by Jordan Grant
Every movement is ardent.
Every touch reverent.
Every kiss fervent.
He thrusts a single digit inside me, and I arch up to meet him.
“God,” he growls into my mouth, “you’re so wet for me, baby.”
He thrusts in and out, just his one finger, and I quiver beneath him. I want more, need more, but I can’t be another notch on a bedpost. I can’t have any more regrets. He slips another finger inside me and growls something indiscernible.
With those two fingers, he works magic. Fire laps at my insides and climbs higher. His thumb strums over my clit, and I quake.
“That’s right, sweetness,” he says, feathering kisses down my throat as he plays me like I’m his violin.
He stalks down the bed, and as I watch him, he disappears between my knees until all I see is the black mop of his hair.
At first, he laves over the inside of my thighs in small circles that make me quiver. He puts a hand on either side of my knees and takes a moment just to blow a breath of hot air over me.
“Ohhh,” I mewl, and I feel him chuckle all the way to his hands placed on either side of my knees.
With nothing more than a groan, he lowers his mouth between my legs, and licks a line straight down the middle of me.
Something inside me snaps, and his tongue is thrusting in and out of me, his teeth clenching around my clit and tugging. He repeats it over and over, eliciting another moan.
He thrusts his fingers between me again. “You taste so sweet.” His words sound tortured, drawn from the depths of his soul. “Give it to me. I want you to come for me, sweetness.”
His mouth replaces his hand, and something in the way he says the pet name, so low and intimate, something in the way his tongue pumps in and out of me as his palms press harder against my knees to keep me still, unravels me.
My legs tremble, and I cry out. He lifts his head to watch me as I come, my whole body shaking as warmth bathes me from head to toe and my back arches off the bed.
As I float back down, he feathers a kiss across my lips.
Because it seems like something I should say and because I am still lingering somewhere among the warmth and the stars, I say, “Thank you.”
Ian chuckles, his body vibrating against mine.
“Don’t thank me, sweetness,” he says, giving me an Eskimo kiss, nose-to-nose. “We have a lifetime to go, and at some point, I’m sure you will return the favor.”
Then he kisses me again.
28
Harlow
My eyes are slow to open, my head still groggy with sleep. The bed is soft, the sheets a cool silky smooth that’s so inviting. I snuggle in deeper, my heavy eyelids threatening to close again. I don’t hear Molly across the room softly breathing in her sleep or the radiator that clicks through the night. It’s too quiet.
I blink, staring up at the white vaulted ceiling. My mind is sluggish, every thought reluctant to surface.
Wait. That’s not my ceiling—it’s too large and too bright—and these aren’t my sheets.
Where am I?
I breathe in a sharp breath that hits the back of my throat like a punch.
“Good morning, sweetness.”
I snap my head toward the voice to find Ian smiling at me. His hair is tousled, black strands poking every which way in the perfect version of bed head. Stubble darkens his tan face, and he looks rugged with a healthy dash of hedonism. I exhale, slow and steady.
Ian lies beside me shirtless, his arms folded behind his head. Daylight filters in through the window on the opposite side of the room and bathes him in rays of soft gold. He’s sculpted by hours in the gym and on the field, his abs rigid, the indent in the center of his chest sprinkled with black hair. The ache between my legs pulses back to life as his smile wanes into a devilish grin.
“I’d offer you coffee,” he says, “but you’re looking at me like you want to skip to the main course.”
“Hmm. I don’t know,” I tease, biting back a smile. “What’s the main course?”
Ian runs an index finger down my clavicle and directly between my breasts, his face hovering over mine. He looks upward from the trail of his finger, and his gaze meets mine.
“Chef’s specialty,” he murmurs. “Hot, hard, and long.”
I blush, crimson running in splotches down my neck and chest. Ian Beckett should be granted an honorary degree in dirty talk. He lifts on his elbow and tilts over me.
“I want you,” he murmurs, his gray-eyed gaze swapping between my eyes and my lips. “I want to know your best dreams and your worst nightmares. I want to make love to you in my bed and then bend you over my couch and fuck you hard. I want to hear your best joke and your worst. I want all of you, Harlow, when you’re ready.”
“I…” I begin. What am I about to say? That I love him? That’s crazy, but then why does it feel like I’m lost at sea when I am away from him and at home when he’s near.
“Shh,” he says, pressing a finger against my lips. “You are here,” he taps my temple twice with his index finger and middle finger, “when you should be in here.” He taps my heart.
His lips seize mine, and the kiss is the opposite of his words, nothing about it gentle. It’s brutal and bruising, his lips colliding with mine so hard I feel my teeth knock inside my head. It’s hot and achy, and the beat that hibernates inside my veins pounds to life.
I wrap an arm around his bulging bicep and across the taunt muscles of his back and draw him closer. He doesn’t resist and allows himself to fall so that he cages me in, his forearms flat on either side of my face. He allows his bottom half to meet mine, his cock iron-hard against my leg.
He smells like himself but slightly different, a hint of sugar and flowers. I know it’s me, my scent mixing with his own, and the realization makes me ravenous.
