Chapter 17
When the door opens, Harrison takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, about to speak. I can see in his eyes what he wants to say and what he wants to do, and for once, I think it might actually be a good idea to act on it.
I take a step forward.
He also takes a step forward, into my apartment. He closes the door behind him.
And then, in a moment of intense clarity and insane recklessness, I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him down into a crushing kiss.
For a sliver of a second, Harrison freezes, his lips completely still against mine. And in that sliver of a second, my heart stops, and I realize I may have just made the most epic mistake of my entire life.
Until he brings his hands to my face and opens up to my kiss, meeting me with the same crushing passion.
Finally. After years of anticipation—finally.
My mind splinters into a thousand pieces, my heart pounding out of my chest. In this moment, I understand exactly what Jo meant.
How could I have thought that I needed to be any different to experience this volcanic eruption of everything I’ve wanted for so long?
Why was I ever worried? I don’t remember.
The feel of his lips on mine accounts for only a small percentage of the overall sensation.
The kiss itself pales in comparison to the warm press of his chest against my beating heart, the security of his hands tangled in my hair, the relief of a long exhale, letting go of weeks—years, really—of bated breath.
“Are you sure about this?” Harrison whispers, pulling his lips just a hair away from mine.
He’s completely breathless, and I’m not sure whether it’s from shock or the kiss or the heart palpitations we both seem to be experiencing.
When I don’t respond immediately, his body tenses ever so slightly, a movement I wouldn’t have felt if I hadn’t been pressed firmly against him.
“I feel like you’re in an emotionally fragile state right now and I don’t want—”
“Shut up and kiss me, idiot. This is the best kiss of my life, and you’re ruining it.”
That seems to do it. His face splinters into a massive grin, his eyes sparkling even as they grow darker with every second.
I throw my arms around his neck, our lips locking together in a drugging embrace.
His kiss is unrelenting, as if he’s been literally starved.
And I’m so desperate for him in return, it sucks all the oxygen out of my lungs.
We should be kissing, always. We should stay up all night kissing, and when we die from fatigue, this will be the happy memory that shepherds me into the afterlife. The end.
I let out a soft, pitiful moan of delight. He pauses and laughs quietly.
“Stop laughing,” I breathe. “More kiss.”
I bare my neck for him, and he starts peppering kisses below my ear, along my jawline, everywhere he can reach. “Best kiss of your life, huh?”
He picks me up and carries me over to my couch, and I immediately climb into his lap. His body is firm and warm beneath me, anchoring me as his fingers run up my arms, sending earthquakes down my entire body. When his hands land on my face, his thumbs trace my jawline as his eyes take me in.
“Mine, too,” he whispers into my ear, giving my neck a soft kiss.
“Thank you for not being an asshole,” I whisper.
He doesn’t laugh the way I expect him to. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me forward and resting his chin on my shoulder. “We need to talk about raising your standards,” he finally murmurs, squeezing me tightly.
“I would say I have high standards, actually. Which is mostly your fault.”
He leans back and tilts his head, studying me with intoxicating eyes. Harrison wants to know all my secrets, and…I think I maybe want to share them.
I deserve love. As if he can sense my thoughts, Harrison flips us over so we’re lying down, then gives me another full-lipped kiss that obliterates any remaining sense of self I was hanging on to.
When Harrison finally pulls away several minutes later to take a breath, his lips are dark and swollen, and he looks more handsome than ever, even with his hair ruffled and eyes dazed.
I want to photograph this moment. I want this image permanently etched into my mind.
I want to see this version of Harrison every time I close my eyes.
I’ve never cared for someone as much as I care for him.
But with that realization comes a sharp stab of guilt, because I’m on track to repeat my mistakes from college.
I’m supposed to be Doing Better, but I’ve acted impulsively, giving in to my desires without providing any of the relevant information or context. He deserves so much better.
“Harrison?” I murmur as he kisses his way down my neck. He gives a hum of acknowledgment. “Maybe we should talk about what this means?”
He gives another low grumble, then continues to kiss me.
“Harrison.”
He finally looks up, brown eyes turned black. “I’m a little busy right now,” he says, one dimple forming.
