Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
HARLOW
My eyes slowly drift open as winter sunlight pours through the window, warming my skin. For a moment I just lie in the pool of light, feeling a deep sense of relaxation. My body feels liquid, relaxed in a way I haven’t felt in some time. Which surprises me given my mother’s phone call in the middle of the night. I went to sleep feeling agitated, expecting to wake up in much the same way, or at the very least tired given my sleep was so rudely interrupted, yet I feel neither of those things.
“Must be the sleeping pill I took,” I murmur, shifting slightly as I adjust my duvet cover which is draped across my stomach, the edge caught between my legs. The action causes the soft Egyptian cotton to drag over my bare pussy, and the friction makes me jolt, not because it’s uncomfortable in any way, but because I feel so sensitive down there.
It’s strangely… arousing .
I let out a soft breath, my clit pulsing as slide my leg back under the duvet and try to make sense of what I’m feeling. With tentative fingers, I feel between my slightly parted legs and gasp when wetness greets me.
“Oh,” I whisper, as a zing of pleasure cascades down my spine from that gentle, yet explorative touch.
For a moment I keep my fingers pressed against my mound, trying to understand why I’ve woken up in such a state of arousal. Perhaps I had a dirty dream? That must be it.
Pressing my eyes shut, I try to recall if I have, and as I lie still waiting for the memory of that dream to appear in my consciousness, a strange feeling of something out of the ordinary flickers at the edge of my consciousness. Something that makes my nipples tighten and my clit flutter. Something that makes me feel needy , desperate somehow. And the only thought that enters my head at that moment is Sterling.
“Oh God,” I mutter, my clit pulsing at the memory of the passionate kisses we’ve shared, making me wetter, making my hips rock against my hand.
I know that I should be shutting thoughts of Sterling down, that entertaining them, even if they are just private fantasies, won’t do me any good in the long run. But, I can’t seem to stop images of him from fluttering across my mind as I tentatively toy with my clit, gasping at how sensitive it is, how aroused I am, how much I wish it was him touching me right now.
Sterling and his startling blue eyes.
Sterling and his chiselled jaw, and perfect body.
Sterling and his thick fingers and beautiful cock.
Sterling and the way he looks at me like I’m the only woman who exists in the world.
“It’s just a fantasy,” I whisper, trying to rationalise my feelings. “Nothing can come of it. Nothing.”
But that doesn’t stop me from adding more pressure to my clit, rubbing against it in the way I like. I’m only human, I can’t just switch off my attraction to him, and right now I don’t even want to. Biting gently on my lip, I reach for my opening, gathering the wetness to lubricate my puffy clit, the slippery sounds only adding to my arousal.
Masturbation is something that I rarely allow myself the pleasure of. Not because I think it’s dirty or wrong, but because I’ve never really had anyone that I’ve fantasised about enough to want to get off.
But this morning…
This morning I’m teetering on the edge of an orgasm just thinking about the man I cannot have, and even though there’s a small voice in the back of my head warning me not to indulge, that it will only make things worse, my body isn’t listening, it’s reacting, and I don’t have the strength to fight it.
Tentatively, I slip my finger inside my core, pumping it slowly in and out, and whilst it’s pleasurable, it’s not enough to make me come. I can’t angle my hand the right way and keep pressure on my clit, so I roll onto my stomach. My tight nipples pressing into the cotton sheet, the slight friction only adding to the intensity of the moment.
“Oh fuck, yes,” I hiss as I press my hips against the mattress trapping my hand between my pussy and the bed, allowing me to finger my hole and also stimulate my clit with the heel of my hand. I don’t allow myself to think about what I must look like. I just give in to my desire and with my cheek pressed against the pillow, and my hair covering my heated cheeks, I allow my mind to wander. With every second that passes, sensation builds, merging with every memory I have of Sterling and us together.
His hand cupping my jaw, his nose brushing my cheek.
His mouth on mine, his tongue brazenly licking the seam of my lips.
His head between my legs, my core pulsing as he sucks my clit into his wicked mouth.
His hand squeezing my breast, his saliva coating my nipples.
His cock pushing inside of me, my muscles squeezing him tight.
I let my thoughts spiral, my memories tumbling into fantasy as I imagine his body laying over mine so heavy that I almost can’t breathe. I imagine his chest pressed against my back, his arm hooked beneath my body, whilst his fingers wrap around my throat, squeezing. I imagine gasping for air as he positions himself between my parted thighs and enters me from behind with one hard thrust.
