Chapter 44 Wear This And Follow The Roses
Wear This And Follow The Roses
Harlee
If I don’t get birthday dick in the next ten minutes, I’m filing a formal complaint with HR.
Except here there is no HR. And my boss is the reason I’m currently naked.
I’m pulled from sleep by the slow, seductive warmth of sunlight on my face—and his fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare thighs. His breath is hot against the back of my neck, his beard a delicious scrape as he exhales in his sleep.
A phone buzzes somewhere on the nightstand, but I don’t move. Our limbs are a mess of heat and sheets and quiet greed. And I’m not ready to let that go just yet.
Instead, I shift my hips, pressing back against the thick length curled up behind me. August groans—deep and low, like it got dragged up from his soul—and it rumbles through me. I do it again, and this time, his arm tightens around my waist like he’s claiming me.
I try to turn to see if he’s awake, but he shifts, pinning me in place with that heavy, delicious weight. His free hand finds the space between my thighs, and I don’t even hesitate—I open up like a silk dress slipping off a hanger—slow, easy, inevitable.
I don’t know what time it is. But I know two things for sure, I’m dripping. And I’m not leaving this bed until I get exactly what I want for my birthday.
His hand inches higher, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. He’s everywhere but where I need him, teasing me into ecstasy.
“Baby,” I whine, grinding back against him. “Please…”
His chuckle curls warm against my ear, laced with that insufferable patience. “Good things come to those who wait, ma.”
His fingers finally brush my center, and I gasp—already soaked, already aching.
He laughs softly against my neck. “Damn. I ain’t even touched you yet.”
“Then touch me,” I whisper, breathless with want.
His teeth skim my earlobe like sin in slow motion. “As you wish, birthday girl.”
Before I can respond, he disappears beneath the duvet. The cool air hits my thighs just as his beard drags across them, rough and perfect. I shudder when his breath ghosts over me—then he licks. Long. Slow. Tantalizing.
I gasp, toes curling. Then his tongue shifts, flicking against my clit with merciless precision. My hips buck, and he groans low—sounding damn near uncivilized—before gripping my ass and pulling me closer like he’s starved for it. I hope he’ll leave marks.
Somewhere behind the haze, my phone buzzes again, but it might as well be in another dimension. He growls at the sound, and the vibration hums against me as he buries his face deeper. His tongue slips inside, and I cry out, back arching off the mattress.
“August… holy shit,” I pant, fisting his curls. He’s smirking down there. I can feel it.
He doesn’t stop. Just alternates—flick, thrust, flick—like he’s composing a damn symphony between my legs.
The phone buzzes again. I swipe blindly at the cords until the whole thing clatters to the floor. Whatever. Let it ring. Let the world burn.
He hums against my clit, and my whole body clenches. One hand slides up to cup my breast, his fingers pinching my nipple just enough to send me flying.
The orgasm rips through me, sharp and consuming. I call out his name—like a vow I never meant to say out loud. He stays with me through the tremors, licking me clean, coaxing every last aftershock from my trembling body.
When he finally surfaces, beard glistening and mouth swollen, he looks like sin wrapped in satisfaction.
“Happy birthday to me,” I rasp, breathless and undone.
He chuckles—low, rich, smug—and starts crawling up my body like he owns every inch.
His skin is hot against mine, mouth landing on mine in a kiss that’s deep and unrelenting.
I can taste myself on his tongue—tangy, electric—and it only makes me hungrier.
My fingers tangle in those soft curls, dragging him closer. Ready for round two.
I'm just about to roll him on his back when—
“Bitch, I know your nasty ass ain’t answer the phone while you clapping cheeks! Ya stanky bitch!”
I freeze. Eyes fly open. And before I can even blink, I’m shoving him off me.
August grunts, rolling with the force as I scramble up like I heard gunshots. His brows lift, amused and confused. But we both hear it again.
“LEE! I swear to God, if you’re ignoring me for dick, I’m comin’ over there and—”
“Oh my God.” I scramble for my phone like it’s the last lifesaver on a sinking ship, nearly face-planting off the bed. I find it on the floor, screen lit up, Wynter’s name flashing like a damn siren.
Her face fills the screen, bright and smug.
“Hey, bitch!” she chirps. Way too loud. Way too cheerful. “Was calling to say happy birthday, but uh… looks like someone already handled that.”
I groan, face hot as hell. “Wynn—”
“Don’t lie,” she cuts me off, wagging her eyebrows. “You got that just got laid glow, sis. I see it through the pixels.”