I kiss him harder, my fingers tangling in his hair, as I arch up to meet him. Wetness pools between my legs, and I want him so bad it hurts to even think of pulling away. He is purely and potently male, and it calls to something primal inside me.
Being around him gives me a fix I never knew I needed. Only every time we take it further, I end up needing a higher dose. I’m going to have withdrawals if he leaves.
Deep in the recesses of my brain, something whispers to be entirely sure this time. I don’t want another regret, to feel like nothing more than a body used.
My nipples are rigid peaks in my lace bra. With every breath, they brush against the plank of his chest, and I love the friction. All whispers inside my brain cease. I scoot my ass a little until he presses against me just right.
“Fuck,” he breathes, but by his tone, it’s not a curse. It’s a compliment.
I grind against him, only the thin sheath of his boxers and the sheet between us. He breaks his lips from mine and nips across my cheek and down my throat. I moan, my hips pumping against him so that he slides against me, the friction delicious. With a pained groan, he breaks us apart abruptly and rolls off both me and the bed.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks, his breath ragged as his cock tents his boxers.
I blink at him, wondering what just happened.
“Oh sweetness, we both know where that was going,” he calls, entirely confident as he turns and walks into the bathroom. “And although I would just about die to fuck you, I don’t think you’re ready to have me in your bed yet.”
I blink again. “Weren’t you the one telling me how much you wanted me last night?”
“I changed my mind.” He shrugs before he squirts toothpaste onto his toothbrush, wets it, and shoves it into his mouth. With a mouthful of mint, he adds something that sounds like, “Vut yghge merly inbissickle to wahdist.”
I raise an eyebrow. I debate standing up and sauntering over to him and tasting his toothpaste myself, but I am acutely aware of how butt-naked I am from the waist-down under the sheet.
He finishes brushing his teeth and calls to me, “But you’re nearly impossible
to resist.”
He ducks inside his restroom again, and I scramble to look for my clothes. It’s not that I am nervous about my looks. Okay, well, I am, a little. I have scars from skinned knees and busted chins from climbing trees—and falling out of them—with William. I have tiny white stretch marks on the inside of thighs from growing pains. I’m too pale for my own good. Sometimes you can see my veins, like my literal veins, through my skin.
But I don’t scramble for those reasons. No, it’s because I really don’t know if it’s a good look for anyone to get caught head-to-floor, ass-in-the-air, looking under the sofa for one’s lost panties, so I’d rather avoid it.
I find them quickly at the foot of the bed and dart into the living room to find my dress. I shove it over my head just before Ian leans against the doorjamb and looks at me.
He is too delectable, the just-rolled-out-of-bed look suiting him well. His hair isn’t messy—it’s expertly tousled—as he rolls his burgundy cable-knit sweater down over his abs. He’s paired it with a pair of beige trousers, black loafers, and a lightweight black jacket.
Why does he always look like a Ralph Lauren model? It’s really not fair.
“Go get dressed,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the car in an hour.”
I give him a sloppy salute with my middle finger. “Yes, sir, Captain Demanding.”
He grins. “It’s Director Demanding, thank you very much.” He shrugs and it’s entirely unapologetic. “You never answered about where you want to go, so I made a decision.”
I take a step toward him, my chin tipped and my hands on my hips. “Oh, yeah? And where are we going?”
He leans in close. “On a date. You’re letting me cash in that favor once and for all.”
Then he kisses me and promptly steers me to the door.
— Harlow, 45 Minutes Later —
I check my phone. Technically, Ian is not late. I’m early, but I’m also freezing, and I desperately want him to appear and open the door so I can hop inside this ridiculously expensive piece of fiberglass. I lean against the car with a sigh. My joints are forming into icicles, refusing to bend.
His words, rough like they were raked over coals before leaving his mouth, startle warmth back into my bones.
“Stormy, if you don’t get off my car, I’m going to fuck you on it.”
I yelp, startling away from the car, and spin to find him at the rear of the Lamborghini, staring at me. There’s no humor in his expression at first until he cracks just a little and bites his bottom lip to stifle his smile.
“Is that supposed to teach me a lesson?” I quip as he hits a button on the key-fob and my door slides into the air.
“Sweetness,” he purrs with unspoken promises and salacious implications, “that almost sounds like an invitation.”
He starts toward me, and I duck inside the car.
“Nope! No way, mister.” I fumble with the five-point harness as he reaches my door. I refuse to look up at him, focusing on my seatbelt. Where does this clip thing go?
“You’re like a bad mailman,” I finally grumble and look up at him. I am all tucked in and feeling confident in my protection like he couldn’t undo the harness in five seconds flat. “Always late.”
Ian smirks, his eyes sparking with amusement, and looks down at his watch.
“I’m on time,” he remarks before dipping his head low and leaning in close. He braces himself with one hand on the doorjamb and the other against my headrest.
I go still. I stop breathing. He could kiss me, and I wouldn’t stop him.
