christ, whatever it is, all I know is that Sterling can kiss. I feel his need, and my own intense desire, scattering down my spine as our tongues twine. It spreads out to all my extremities, pulsing through my veins, zoning in on my clit.
Throb.
Throb.
Throb.
My panties are drenched in seconds.
A guttural moan rises up his chest as his fingers dig into my hair, yanking at the strands still caught in my hair tie. There’s this potent kind of electricity snapping between us as he crowds my body with his and we stumble backwards against the wall, or at least that’s how it feels to me.
I imagine sparks flying in the air between us, zipping and zapping as we kiss and kiss and kiss.
Is this what being kissed should feel like? Because I can with certainty say that I have never been kissed like this before. Everything feels heightened, and I can’t seem to fathom why that is. He’s a stranger. I don’t know this man, and he doesn’t know me, and yet this energy between us, this attraction, feels extraordinary. Maybe that’s the point of one night stands, the not knowing a person, just acting on instinct, on basic human needs, pushing aside all rational thought and just feeling .
All I know is that I don’t want him to stop. I need to see this through.
I’m a puddle of lust, moaning into his mouth as he grinds his hips against mine. I don’t recognise myself as I grasp at him, my palm sliding upwards, cupping his face before sliding my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.
Who the hell am I?
Oh, that’s right, tonight I’m Friday Love, and I’m doing something reckless, something Harlow Richards would never do. It makes me feel empowered, and I ignore that nagging voice in my head to push him away and return to my monotonous life as Harlow, living in the shadow of her mother’s spotlight.
We kiss for what seems like an eternity, and God, it’s like lightning and starlight bursting behind my eyes. It’s overwhelming, exhilarating. My mind is a whirl of random, disjointed thoughts, but my body? My body is definitely leading the way, ignoring every warning that rushes through my mind and fizzles out before I can even make sense of them.
“Off,” he growls against my mouth, his hands sliding between us as he tugs at the buttons of my jacket. “Now.”
“Yes,” I respond, panting at the burning lust, at the frantic way our breaths mingle.
We’re both trembling, fumbling with my buttons, and our heads bump in our haste to remove my jacket. I let out a soft, gasping laugh.
“Shit, sorry.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping back, eyes widening as I reach up and rub my forehead. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. Not at all–”
But as I reach for him again, he abruptly turns on his heel and strides towards the sofa, leaving me quaking, reeling from his absence. My knees buckle, and my hands slap against the wall to steady myself. What is he doing now? I breathe heavily as he takes another step away from me, and another until he twists on his feet, and his arse hits the sofa.
“We should talk first. Get to know each other, yeah?” he offers, flicking his gaze away, looking as overwhelmed as I feel.
Truthfully, I want to say no, that I want to continue kissing him. I want to explain that if we stop now I might lose my courage, but I don’t. Instead I clear my throat.
“Sure, okay. Let’s talk. I can do that.”
Really though, can I? I’m not sure I can string a sensible sentence together right at this moment. I’m a ball of fizzing energy, of trembling lust, and I have to take a steadying breath to centre myself a little.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, jerking his chin towards me, indicating I should remove my jacket.
“Sure,” I agree, slipping it off and draping it over the arm of the sofa as I approach him.
I’m pretty sure that someone with more experience with one night stands would handle this with far more grace than me. Perhaps they’d even ignore his desire to talk and strip seductively. I briefly consider doing just that, but a sudden shyness overcomes me, and I plop down onto the sofa instead. “Do you want to talk about what happened in the club?”
“No,” he replies sharply, tensing up before quickly adding. “I apologise, that came out wrong.”
“That’s okay. I get it. Some things you just want to keep to yourself, right? Are you sure you’re okay?”
He nods. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m good. Can we just concentrate on the here and now?”
“Of course.” I don’t question him further, understanding that when all is said and done I’m someone he’s just met, and whatever caused him to faint, and the pain he seems to carry around, is a conversation that should probably happen when more trust is gained. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever see him again, so why would he open up to me? “What do you want to talk about?” I add.
“You.”
“Oh, okay. So what do you want to know?” I ask tentatively, not sure why, given I already know that there are plenty of things I’m not going to share with him tonight, namely my relation to a famous Hollywood starlet or my real name. The last thing I want to do is think about my mother, let alone speak about her, and if I give him my real name it will lead to a conversation I don’t want to have right now.
