Chapter 3 - Harper
I barely make it back to my motel room before the shaking starts.
My hands tremble as I unlock the door, and I practically fall inside, slamming it behind me and leaning against it like something's chasing me. Which is stupid because nothing is. No one followed me. The stranger—I don't even know his name—respected my boundary and let me go.
But I can still feel him. His fingers inside me. His breath on my neck. His voice in my ear telling me to be quiet, to stay very quiet, while he continued to work me into a frenzy with someone just feet away.
"Fuck," I breathe, pressing my palms against my flushed cheeks.
I'm still dripping. I can feel the wetness between my thighs, soaking through my panties, making every step uncomfortable. My body is wound so tight I might actually vibrate out of my skin, and all I can think about is how close I was. How close he got me before I panicked and ran.
I need to finish what he started.
The thought makes me feel pathetic. Running home to touch myself like some desperate teenager, but I don't care. I can't care. Because if I don't come soon, I'm going to lose my mind.
I kick off my shoes and practically rip my dress over my head, tossing it onto the cheap motel chair.
Deep breath. Focus.
I unzip my boots, peel them off, then hook my thumbs in my panties and slide them down my legs. They're ruined. Completely soaked through, strings of my arousal connecting the fabric to my pussy, and one wash definitely isn't going to be enough to get these clean.
But right now, I don't give a single fuck.
I toss them toward my suitcase and climb onto the bed, the rough motel comforter scratching against my bare skin. I should be grossed out, who knows how many people have been on this bed, but I'm too far gone to care about anything except the throbbing ache between my legs.
I lie back, spread my thighs, and slide my hand down my stomach.
The first touch against my clit makes me gasp, my back arching off the bed. I'm so sensitive, so worked up, that even my own touch feels overwhelming. I start with slow circles, trying to ease into it, but my body has other ideas.
I'm already picturing him. The stranger. His dark eyes that looked almost black in the dim bar light. His strong jaw covered in just enough stubble to be sexy without being rough. Those hands… Fuck, those hands, big and callused and so confident as they touched me.
My fingers move faster, pressing harder.
I remember his voice. Low and rough, with that hint of gravel that made my knees weak. The way he said *you're so fucking wet* like it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. The way he groaned when I pressed against him, when he felt my breasts against his chest.
"Oh God," I whimper, my free hand coming up to palm my breast, squeezing.
I think about his fingers inside me. How he'd added a third, stretching me, filling me in a way Derek never did.
How he'd curled them just right, hitting that spot that made me crumble.
How he'd kept going even when someone walked in, this dangerous edge to the whole thing that should have terrified me but instead made me wetter.
My hips buck against my hand, chasing the orgasm that's been building since the moment he first touched me.
And then I think about what I didn't let happen. What I ran from.
His cock. I felt it against my stomach, thick and hard and straining against his jeans, and God, I wanted it.
Wanted to unzip his pants and free him. Wanted to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth, taste him, feel the weight of him on my tongue.
Wanted to suck him until he groaned my name, except he doesn't know my name any more than I know his.
The anonymity makes it hotter somehow.
I add two fingers, pushing inside myself, trying to replicate what he did. It's not the same. My fingers are smaller, the angle is wrong, but I'm so wet that it doesn't matter.
I imagine him bending me over that stall.
Pulling my panties down completely. Freeing his cock and sliding into me with one hard thrust. I imagine him grabbing my hips, using me, fucking me against the cold metal until I forgot everything.
Forgot Derek, forgot Jessica, forgot the wedding that didn't happen and the humiliation that did.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I pant, my fingers moving frantically now.
I think about his body. The solid muscle I felt through his flannel. The strength in his hands. The way he moved on the dance floor, confident and in absolute control. I imagine all that power focused on me, on making me come, on taking his pleasure from my body.
My thumb finds my clit again, pressing hard, and suddenly I'm right there.
"Oh God, oh God, yes—"
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. My whole body goes rigid, my pussy clenching around my fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me. I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming, my free hand fisting in the comforter, my toes curling.
It goes on and on, aftershocks making me twitch and gasp, and the whole time I'm seeing his face. His dark eyes. His knowing smile.
Finally, it ends. I collapse back against the pillows, sweaty and boneless and completely wrung out.
For about thirty seconds, I feel amazing. Sated. Relaxed.
Then reality crashes back in.
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper to the stained ceiling.
I just arrived in this town yesterday. Yesterday. And I'm already getting into trouble with a man I don't even know. A player who probably fingers a different woman every weekend. A stranger who I let touch me in a bar bathroom like I have no self-respect whatsoever.