I bury my face in my hand. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing this right now.” She cackles, living for the chaos. “So? Birthday dick. Scale of one to ‘I can’t feel my legs’—where we at?”
“WYNTER!” I shoot a look over my shoulder. August is watching the whole thing like he’s front row at a comedy show, eyes dancing with smug amusement. He winks. Winks.
“I’m just being a good friend.” Wynter shrugs, unbothered. “Somebody gotta check on your hydration levels.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already pulling at my lips. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“You love me,” Wynter sing-songs, syrupy and smug. The lilt in her voice makes me grin despite myself. I can practically see her—wide grin, mischief in her eyes, legs crossed like she owns the room.
“Now, seriously, back to the reason I called.” There’s a shuffle on her end as she props the phone up. She vanishes from view for a second, then returns, cradling her guitar like it’s a part of her. My heart squeezes. This girl, man.
Wynter lowers herself to the floor, cross-legged and haloed by her wild curls, and starts to strum—easy, fluid, like breathing. The first few notes of an acoustic “Ratchet Happy Birthday” ripple through the speaker, and I snort, already shaking my head. Of course she turned it into a lullaby.
It’s still ratchet. But it’s also soft. Warm. So perfectly her that my eyes sting with something tender and unexpected.
“Happy birthday, boo,” she croons. “I hope August is eating I mean treating you like the queen you are—and that you’re livin’ it up in New York.”
She ends the song with a dramatic slide of her hand and throws kisses at the camera, laughing so hard she nearly drops the guitar. Her joy is so infectious, so her, it makes my chest ache in the sweetest way.
“Okay, but we do need to talk about you and my man sneaking around behind my back,” I say, leaning in. “How long have you two been in cahoots, huh?”
Wynter gasps, all wide-eyed and fake-offended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. August who? Never met him.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”
She grins, wicked now. “Well, Your Majesty,” she bows, “I plead the fifth. A girl’s gotta keep a few secrets.”
Before I can drag more out of her, she pulls the pin on the grenade. “Anyway—get back to your birthday dick. Love you, byeeee!” She blows more kisses, then hangs up like a menace.
“WYNN!” I groan, but it’s too late. The screen goes black. I’m left blinking at my reflection, smiling like an idiot.
I set the phone down, shaking my head. Of course she’d call during sex. And of course she’d bring her whole guitar. That’s Wynter—chaotic, thoughtful, unfiltered, always showing up exactly like that.
I glance toward the bed. August is watching me with that look—one brow arched, eyes glittering with smug curiosity. Then he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, and I swear my pulse trips over itself.
The duvet’s tented. Desire coils low and tight.
Wynter’s voice echoes in my head: “How’s the birthday dick?”
Yeah.
Who am I to argue with tradition?
I crawl toward him, slow and deliberate, every movement thick with promise. His eyes track me like prey, darkening with every shift of my hips. I’m just about to reach him when my phone buzzes in my hand—sharp, sudden, jarring. I flinch.
I glance down.
And just like that, all the heat drains out of me.
Herman Prince.
Shit.
My heart lurches, doing that weird, panicked stutter it always does at the sight of his name. We haven’t spoken since the last blow-up. Now he’s calling on my birthday? Talk about emotional whiplash.
I squint at the screen, damn near blind without my contacts. My pulse drums loud in my ears, and I can feel August watching me, his mood shifting the second mine does.
“It’s my dad,” I mutter, holding the phone out so he can see. My voice sounds small—I sound small—and I hate it. Hate that one name can shrink me down to that scared little girl still begging to be seen.
August reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing gentle circles across my skin. “Answer it,” he says softly. “He’s your father. He’s trying.”
I pull my knees to my chest, the warmth of the bed suddenly no match for the cold creeping in around the edges of my ribs. I rub a hand down my face, buying time. His name keeps blinking at me like a warning light.
August squeezes my hand. “I got you.”
I nod once—barely—and swipe to answer before I can change my mind.
“Harlee.” His voice is tight, cautious. That familiar gravel threaded with something else… something brittle. Silence stretches between us, awkward and heavy. I picture him pacing his study, books all around, jaw clenched like always. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, barely above a whisper. I clear my throat. “I appreciate it.”
He hesitates. I can feel it, the weight behind the next thing he says. “I know things have been... complicated between us. I’ve been thinking a lot. About your mother. She always wanted the best for you.”