I want to remain Friday Love, I don’t want to be Harlow Richards.
“Your voice is incredible,” he says, tipping his head to the side as he turns his body to face me, his muscles tightening and releasing with the movement. He’s cut to perfection, a veritable Adonis, and yet again I find myself wondering why this man isn’t as arrogant or as self-assured as the men who I’ve met over the years appear to be.
“Thank you,” I reply, pressing my palms against my thighs, not sure what else to say, not sure what to do, even.
“I heard you from the street. I needed to see who was singing,” he adds, and the way he puts emphasis on the word needed, makes my cheeks flame. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
“Nowhere in particular. I’ve never taken singing lessons. I just like to sing. It makes me feel…”
I shrug, not sure how I can explain what singing means to me, and my gaze drops to my hands as I try to untangle all these feelings and thoughts he’s evoking in me.
“Alive?” he questions softly.
“Yes.” I lift my gaze back to his, understanding passing between us. “But more than that, at peace . Singing is an escape for me.”
“I felt that,” he agrees with a nod, then whispers, “I felt more than that too. So much more.”
I honestly don’t know how to respond to that statement. So I don’t.
Reaching for me, he curls his large palm around one of my hands and squeezes gently. “I told you it’s been a long time. I’m sorry if this is awkward.”
“No, please don’t apologize. I’m not very good at this kind of thing either. I don’t normally–”
“Go back to a strange man’s place to have sex?” he asks, and despite the lightness of his tone, he remains as tense as ever.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t ask women back to my place to have sex very often.”
“Very often?” So he has done this before.
“Well, ever, actually. You’re the first.”
“The first? You’re not a virgin, surely?” There I go again. Why can’t I shut the hell up?! He doesn’t baulk at my question, he simply shakes his head.
“I’m not a virgin, no. But you are the first woman I’ve ever invited into my personal space.”
For some reason that makes my heart squeeze. His truthfulness is extremely attractive.
“Then I’m honoured to be the first.”
“You might change your mind after.”
“So sex is still on the cards?” I blurt out.
“After I just head butted you, I wasn’t entirely sure you still wanted to have sex with me,” he admits, his thumb swirling circles over the back of my hand.
“You mean after I head butted you ,” I reply, heat radiating through me at our mutual frankness, at the way he’s touching me.
“Looks like we’re both out of practice.”
“You’ve no idea,” I say, meeting his gaze as he cocks his head to the side, studying me.
For long moments we just stare at one another, neither of us moving the conversation along, and despite normally hating to be the centre of attention, I just let him absorb me as our chests rise and fall in sync, and he shifts closer. His hand trails up the bare skin of my arm, coasting over the sleeve of my t-shirt, feathering along the collar before he presses his palm over my breast and I let out a soft, stuttering sigh. My nipples are hard, my ability to speak silenced by his warm, yet possessive touch.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I reply on a soft exhale.
“I want to fuck you,” he adds after a beat, a frown appearing between his eyes.
“I thought you wanted to talk?” I squeak, squirming at how turned on I am, how I’m reeling from the whiplash of his remark.
“I do… but more than that, I want you to feel what I feel,” he continues, zoning in on my lips.
“And what do you feel?” I whisper, gasping as he gently squeezes my breast whilst his free hand slides up my thigh, his fingers reaching beneath the bottom of my t-shirt, coasting over my belly. My stomach muscles tighten, not from stress or fear, but from anticipation, longing.
“Out of control.”
I drag in another ragged breath. “You seem very in control right at this moment.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
“So what now?” I ask, because despite his statement, despite palming my breast and running his fingers beneath the waistband of my jeans, he still doesn’t bridge the gap and kiss me again. “Maybe you should eat something? You fainted after all,” I add lamely.
“I don’t want to eat,” he says, the words rumbling up his chest. “But I do want to hear you sing again. Will you sing for me, Friday?”
“You want me to sing for you, right now ?” I ask, thrown a little, if I’m being honest.
“Please?”
I blink up at him, and before I can even contemplate his question, I find myself saying, “At this point, I’m pretty sure that I’ll do anything you ask.”