24. 24
Harlow
The first four weeks with Killian post-incredible sex are uncomfortable.
Things are still weird between us, but he doesn’t mention it.
He’s mostly in another world. He’s on his phone a lot, texting, or writing in a notebook.
He keeps us busy before bed whenever he has the energy.
He’ll take me places — oddly in his car — to do stuff like play beach volleyball.
Once, we sang karaoke at a bar while he drank soda and complained about it.
Sometimes, we just walk on the beach as the sun disappears from the horizon.
I can’t figure him out, though. Yesterday, I felt him behind me, and I swear he sniffed my hair. He likes to touch the small of my back instead of asking me to move or point.
Otherwise, he is finally being a perfect patient. His drug tests are clean, he mostly keeps conversations appropriate, and he hasn’t invaded my boundaries like looking through my phone or showing up outside of work.
It’s what I wanted... before.
The evening breeze cools my skin as I lounge beside the mansion’s Olympic-size pool.
It stretches across the backyard like a sheet of blue glass.
Pale stone surrounds it, bordered by white loungers, manicured palms, and flowering bushes.
The mansion’s reflection shivers across the water, beautiful. Killian swims laps while I read.
Water patters against the concrete as he climbs out and comes my way. He sits onto the wide lounger beside me, our hips touching. His swim trunks soak through my scrub bottoms, but I don’t move away. I don’t fight contact with him when it isn’t sexual.
“I wish you’d swim with me,” he murmurs.
I glance up from my book. “I’m a sober aid, not an aquatic therapist.”
I leave out: Last time I was in a pool with you, bad things happened.
The book is plucked from my hands. My heart jumps.
“Hey!”
He reads a random page. “Ragar kisses my navel, then his lips trail down, reaching my mossy cleft.” His eyes widen. “What in the fuck is this?”
I reach for the book, frantic. “It’s a romance novel. Give it back!”
“There’s something wrong with this girl if she’s got moss down there.”
My face is on fire. “She is a forest nymph. They have moss instead of hair.”
“Let me guess. The forest dude has wood.”
I swat his shoulder, shaking my head. “Don’t be a thirteen-year-old boy.”
He bursts into laughter. “I’m not the one reading fairy tales.”
“They’re for adult readers, thank you very much.” I fight for the book again, but I give up because touching his wet, hard body is doing something to me. I give up, lie back, and pout instead.
“Look at you all shy.” Then, to torture me further, he reads more. “Ragar’s velvet-wrapped steel…” His eyebrows rise. “Oh my God, this shit is good.”
And then—
Killian stretches out beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and continues reading.
I expect him to return the book after a page or two, but his jokes fade somewhere in the next paragraph. His voice is surprisingly pleasant. He doesn’t mock the characters again, and there’s no amusement or condescension in his delivery.
He tells the story so well that I can’t bring myself to take it back.
The tension leaves my body. I gaze at the darkening sky while Killian’s voice carries me into a fantasy land far away.
There’s another fantasy much closer, though.
In that one, the man reading to me beneath the stars is my boyfriend, not my patient.
I have a ton of schoolwork, but I’ll wait for Killian to fall asleep. Tonight is as normal as any other. We eat. Relax. He even reads to me from a new book. They started appearing on the coffee table a week ago.
“Since when did you get into romance books?”
“Gives us something to do. You like ’em, right?”
It’s become our post-dinner ritual — two chapters, narrated by Killian Easton. I love it.
Then, we watch something on television until he drifts asleep. Right now, a comedy is on.
There’s a joke about a pocket pussy. Now that I know what that is, I laugh hard, covering my mouth. Then I side-eye Killian and point at the television.
“Oh my goodness, Kill, you’re not the only sad, sad, desperate man who has to use one of those.”
Killian smirks, unashamed. “Mm-hm. I used my fleshlight yesterday.”
His words slip out so calmly, it’s a statement rather than a joke.
I swallow hard and blink. Anxious to break the tension, I fill the silence.
“Lucky you.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, uh, you’re lucky that you can get off with it. I can’t find a toy that does it for me.”
He smirks, causing my cheeks to burn hot. “You can’t get off with a toy?”
I shake my head, cringing.
“Are you asexual?”
“What? No!”
“It’s okay if you are.”
I avert my gaze, mortified. “No, I just... Toys are hard to get off with.”
I’m so stupid. Why did I just say that?
Think, Harlow. Say something funny.
But I’m not Killian. Nothing quick comes to mind. The best I can do is:
“I must not be the only woman who struggles to find a toy that works. Women have a million types of toys.”
