Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
STERLING
As quietly as I can, I slip inside Harlow’s bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a gentle click, my heartbeat pounding so loudly in my ears that I press a hand to the middle of my chest, willing it to calm down. For long, agonising moments, I stand with my back pressed against the door, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Fortunately for me, Harlow didn’t close the curtains after her call, and the room is illuminated by moonlight that dusts her sleeping form in a silvery glow, only serving to make her even more beautiful.
"Christ," I murmur, watching her as she sleeps, completely unaware of my approach.
With each step I take toward the bed, a profound sense of relief washes over me, a calming kind of warmth that seeps into my body and quiets my restless mind. Her hair spills across the pillow, the silky strands shimmering like threads of spun gold.
Pausing at the edge of the bed, my gaze lingers on the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and the way her lashes rest delicately against her cheek. Her peacefulness shifts something inside of me, and all the stress of the past few days slowly lifts from my shoulders.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
Reaching out, my fingers graze the duvet that barely covers her hip, my artist's gaze absorbing every detail of her sleeping form. There’s a softness to her features that makes her look innocent in a way I’ve never seen before.
Fuck, how I wish I could press my mouth against hers and awaken her with a kiss. Instead, I settle on tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, the softness of it sending a rush of warmth through my fingertips and straight to my cock. She shifts onto her back, but doesn't wake up, and for a moment I stand there captivated by her. She’s so damn beautiful. So fragile in this quiet moment. So completely unaware of my presence.
That fact shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. God help me, it does.
I glance away from her sleeping form briefly, if only to calm the urge to touch her again, and notice a glass of water and what looks like a bottle of sleeping pills beside it. That might explain why she’s so soundly asleep, and I can’t help but feel a little envious that she can find such relief when I’ve found it almost impossible.
The drawer of her bedside cabinet is partially open too, and I notice a leather bound notebook tucked inside. Intrigued, I carefully slide open the drawer the rest of the way and pull it out, before closing it again. The leather is soft to the touch, and I open up the notebook to find pages and pages of what appears to be poems, or perhaps even lyrics. I walk towards the window so that I can use the moonlight to read.
Flicking it open to a random page, my eyes fall to her neat cursive.
One night of passion, a chance to be me,
I stripped myself bare to reveal,
The person others never see.
He touched me like I was precious,
Deep inside, he pulled me free,
Free to be.
To be me…
But how can I hold on to someone,
Who makes me feel so undone?
How can I be his, when I’ve never been anyone’s?
My breath catches as I notice the date. She wrote this the day after we met for the first time.
“Fuck,” I mutter, aching for her in that moment.
I flip the pages at random, reading line after line, absorbing a part of her that she’s hidden from the world. Every word is like a heartbeat that echoes in my chest, each line pulling me deeper into her soul, revealing thoughts and feelings she’s kept locked away. There’s a rawness to her words, a vulnerability that makes my chest tighten.
Electricity races beneath my skin,
A flash of blue, a spark within,
That flares beneath the darkness of sin…
She wrote this the day after the wedding, and I can’t help but wonder if this is about us, about the undeniable magnetism we share. “Damn it, Harlow…” I murmur.
When I reach the last entry, my fingers tremble as I trace the lines with my fingertips. The words are simple, but no less powerful.
Lost to the heat of his desire,
I want his touch so much I’m on fire.
Troubled by the intensity of his stare,
Yet I want his attention, please strip me bare.
Catch me alight, catch me alight,
Oh stranger in the night…
I’d known it all along, of course. She feels it too, this pull between us, the way we’re drawn to one another, not by choice, but by something deeper, something inevitable. I glance back at her, still sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the fact that I’ve expressed my feelings for her in much the same way. She uses words, and I use paint, both of us creating something that speaks without needing to be said aloud, something that exists between us in the lines of a notebook, and in brushstrokes of colour. Something secret, yet painfully exposing if anyone were to take a closer look.
Closing the notebook gently, I’m suddenly aware of how much of her I've just uncovered. It’s almost too much, but I can’t stop myself from wanting more as I pad across the room, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath my bare feet.
“You’re a poet,” I whisper, placing the notebook exactly where I found it. “You’re my little poet.”
Mine, she’s mine, I think, that possessive, obsessive part of me wanting to claim her in sleep, just as I have claimed everything else about her. I know that this is the moment I should leave.
Yet I don’t. I can’t.
“Harlow?” I whisper, a small part of me, the part that is a decent human being with morals and boundaries wants her to wake up, to put a stop to this.
But then she moans, “ Please …” and my heart stills, that one word igniting my desire into a blazing inferno, and turning every single piece of morality I thought I had into ash.
