by K. Webster
Until I discovered he made me crazy. Infuriated me by breaching my comfort zone. Angered me with his in-your-face way of communicating. Smelled too damn good for the cocky words coming out of his mouth.
Double ugh!
To his defense, I’m not exactly the easiest person to live with. I’m anal about how things are done. Pillows face a certain way. Television stays on at a certain volume. Vacuuming must be executed in such a fashion that I can see the lines on my pristine white carpet.
Clutter and dirty boots and holey jeans strung out all over my house are not what I signed up for. Empty beer bottles left on the coffee table and blaring televisions are enough to make me lose my mind. Man fur leftover from shaving dusting my guest bathroom sink is a total deal breaker.
Harley is a mess.
A hot mess.
And I’m not.
I know they said opposites attract and all that jazz, but it’s a crock of shit. I’m better suited for someone like Declan. Perfectly pressed shirts. A dazzling smile on a smooth-shaven face and slicked back hair. Dress shoes free of scuffs. Dec knows how to talk softly in a restaurant. Dec opens car doors. Dec says all the right things.
Harley is simply a bull in my gorgeous china shop. He stomps in, trailing mud from God knows where—this is New York City for crying out loud—and shakes up my life. I hate him for it.
Until he walks around shirtless, you hussy!
I’m back to fanning myself. Harley distracts me. He rattles my carefully constructed world at the very foundation. Truth be told, he terrifies me. I’m afraid if I let him in he’ll crash into me, like he does my living room, and destroy my heart. My heart is too fragile and buried deep. This show was supposed to be exactly that. A show.
Not this.
Not him wanting to know me.
Not real.
“I think he resents me for not taking this marriage seriously,” I murmur aloud, and then immediately silently berate myself for letting that slip. The cameras at the studio are one thing, but it’s been a major adjustment having them in my home following Harley and my every move. I snatch up my half-full glass of pinot grigio and chug it down. It’s then I realize I’m going to have to open the second bottle if I ever plan to make it through this diary session.
My phone chimes and I pick it up, hoping it’s Dec. As soon as I see his name, I grin.
Dec: Thought any more about what we talked about? Lorelei and I were just discussing how much the audience would love it. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t mind signing on for another three months. He looks like he needs the money.
I bristle at his text. Everything about it annoys me. This is one of the reasons I don’t drink much—I get too feisty. My big mouth gets bigger and bad things spill out. I’m irritated that Dec and my assistant Lorelei are having conversations about me. Used to be that it was Declan and I going over plans for the show. Back when he was interested in me. I really dug a hole for myself by agreeing to do this. Now it feels like any headway Dec and I made beneath the sheets will simply be a fond memory and nothing more.
Me: Maybe. I just miss my best friend right now…
I don’t have many friends in this world. My parents, both only children, were killed in a car accident in the city when I was fourteen. I, also an only child, spent the next four years bouncing from one unfit foster home to the next until I finally aged out at eighteen. Thankfully, my parents left me a little bit of money that I was able to dedicate to my college education. I spent four years working my ass off at NYU and then lucked out when I interned at one of the biggest news stations in the country. My career snowballed from there and I never looked back. Unfortunately, since my focus was always upward and onwards, I never took the chance to make friends. Dec and Lorelei are my only true friends. I sleep with one and pay the other. I’m not sure if those can be classified as actual friendships, though.
God, this is why I don’t drink.
I overanalyze everything.
“This is all Harley’s fault,” I blurt out with a hiccup as I start unsuccessfully attempting to open the next bottle of wine. The damn thing keeps blurring on me, but I’m hell-bent on drowning out my sorrows with the liquid goodness. “Yep. That big brute outta be punished.” The image of him tied to my bed and naked has me doubling over in a fit of giggles.
My phone chimes and I trade the bottle opener for my phone.
Dec: I miss putting my Benjamin in your silk purse.
I snort laugh. Declan’s sexy talk is not sexy at all. Thank God he looks all GQ to back up his nerdiness.
Me: More like your Abe Lincoln.