“Oh God,” I moan, my fingers jabbing into my entrance, frantic for release as I press my hips harder into the mattress, my palm and fingers slippery with arousal.
“Please…”
Something flickers in my memory.
“Please…” I beg, the word slipping from my mouth once again as my body tightens and my fantasy twists into something else.
That word, it’s triggering something I don’t understand, but I’m too caught up in sensation to truly grasp what that is, too tightly coiled with pleasure, too overwhelmed with need.
It’s as though I’m on the precipice of something. Something that sits between wakefulness and dreams. Something that my body reacts to and my mind has trouble understanding.
A dark room.
Hands on my body.
A voice… My voice?
“Please…”
My hips grind harder, my breath comes quicker, my clit throbs as my fingers thrust in and out, in and out.
“Sterling,” I groan.
And there right at the edge of my consciousness I hear a voice reply as though he’s right here in this room with me now, “I’m here, I see you.”
“ Sterling? ” I question on a groan.
“I want you to come for me, my little poet.”
My little poet?
Those three words send me over the edge, and I come.
I come so hard that I slam my eyes shut, my clit spasming, my body trembling, my voice calling out his name. Minutes later, when my breath has evened out, and my body has recovered from my orgasm, I sit up in bed wondering how my fantasy could feel so damn real.
After showering and getting dressed in a pair of worn denim jeans, warm socks and a soft, green sweater, I grab my phone and head downstairs to make breakfast. My mind is a jumble of thoughts as I try to unravel why Sterling’s voice had seemed so real in that moment, and why his words had seemed so much more like a memory rather than a fantasy. He’s never referred to me as his little poet, why would he? He doesn’t know that I write lyrics, he only knows that I sing. And why poet ? Maybe deep down that’s how I see all songwriters, as poets, and it’s my subconscious conjuring up his voice in a moment of heightened pleasure. Maybe I’m just overthinking this, maybe I’m just overtired.
Maybe…
Stepping into the kitchen, I head for the coffee machine that sits on the counter, and grab a mug from the cupboard, then pour myself a generous amount, adding some chilled creamer from the fridge. Taking a sip, I take a seat at the kitchen island where I can look out onto the view and try to make sense of everything, needing a moment to just think before I make myself some breakfast.
To be fair, it’s been a few days since I last spoke with Sterling, so it’s little wonder he’s on my mind. That combined with the sleeping pills I took, the stressful call from my mother, it’s no great surprise my imagination is making up things that aren’t real. Still, it’s thrown me. I’m supposed to be trying to put all thoughts of Sterling out of my head, and not indulging in fantasy that I shouldn’t be entertaining.
Strumming my fingers against the counter, I heave out a sigh when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Reaching for it, I pull it out and raise the screen to my face so that it opens. A notification for Instagram immediately pops up and my heart sinks.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I mutter, my finger hovering over the notification as I debate whether to read it or not, because I know who this message is from. My stalker.
Curiosity wins, and I click on the notification.
You read these messages I send, yet you don’t respond. Why is that? Don’t you realise what you’re doing to me? Fuck, I want you… I want you so bad that you’re all I can think about.
Do you not believe me when I say how hard you make me? Do you need proof of how much I want to fuck you, is that it? Because, believe me when I say, I’m hard right now…
My hands shake as I read the message, dread making goosebumps scatter across my skin. I can see that he’s typing out another message, and I sit staring dumbly at my phone waiting to see what he sends next, but a movement beyond the window catches my eye and I look up.
It’s Sterling, phone in hand as he walks around the swimming pool, oblivious to me watching his every move. My heart skips a beat as I watch him typing something into his phone, a frown creasing his forehead as he stops walking.
My first thought is how attractive he looks, how his tousled brown hair is whipped up by the breeze, how sharp the cut of his jaw is as he stares at his phone. Then, as though in slow motion, a smile draws his lips wide just as his thumb presses the screen right at the same time that my phone vibrates.
Flicking my eyes back down, I’m confronted with a close up photo of a man’s erect dick. It’s long, thick, and veiny, precum jewelling the crown.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, both appalled and suddenly very, very afraid.
Told you…
My hands begin to shake as I lift my gaze back up to Sterling. The smile he was wearing fades to something that looks close to agony as he pockets his phone and strides towards the house.
I freeze.
No way.
It’s just a coincidence.
He wouldn’t.