Seconds tick past, her legs shifting beneath the covers as the duvet slips between her parted thighs, exposing more skin, teasing me with more temptation.
“Can you sense my presence, my little poet?” I ask, reaching for her once more, the back of my knuckles grazing against the exposed skin of her thigh. Her cotton nightie has risen upwards revealing her hip and part of her stomach. It’s only then I realise that she’s not wearing any underwear.
“Fuck, what are you doing to me?”
In the confines of my jeans, my dick throbs. I’m so fucking turned on, so fucking desperate to take this further, to see what it would take to wake her up, but there’s not even a flicker of awareness. And so, with a compulsion I cannot deny, I splay my fingers across her stomach relishing in the feel of her warm, soft skin against my palm.
Resting it there, I wait.
“What will it take to rouse you?” I mutter after a full minute.
I can feel her stomach move as she breathes, and every impulse inside of me wants to take this further to see how far I can push it. So, I slide my hand lower, cupping her bare pussy, the heat of her core sending my pulse skyrocketing. My balls tighten, my dick jerks as she moans again, her body seemingly aware of my presence.
“Look at you, my little poet, so fucking beautiful,” I whisper, leaning over and brushing my lips gently against her cheek, and even though she’s deeply asleep, her legs part, widening for me
as my middle finger slips between her pussy lips.
I hold my finger there, feeling her clit pulse as something primal unravels within my chest, a kind of ownership. This is where I belong, right here cupping Harlow’s pussy whilst her body calls to mine.
Another soft moan releases from her mouth and I draw back, my gaze following the soft curve of her neck and lower to her breasts. Her nipples tighten beneath her nightdress, tempting me, and on instinct I take one into my mouth, tasting her through the cotton as I gently swipe my finger through her folds, gathering liquid before rolling the pad of my finger over her clit.
“Fuck, I want you so badly,” I whisper against her chest, feeling her slicken even more beneath my fingers as I take her other nipple into my mouth, sucking hard.
Yet she remains asleep, so deeply under that even when I slide my finger into her soaked core she doesn’t wake up. Despite that, her hips rock as I gently pump my finger inside of her, her body reacting unconsciously to my touch.
“Are you dreaming of me?” I ask, half-hoping she’ll wake up and welcome me into her arms. “Do you dream of me like I dream of you?”
“Sterling,” she mumbles, and my heart jackhammers inside my chest as I raise my gaze upwards, expecting her to be wide awake, staring at me in the dark. She isn’t, and I drag in a shaky breath,
knowing that our connection is so powerful that despite being fast asleep she’s still somehow aware of me.
“You’re dripping for me, Harlow. Fuck, you make me so hard,” I groan, my cock aches, so hard it’s verging on painful. But this isn’t about me, not really. This is about Harlow.
Everything I do, all that I am, is for her.
Only her.
Determined to make her come, I press the heel of my hand against her clit, giving her the pressure her body needs to climax whilst I finger-fuck her gently. Her moans get louder, only adding to the sensuality of the moment, heightening everything. Heightening the way I feel about her, how turned on I am, how hungry I am to see her come apart, how desperate I am for her to wake up, take me in her arms and claim me as hers . Just like she has in her poems.
I’ve never wanted to belong to another person as much as I want to belong to Harlow. It’s inconceivable to me that we might never get the chance to be each other’s person, and I’m fully aware that I’m risking everything doing this, that I’ve crossed a line that I’ve no right to cross. But even if I wanted to stop now, I couldn’t. I’m too far gone, too desperate for her to reach the pinnacle, needing to give her my undivided attention when it’s so sorely lacking from the other people in her life. Because whilst this act is intensely sexual, it is also coming from a place of affection, of care, no matter how fucked-up it might seem. So I rub her clit with the heel of my palm. I finger-fuck her, revelling in the way she leaks for me, her pussy so wet, so warm, so fucking mine.
“I’m here, I see you. I want you to come for me, my little poet.”
Yes I came into her bedroom for selfish reasons, but bringing her to orgasm is my gift to her. To the woman who has sunk so deep inside of my psyche that nothing and no one will unravel the binds that tie us together. If I had my way, I would show her every second of every day how much she means to me, how deeply affected I am by her presence.
I want her to feel seen.
I want her to feel desired.
I want to be her person.
I want to be hers .
It’s with those thoughts that I work her body, sliding another finger inside of her, stroking that bundle of nerves deep inside her pussy. My gaze never leaves her face as her mouth parts and her muscles clench me tight. Her body is both liquid and coiled tight as she stiffens with pleasure, a rush of liquid covering my fingers. And with one last full body tremble, my little poet comes, back arched, head tipped back, a soft cry releasing from her lips.