Did I learn nothing from Derek? From Jessica? From the spectacular implosion of my entire life?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, making me jump. I reach for it, my hand still shaky from my orgasm, and see Mom's name on the screen.
Shit.
I should ignore it. Should let it go to voicemail like I've been doing with everyone else. But it's Mom, and she's the only one who actually supported my decision to leave. The only one who told me I deserved better than a cheating fiancé.
I answer. "Hey, Mom."
"Harper!" Her voice is warm with relief. "Oh honey, I've been so worried. How are you? How's Montana?"
"It's... fine." I sit up, pulling the scratchy comforter over my naked body. "Small. Quiet."
"Have you found a place to stay? That motel you mentioned sounded awful."
"I'm still at the motel, but I'll start looking for an apartment tomorrow." Maybe. If I can work up the energy to care about my future.
"Good. And how are you feeling? Really?"
I consider lying. Consider telling her I'm great, I'm moving on, I'm totally fine. But this is Mom, and she'd see right through it.
"I'm okay," I say instead. "Some moments are better than others."
"That's normal, sweetheart. You're grieving. Not just the relationship, but the future you'd planned. That takes time."
I don't tell her about the stranger. Don't mention that I let a man finger me in a bathroom less than forty-eight hours after calling off my wedding. Don't admit that I came so hard just now thinking about him.
Some things mothers don't need to know.
We talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and everything. She tells me about her garden, about the neighbor's new dog, about how Derek's mother called asking where I was and Mom told her it was none of her damn business.
That makes me smile for the first time all day.
"I love you, honey," Mom says before we hang up. "And I'm proud of you for being brave enough to start over."
"Love you too, Mom."
After we disconnect, I sit there for a long moment, still naked, still covered in the evidence of what I just did. Then I force myself up and into the bathroom.
The shower is tiny and the water pressure is terrible, but I turn it as cold as I can stand and step under the spray. I need to wash away the bad thoughts. The memories of Derek. The confusion about the stranger. The shame of running away like a coward.
I scrub myself clean, or as clean as I can get in a motel shower and try to think about practical things. Finding an apartment. Looking for a job. Figuring out what the hell I'm going to do with my life now that all my plans are gone.
But even as I'm thinking about the future, part of my brain is still back in that bathroom. Still feeling those fingers inside me. Still hearing that rough voice in my ear.
Next morning
I wake up exhausted and hollow and decide fuck it. Apartments and jobs can wait.
I spend most of the day on the lumpy motel couch, eating directly from the pint of ice cream and watching other people's drama unfold on screen. A dating show where strangers meet and fall in love in a matter of weeks, then fight about stupid things, then declare they can't live without each other.
It's ridiculous. Formulaic. Exactly what I need.
"You're an idiot," I tell the woman on screen who's crying over a man who clearly doesn't deserve her. "Just leave him."
But she doesn't leave him. She never does. They always work it out, always find their way back to each other, always get their happily ever after.
Unlike real life, where the man you love fucks your best friend and you end up alone in a Montana motel eating ice cream for dinner.
By the time night falls, I've watched six episodes and finished two pints of ice cream. My stomach hurts and I feel vaguely nauseous, but at least I'm not thinking about—
No. I'm definitely still thinking about him.
The stranger. The man whose name I don't know but whose fingers I can still feel. I should stay in. Should order pizza, watch more TV, maybe actually look at apartment listings online. That's what a smart woman would do.
But apparently I'm not a smart woman, because I find myself wondering if I should go back to the bar.
It's not the brightest idea. He'll probably be there, dancing with some other woman, proving that last night meant nothing to him. That I was just convenient. Interchangeable.
But maybe... maybe I could explain. Tell him why I ran. Apologize for leaving him like that, even though he probably doesn't care. And maybe, just maybe, I want to see him again.
He was a light in the dark. A distraction from the wreckage of my life. And right now, that's exactly what I need.
Because the alternative is staying here, alone, thinking about Derek and Jessica. And they're definitely not sulking right now. They're probably celebrating. Finally free to be together without me in the way. Probably fucking in our bed, their bed now, without having to sneak around.
The thought makes my chest tight and my eyes burn.
Fuck that. Fuck them. Fuck sitting here feeling sorry for myself.
I'm going back to that bar. Even if it's stupid. Even if I make a fool of myself. Even if he's already forgotten I exist. At least I'll be doing something instead of drowning in ice cream and self-pity. I stand up, toss the empty container in the trash, and head for the shower.
Time to see if lightning can strike twice.