It can’t be…
But he’s the only one who knows my pseudonym. He said he searched for me, is it so inconceivable that he searched for me on social media sites, that he found my account?
I wait for long agonising seconds for another message. Another message that will prove it isn’t Sterling who is sending me these messages. That whoever it is, is someone I don’t even know. That it’s just some stranger who has no idea who I am. And yet…
Another message doesn’t come.
Nothing.
I watch Sterling get closer and closer, willing my stalker to send me a message so that I know it can’t possibly be Sterling. It can’t be the man who made me feel so wanted, so seen, so adored, so desired.
But there’s nothing.
My finger hovers over the phone. If I message back now, and I see him answer that will tell me all I need to know, right?
I debate for all of two seconds, hoping to God I’m wrong. That the person who’s sending me these messages, isn’t the man walking towards me now.
I have to know.
I have to.
With shaking fingers, I type out a response.
Leave me alone.
Then I click send, holding my breath.
Sterling is almost at the kitchen door. My heart stops. My whole body stiffens as I wait for him to reach into his pocket to retrieve his phone. Seconds tick by as his hand rests on the handle to the door, his gaze meeting mine.
My heart is in my throat as I glance at my phone screen, a sick feeling rising up my chest as I place my phone on the counter, then flick my gaze up to his once more.
He frowns, but he doesn’t reach for his phone, instead he opens the kitchen door.
“Harlow?” he asks, concern flickering across his face.
I look back at my phone. My stalker doesn’t answer, and Sterling steps inside the room.
“Are you okay?” he asks, pulling the door shut behind him. “You look…”
“I’m fine,” I bite out, not knowing what to do, what to say, as I snatch up my phone and pocket it.
It can’t be him. It isn’t him. Please, don’t be him.
“What’s wrong, you’re shaking,” he points out, his gaze following my movements.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Harlow,” he warns. “What is it? You look… upset ,” he whispers that word, and it only makes me feel even more wary of him, as though he knows something.
There’s a weird kind of tension between us, and not the sexual kind of tension we’ve shared before. Is he afraid that he’s been caught? Did he not respond to the message just because he saw me sitting in here holding my phone? Is everything I thought about him untrue? Is he hiding the real person he is from me, the person who would send gross messages about forcing himself upon a woman? Who would send dick pics?
It can’t be him, can it?
I should confront him. I should confront him right now.
“I should go,” I say instead, pushing back from the counter, the stool scraping across the tiled floor. I’m shaking so violently that my teeth start to chatter.
“Harlow, wait. Talk to me, please ,” he begs, rounding the counter, reaching for me. But there’s something in his eyes, something that makes me shudder. It looks a hell of a lot like guilt. His touch sends me spiralling, the cool feel of his palm seeping through my jumper and into my skin as I flinch from his touch.
“Don’t touch me!” I hiss, taking a step back. He takes another step towards me, the guilty look on his face turning to concern.
“Harlow, what is it?”
“I…” My voice gets caught in my throat as he takes another step closer, crowding me against the kitchen island. The bottom of my spine hits the marble countertop, and I let out a frightened yelp as his hands rest on either side of me.
“Is this about the other night in the pool?” he questions, but there’s something careful about the way he asks me, as though he’s trying to gauge my reaction.
I shake my head. “Who were you texting?” I blurt out.
“Texting?” he asks, cocking his head, something close to relief fluttering across his features.
It confuses me. If he was my stalker, if it is him sending me those messages just now, and I caught him in the act, why would he be reacting this way, as though relieved?
“Yes, who were you messaging a moment ago. Who, Sterling?” I bite out, my heart pounding so loudly that I can barely hear myself think.
“Dalton,” he replies immediately.
“Dalton?” I parrot back.
“Yes, Dalton. He texted me about his engagement party coming up.”
“To Daisy,” I reply, frowning now. My head is all over the place. I know that isn’t a lie given my conversation with my mother, but I was convinced it was him sending me the messages.
“That’s right, to Daisy. You know then?” he asks, something flickering across his face as his eyes drop to my mouth, and my teeth buried into my bottom lip.
“My mother called me in the early hours of this morning and told me about the engagement party, and the wedding, and the fact I haven’t been invited to either,” I reply, and then before I can stop myself, because I need to know if he’s telling the truth, I say, “Can I see?”
“See?” he replies, a sudden rash of anger written across his face.
“The messages. Can I see them?” I insist, forcing myself to ask once again. His anger is warranted because who demands to see someone’s phone like this? But I have to know.