My giggles get louder and louder until I slap my palm over my mouth to stifle them. The last thing I want is Harley to overhear me laughing. That was our first argument, in fact. He’d told me to pull the stick out of my ass and smile more—that I’d be a helluva lot prettier. His words. Not mine. I’d been pissed, but the comment also stung. It embarrassed me he’d said it in front of the cameras. Sure, that episode’s rankings boosted, especially when I chucked my shoe at him, but it only made me realize this whole ordeal is a sham. I’ve been counting down to the end ever since.
But that’s not true either. I’ve grown used to having someone around all the time. Not just someone. Him. There have been many times I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa and woken up in my bed. If he wouldn’t wear a knowing, smartass smirk the following day after each time, I’d probably thank him for it every now and again. But he just looks at me the next morning like, “Yep, I carried you like the caveman I am and sniffed you the entire way.”
God, the very thought of him carrying me has my body lighting up from the inside out. He makes me hot and it’s so annoying. I wish I had that effect on someone—the ability to give them a stupid, sexy smirk and them wanting to throw their clothes at me.
I’m back to attempting to open the bottle when it once again blurs and slips. My hand is gripping the neck so the sharp end of the bottle opener slides right across the back of my hand. I’m momentarily stunned by the immediate pain that just barely precedes the blood.
Bright red crimson blooms to the surface and spills from the cut. The moment it slides down my forearm and drips from my elbow onto my perfect snow white carpet, I bellow out a horrified cry.
“No!”
Drip after drip, the traitorous blood stains my carpet. I’m so fixated on how it’s ruining it that I lose focus on the injury itself. When I turn my attention back to my cut, I nearly black out. It gapes open from the three-inch long tear.
“Oh my God,” I screech out. “Oh my God!”
A bang on the door to the diary room startles me.
“What’s going on in there?” Harley demands, his voice a menacing growl.
The fact that I have to ask him for help upsets me. Bursting into tears, I admit self-defeat. “I’m hurt. There’s blood everywhere.”
He doesn’t wait for me to get up and unlock the door. One second he’s on the outside, and with a splintering crash, the next moment he’s inside with me.
My big, handsome, brutish hero.
The giant man’s bare chest heaves with exertion as his wild eyes find mine. Once he sees the blood, he storms over to me. I let out a yelp when he scoops me into his massive arms and strides out of the room.
At least I’m conscious this time and can enjoy the ride.
I try not to cringe knowing the blood is probably leaving a trail all the way to the bathroom. Instead, I fixate on the fact that nobody has ever carried me before him. Sure, when I was a kid Daddy used to pick me up, but I’ve never had anyone in my adult life do so. In Harley’s arms, I can’t help but inhale him. His scent is woodsy and clean with a lingering of hard liquor. Apparently I wasn’t the only one drinking.
When we reach the bathroom, he sits me on the countertop. Then, he leaves the room. The granite on my bare thighs sends a chill running up my spine. I’d thrown on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of booty shorts, not expecting to run into the mountain man. Okay, so maybe I hoped my s
kimpy outfit would drive him crazy when I went to fetch more wine later, but that’s neither here nor there. For a brief moment I wonder if he’s forgotten about me, but then he strides back in carrying a medical kit. I’ve seen it on the dresser in the guest room where he sleeps, but have never had the courage to ask why he had it.
“Let’s take a look at it.” His voice is low and gravelly. It makes me shiver.
“The bottle opener got me,” I tell him with a huff. “My carpet is ruined.”
His brown eyes lift to meet mine and then his white teeth are revealed behind his beard when he grins at me. That simple smile causes my belly to do a flop. Damn him and his sexy mouth.
“This is why you shouldn’t have white carpet,” he tells me with a smirk and a wink.
Another belly flop.
Ugh, eff you, pinot grigio.
I drag my gaze from his piercing brown eyes to focus on anything else but the way his eyes seem to bore into me. Bad decision. I stall and then freeze when my new focal point becomes his hardened chest. All beautiful curves colored with tattoos. In nothing but a pair of low slung jeans, I’m rewarded full access of his sculpted body. His pecs flex as he rummages around in his kit. My mouth starts to water so I wisely move my eyes elsewhere. Except elsewhere just seems to follow a rabbit down a trail. A happy trail. Dark and thick hair leading straight into the unknown.