“I just—”
“Em,” he says, cutting me off as he props himself up on his forearms so he’s hovering above me. “Obviously we’re going to talk. We have a lot to figure out. But unless you were about to tell me you want to stop, I vote you hold that thought until tomorrow.”
I blink at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Harrison?”
He kisses my cheek, slowly enough to be sad. “I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes to Emma Rogers, I have to take what I can get, whenever I can get it.”
It’s not like he needs to know at this exact moment, right? I mean, he’s saying it himself. He doesn’t want to talk right now. Which is great, because I don’t actually want to talk, either. I have no practiced script, no talking points.
So it’ll benefit both of us to put off this conversation, right? The truth can come out later, because right now, I just want his lips back on mine.
“Were you…” he asks, eyes glued to mine.
“Huh?”
“Were you going to tell me to leave?” The tentative look that flashes across his face breaks my heart.
“Of course not,” I say, and he quietly exhales. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Harrison brings his mouth back to mine, planting kisses so gently my heart rate seems to both speed up and slow down. Our hands carefully explore the feeling of each other’s bodies, studying the skin of the person we know so well emotionally while having so much to learn physically.
And the sounds he makes—the quiet hums, almost the same ones he uses when he finishes a book or eats the first bite of dinner. But lower and rumblier, somehow. The sound of a starving stomach finally being fed. The sound of a cat, content within an inch of its life.
I don’t have the mental wherewithal to stop the breathy gasps and moans that come out of my mouth, even though I know he’s probably hanging on to them the way I am, crumbs of information for him to store away and recall later.
I certainly can’t stop the gasp that erupts as his hand carefully and tenderly slides under my dress, stroking up the outside of my thigh and landing on my waist.
He takes my response as a go-ahead, which I suppose it was. But it was involuntary—because if I had thought about it for a moment, I would have realized it is not a good idea to let Harrison start getting under my clothes.
Do I want to get naked with Harrison? Yes. Is that something my body will support? No. As the thought enters my brain, my pelvic floor muscles clench up.
My vaginismus is nothing if not punctual.
Another muscle spasm seizes me as Harrison starts a downward stroke, his hand running over my ass and down the back of my thigh before pulling my leg upward in a way that brings my now-exposed underwear a little (a lot) too close to his lap. Which, I am now noticing, is quite—uh—strained.
“Wait,” I shout, jerking backward. Harrison reacts immediately, letting out a startled gasp as he jumps. A millisecond ago, every inch of our bodies was pressed together, aligned in a perfect, albeit dangerous, way, but now he’s propped up over me on hands and knees, and I feel cold all over.
He stares at me, his eyes wide and concerned and a little out of focus. “Shit,” he whispers. “Shit, Emma—I’m so sorry, I—”
“No, it’s okay, I—”
We both freeze, Harrison waiting for me to explain what went wrong, and me trying to figure out how to explain what just happened.
I have this condition, I should say. I really want your hands back on me, but it’s complicated.
Instead, I feel my vaginal muscles tighten like a coil, wound so tight I could burst at any moment.
I’m in pain just because I’m thinking about the potential of being in pain, which means the actual pain would be even more painful.
A voice in the back of my head—one that sounds suspiciously Cobalt in color—says, Go on, Emma. Let him put his hands back on you. See how well that ends.
Key Lime chimes in. This is probably what he’s doing with all those women he meets on dating apps. He’s a pro now, and you’re not even an amateur. You’re something less than that.
He thinks he likes you, Cobalt says. But he doesn’t really know you.
I jerk backward again, the motion propelling me into a seated position and forcing Harrison off me completely. Eyes wide, he scans my face, and I see when my pained expression registers.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers. It’s not curiosity in his voice—it’s fear.
“I can’t do this,” I say, my voice shaky. I only realize what that sounds like when his face grows steely. “I meant—”
“Stop,” he says, his entire face contorting as he closes his eyes, every muscle in his jaw growing tense.
[*2] He runs a hand across his face, then, much to my mortification, has to readjust his pants.
“I get it. But it’s okay if it’s just this one night.
Like I said, I’ll take what I can get. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally come to terms with it. ”
I stare at him blankly, and he stares at me earnestly.
“Wait, what?” I finally ask.