He hesitates briefly before nodding. “Sure. Here,” he replies, pulling out his phone and holding it up to his face so it opens, before passing it to me.
I take it from him, his fingers brushing over mine briefly, my skin tingling from the contact. I’m still afraid, still having lingering doubts, but my body doesn’t seem to react in the same way at all. Pressing on the messages icon, I scroll to the first message which is clearly from Dalton.
The engagement party is this Saturday evening. 7pm. Black tie. You’re welcome to bring a plus one. Harlow perhaps?
My cheeks heat as I read his response, aware that Sterling is studying me as I do. His head is tipped down, and his hand has crept closer to my side, his thumb brushing against my hip with the movement.
I’ll be there. I’m not sure bringing Harlow as my plus one would be a good idea. I’ve been keeping my distance.
A whole dose of relief, a shedload of guilt, and a sharp pang of disappointment hit me all at once. He isn’t my stalker. He doesn’t want to take me as his guest to his friend’s engagement party. And worse, he’s been avoiding me. That hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does.
“I’m sorry,” I apologise, not knowing what else to say. Because I am sorry, for believing that he could be my stalker, that he’s even capable of scaring me like that, for making him feel like he has to tiptoe around me. This is his home, not mine.
He takes his phone from my hand, slipping it back into his pocket. “Harlow, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” The anger before has disappeared, replaced instead with concern.
“Nothing’s going on. I just…” I begin, feeling so embarrassed that I can barely look him in the eye. “Like I said, my mom called to tell me last night, and I guess… I just thought that maybe… Sorry, I’m just feeling a little…” My voice trails off, I don’t have a good excuse as to why I demanded to see his phone, other than the truth, and that’s not something I wish to share right now, or ever.
“Hey, listen. I know how that text might sound, but I–”
I tip my head down, more heat creeping into my cheeks as I avoid his gaze. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, and you have every right to be angry. I haven’t made things easy. This is your home and I’ve made you feel like you have to keep your distance. It was also incredibly rude of me to ask to see your phone. My mom just got into my head a bit…” I mumble, and whilst that’s partly the truth, it’s not the whole truth.
“I’m not angry at you, Harlow,” he says roughly.
“You’re not?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing .”
“I totally understand why you wouldn’t want to take me as your plus one. I haven’t even been invited to the engagement party or the wedding. Which is fine, of course,” I add quickly, trying to sidestep him.
Sterling’s hand grasps my hip, holding me in place. “Look at me, Harlow,” he commands gently.
“Sterling, let me go,” I whisper.
“Not until you look at me.”
I raise my head, slowly meeting his gaze. “I told you, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he replies, shaking his head. “It’s not fine that you’ve been made to feel unwanted. It’s not fine that your mother called you to tell you about this engagement party and the wedding in the middle of the damn night, and it’s definitely not okay that she made a point of telling you that you haven’t been invited.”
“It’s okay–” I try to protest, but he shakes his head.
“But more than that it’s not okay that you think I’ve been avoiding you, because I haven’t.”
“But you said–”
“I said that I’ve been keeping my distance, not that I’ve been avoiding you. Those are two very different statements, Harlow,” he replies, his free hand grazing up my arm, before settling on my cheek. “And me telling Dalton that I don’t think it’s a good idea taking you as my plus one to his engagement party isn’t because I don’t want you there, it’s because if you’re by my side, I won’t be able to keep my damn hands off you.”
“Oh…” My voice trails off as he brushes his thumb against my bottom lip, and my heart hiccups inside my chest.
“You know how I feel about you, Harlow. I’ve kept my distance because I thought you needed space. But when I tell you that nothing’s changed, that I want you, I need you to believe me. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” I reply, the word slipping out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“Good, because if I had my way we wouldn’t have spent a second apart these past couple of weeks,” he grinds out, his thumb pushing past the boundary of my lips as I gasp. “If I had my way I’d be spending every second of every damn day buried inside of you because that’s the only place I’ve ever felt at home.”
I groan then, my eyes fluttering shut as I suck his thumb deeper into my mouth and he presses his hips against mine, his cock hard against my stomach.
“And for the record, Harlow. If I had my way, you’d attend this engagement party, and the damn wedding, not just as my guest, but as mine .”
With that, he pulls his thumb from between my lips and slams his mouth against mine, swallowing up any frail attempt I might have had to stop him.