Good God, this man looks as though he’s been carved from granite.
Now, I bet Harley most definitely has a Benjamin. At one point awhile back, he had me pressed up against the back of the couch and what was digging into me was not small by any means. It was thick and long and intimidating. I’m almost tempted to ask if I can see it, to make sure what I felt that night was real. Heat licks at my chest and neck in equal parts embarrassment and desire. I’ve gone without sex for so long that I’m practically dripping at seeing this man half naked. My normal self would point this out, but my drunk self is already ripping her clothes off in my head.
He finally sets to cleaning the cut and it takes all of my effort to focus on that rather than his lickable abs. After he finishes, he regards me seriously. “I have some bad news.”
My pulse spikes and I frown. “What?”
When he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his pocket knife, I let out a squeak.
“We’re going to have to cut your hand off,” he tells me, his voice somber.
I glare at him. “The hell you are!”
He starts chuckling as he digs around in his kit. “I’m kidding. It’s not in dire need of stitches, but it is in a place that will reopen if you’re not careful.” He pulls out a tube of something and slices the tip off of it with his knife. Then, he holds my hand as if we’re shaking hands for the first time. With steady movements, he squirts some clear liquid along the cut with his free hand. It seems to immediately stiffen.
“What is that?” I question, my eyes following his every move. “Ow! It burns.”
“Super glue.” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “And it’ll stop burning in a minute.”
The asshole is laughing at me. To my face. Bet he won’t like it if I super glue his balls to the inside of his thighs for being a prick. But the thought of even touching his balls has me groaning like a horny teenager. This man maddens me!
When I start to pull my hand from his grip, he tightens it. Our eyes meet. The air seems charged with—something. Something foreign, but not unpleasant. I’ve only ever kissed him once and it was ten minutes after we met, right after we said our vows. The entire thing was televised. My parents probably rolled over in their graves at that exact moment. I’d wondered how Harley’s family had felt about the “American Viewers Arranged Marriage” but I’d never been in a position to ask him.
In fact, I don’t ask him about anything. Some wife I am… I can’t help but frown. There have been several times I wished I wasn’t me, so I could let him drag me into the pantry and tear down my walls. To invite him into my bed one of those nights when he carries me from the couch. Instead, I lock up tighter than Fort Knox.
“I never knew you had freckles,” he utters, the gravel in his voice making me crazy inside.
My lips quirk up on one side. “I never knew you had streaks of grey in your beard. They’re kind of hidden in there.”
His eyes drop to my lips for a long, lingering second before he pulls away. I hate that my body feels rejected by the sudden loss of him. His scent remains and I inhale the uniqueness of it.
“Come on,” he orders and tugs me from the counter. “We’re going to talk.”
Talk. Talk. Talk.
So many times he’s tried and I’ve failed. Will tonight be another one of those times? My chest warms. I don’t think so. Maybe we can do more than talk…
I blink after him for a moment, but then follow him out of the bathroom, back into the diary room. The blood has dried on the furniture and carpet. My mind whirs at how expensive it will be to replace them. Harley strides over to the sofa giving me a full view of his back. He has scars scattered about, but his tattoos that stretch across his back are what draws my eye. They’re mostly of animals. Here and there I can see words and quotes. When I see a name, my breath catches in my throat.
“Barb?”
He snaps his head toward me and, for the first time ever, I see something I don’t recognize from him flash in his eyes. Hurt. Heartache. Loss. I don’t think about it, I just wobble my drunk self over to him and throw my arms around his middle when he faces me. He’s stiff for a minute before he relaxes and hugs me back. I’m not sure how long we remain like this, but eventually I find my fingers dancing circles along his back. And his fingers are stroking my hair.
“Did she die?” I ponder aloud.
He growls. “I wish.”