A million! Jesus, Stop talking.
I don’t.
“Men probably just have fleshlights, and they work for all of you.”
I twist in my seat, praying for an escape.
“Want to see?” he says.
I do a double-take, stealing several glances at him. I’m tense and unsure I heard correctly. He doesn’t flinch and clarifies, his tone steady and serious.
“Do you want to see me use mine?”
I can’t help it and straighten in my seat like I’ve been cattle prodded.
“Um—”
“You’ve seen my dick. It’s not a big deal.”
I squirm, mouth gaping open.
“If you don’t want to, it’s fine. I just thought you were curious.” He looks at the television like he didn’t just propose I witness something so insanely private.
But honestly, I do want to see it. I don’t know how to say it professionally.
Because it’s not.
“Okay, I’ll watch,” I blurt, way too loudly.
He chuckles, making me feel like an awkward idiot.
Then he coolly leads the way to his bedroom.
I follow with my clammy hands clutched together.
I search in every direction as if the CNA-cops are about to pop out and arrest me.
I even close my eyes as I walk through the bedroom door, knowing every step is a moment I should turn around.
As usual, he places his hand on the small of my back instead of pointing, and guides me to the bed where I take a seat on the edge. The light is low and calm. It should be relaxing in here.
Nope.
I’m as rigid as steel.
He retrieves the cylinder and a bottle of lube from the dresser drawer. Then his shirt floats off. His pants drop to his ankles, and he steps out of them.
As usual, he doesn’t seem nervous at all.
I hold my breath as he’s about to slide off his underwear, but he stops.
“Take off your clothes,” he says.
“What?” I squeak.
“I need to get hard.”
“Oh,” I whisper.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I usually watch livecams when I use it. I have a particular girl I like to watch. I can get my phone and—”
“No!” I yelp. I shift uncomfortably. “You don’t need to look at another woman.”
He purses his lips, stifling a smile, surely amused by my frantic reaction.
I don’t care, though, and find myself removing my top. I rise and undo my drawstring, then push my bottoms over my round hips. I don’t look at Killian.
“Your bra and those fuckin’ ugly panties.”
I giggle and roll my eyes at him. He smirks with that crooked, sexy smile that leaves me breathless.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’m half-there. I just need the full visual.”
He seems all the way hard, but I do as he says. I peek over.
His underwear comes off. Once again, I look away the second I see his rock-hard cock.
Ugh. I miss him.
I want him inside of me again.
This feels so wrong. I tell myself what any sane girl would: He just wants to get off, and I’ll probably end up broken after.
I sit down and hold myself, debating what I should do.
Of course, Killian’s a man and not thinking of anything but sex. He probably doesn’t notice or care that an emotional hurricane is tearing me up inside.
He pours lube into the toy, slicks his palm, and strokes himself from base to tip until his cock glistens in the dim light. I’m suddenly transfixed, the storm calming as I gawk. Just before he slides the toy onto his shaft, words spill from my mouth, fast and loud.
“So, do you pump it with your hand?”
As if he is a professor teaching me, he speaks very matter-of-factly.
“Sometimes. It can be mounted to the wall, in a shower, or I can wedge it between the mattress and box spring, then fuck it on my knees. I’ll use my hand this time... unless you want to hold it while I fuck it.”
My eyes widen, and I suck in a sharp breath. “Uh. Okay.”
Inside, I’m giddy and proud of myself for saying yes. It feels good to let go.
Really good.
It seems so fast, but suddenly, the fleshlight is clutched tightly in my hands. Since I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock is eye-level. I peek up with a nervous smile.
He doesn’t return a grin.
“Look at you. Naked, shaking, holding something for me to fuck. Being pathetic again?”
That’s when I realize, he’s right. I’m shaking.
“It’s okay. It’s cute,” he murmurs, his eyes intense.
I exhale and blush, but he doesn’t wait for my response. His hips lean forward, feeding himself into the tube I’m holding with a freaking death grip. His palms come to a rest on top of my head, as if he needs to touch me or grip something. I let him, and he takes his first, agonizingly slow thrust.
Uhh. I wish he were feeding that slick, hard cock into me instead. I should suggest that. I should just let him use me if he’s horny. Worry about the consequences later. Yes. Okay, say that.
I draw in a deep breath, and...
“Lie down, Harlow,” he says abruptly.
Before I can respond, one of his hands leaves my head and presses me back onto the mattress. I keep the toy snug around his cock as he moves between my knees. He puts more lube on his hand and—
Oh my gosh, he’s touching me.