Frowning, I peer up at him. His jaw is clenched as he desperately attempts to quell his fury. “What happened?”
His eyes lock onto mine and he gives his head a slight shake. “We were supposed to get married. I’d bought her this fancy diamond she’d been eyeing and everything. My mom fell ill, so Barb was running the hardware shop in her absence. I’d gone in to surprise her one day for lunch and found her getting plowed by some guy.” He shudders. “She fucking broke me.”
I slide my palm to his face, my brows pinched together as I study him. The big, bad, tough guy with a beard that would put most bikers to shame has been harboring this heartache for some time now. I’d been too stuck up to ask him about his past. Always focused on my own pain. Not once had I asked anything about him. Everything I needed to know was on the analysis the psychologists provided me. Or so I thought…
“I’m sorry she hurt you,” I tell him honestly.
He grips my left hand and brings it to his lips. Soft, full lips brush against the plain ring he gave to me. I wonder why he gave this Barb chick a big diamond and then gave me this simple one. His eyes close when he kisses the ring.
“My mom died not long after I ended things with Barb. I’d wanted a change. An old hunting buddy of mine, Banner, is a Marine. He’d stumbled upon your show through his wife. They told me to submit an audition for it. Maybe it would help me move on from Barb,” he tells me, his voice hoarse. Our eyes meet again and remorse flickers in his. “I shouldn’t have ever come on this show. I wasn’t in the right headspace.”
I can’t help but smile at him. “I’m glad you came on the show.” My smile falls. “I wish you’d told me this from the beginning. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have…” Been such a bitch, I finish in my head.
His palms find my ass that’s barely covered by the booty shorts and he lifts me. It feels right to wrap my legs around his solid waist. I could get used to him carrying me around when I’m awake and fully able to appreciate the hard parts of his body pressed against my soft ones. Truth be told, it’s hot that this man can pick me up like I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around his neck as he maneuvers us over to the sofa. Then, he sits down with me in his lap. Once I’m settled, I can feel his hard len
gth pushing into me from beneath his jeans.
“You look so fucking pretty when you smile.” His words send an army of butterflies into chaos in my belly. I nearly moan when his palms slide to my hips. Small, gentle touches are making me so needy for him. It’s been almost three months since I last got laid. Declan and I got drunk the night before my sham wedding and had sex. He’d promised he’d put his “Benjamin” back in my “silk purse” in ninety days.
This… whatever this is… feels way too damn good.
Harley starts rubbing deliberate circles at the apex of my thighs. Every other time, his thumbs brush against the lips of my pussy. Fire begins to blaze through me—raging and uncontainable. The wetness soaking my panties does nothing to snuff out the heat.
“God,” Harley growls, his eyes falling between my legs. “By the way you’re working your hips, I’m going to guess your cunt is dripping for me.”
I close my eyes at his dirty words. He said cunt. Not silk purse. Cunt. I almost came from the unrefined way he said it. My hips are rocking against him as I attempt to chase some relief. His cock is thick and hard below me. It makes for the perfect tool to rub against.
“And by the way you’ve gone quiet,” he continues, his voice impossibly lower, “I’m going to assume you’re enjoying every second of this.” His thumbs slip under my shorts and panties before grazing against my very wet flesh. “Jesus,” he hisses. “I was right. So fucking wet.”
A mewl escapes me and my fingers latch onto his unruly hair. “We should stop…” Although I’m not exactly sure why. My inhibitions are gone. Everything about this feels right.
Oh, God, please don’t stop.
He leans forward to bite my small tit through the fabric of my T-shirt. His hot breath tickles me as he says, “We both know we’re not stopping.” I let out a louder moan when he bites me again.
Suddenly, the clothes I’m wearing seem too thick and heavy and plentiful.
“Take off your shirt,” he orders. I almost argue, but then he utters in a sweet tone, “I want to feel your skin against mine.”
I bravely peel my shirt from my body. He grabs it and chucks it at something behind me. Then, he latches onto my bare breast with his perfect mouth. His tongue darts out between his teeth and teases my flesh. I’m about to go crazy from his touch.