His hot breath fans my face. My pulse throbs inside my ears. We are so close I could count the shards of blue that slice through his gray irises.
I stop breathing.
I stop blinking.
I don’t move a muscle.
He pushes away from me, shutting my door behind him. He looks over at me as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Not today,” he says as the engine rumbles to life. “But one day, you will scream my name in this car.”
I’m glad the whole car vibrates when it’s powered on because maybe he can’t see my shiver.
29
Ian
My car smells like leather and her, and I fucking love it. We glide down the highway, and out here, it’s almost deserted.
The Academy was intentionally built in the middle of nowhere, and the locals of the towns nearby don’t even bat an eye at expensive, exotic cars anymore. They’ve seen everything. Maseratis, Ferrari’s, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, and Rolls Royces.
I shift in my seat, trying to adjust my dick, which has been brutally rock-hard since Harlow’s little cock-tease this morning. Well, that’s not entirely honest. I’ve been in a semi-hard state since she walked into my life.
I could have fucked her this morning, despite her hesitation last night. I probably freaked her out when I said the drunk-me equivalent of “Home. Fuck. Now.”
I can’t really blame her for panicking a bit. It’s different for women, unfairly so in my opinion, and even though the entire school definitely already thinks we’re fucking, they’d talk a lot more if she did a walk of shame back to her dorm this morning. Wait. Well, shit, she already did that.
Who the fuck cares what they think, anyway? I care what she thinks, and she seems to be acutely afraid of a repeat of whatever the lucky bastard—bastards? Shit, it’s all a little fuzzy—did to her.
I’d almost wonder if her last lay was bad in bed, like maybe he didn’t get her prepared before he went to ram-town, but I didn’t get that impression last night.
Maybe he was a poke-it and smoke-it sort of fellow. And that makes me want to punch the fucker in the face.
I am dying, dying, to ask her what he—them?—did. Not because I’d judge her. I don’t give a shit if she’s fucked a hundred guys before me because I know I’m better, but I would love the chance to beat the shit out of every single one that hurt her.
Thinking about some asshole taking advantage of Harlow wilts my dick as fast as popping a balloon. My knuckles clench the steering wheel tighter, and the car jerks a bit with the cinch of my fingers. Yeah...it’s best I don’t know, or at least best if she doesn’t tell me while I’m driving.
“Where are we going?” she asks in that voice that is one part smoker and one part music. I swear she was born with grit in her blood.
“Ellisville. There’s a little hole-in-the-wall diner there I like to go to sometimes. They make the best damn burger and fries you’ve ever had. Then I figured we’d walk around the square. They go all out for Halloween: decorating pumpkins, bobbing for apples, haunted corn maze. They entire town gets into it. I’ll even take you for a roll in the hay if you’ll let me.”
I wink at her, and she laughs.
“I think you mean for a hay ride,” she quips.
“Nope,” I shake my head, “absolutely not.”
She laughs again, and this time, it overcomes her until she shakes so hard she can’t breathe and turns bright red.
That laugh makes me feel like a man on top of the world, the guy who just scored the biggest deal of his life, the MVP at the Super Bowl. It’s better than any high I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve had some pretty awesome highs.
It takes another hour to get to Ellisville, but she doesn’t complain about the drive. By the time we are there, my stomach wants to take chunks out of the leather headrest.
We pass under a wooden arch into the city, the town’s name drawn out in big, loopy letters. My dad would hate this place. He’d call it “kitschy and outdated.” My mom would agree because she agrees with everything he says.
Maybe that’s why I like it so much, because it would definitely piss him off.
It’s like the entire town got stuck in the 1960s, except for the modern cars and civil rights, of course. I slow the car to the speed-limit—Jesus, I must really love this town to obey the speed-limit—as we pass Rosy’s Drive-In Theatre, advertised with a white-and-red n
eon sign that stands above a matching 1967 GT 500 Shelby Mustang. Two skeleton passengers wave boney hands at the passersby.
“Whoa,” Harlow breathes.
We pass the suburbs going into town, and like I said, everybody gets into it. Frankenstein’s monster is being brought to life on the front porch of an old Victorian while Freddy Krueger and Jason hide in the bushes at their next-door neighbor’s house. Ghosts hang in old elm trees and black cats cross front yards between tombstones. Mummies and vampires alike rise from the dead and monsters made of pumpkins moon the world with their orange asses.
I snort. Harlow giggles.
I’m about to start chewing on my forearm when I see the parking lot for Dave’s Diner. I don’t know who Dave is, but if he’s still alive, I’d like to shake his hand.
“Hungry?” I ask her. Please, for the love of everything, say yes.
“Starving,” she replies.
Thank Christ.
We pull into the parking lot. I have the car parked and am opening her door in less than a minute.
“Hungry much?” she teases as the door slides shut behind her, and I am tugging her to the front door.
I turn around and wink at her. “I’m always hungry for you, beautiful.”
Not my best line, but she laughs anyway. What can I say? My blood sugar is low.
I open the door to the diner for her, and we are transported back in time to red leather barstools, shiny white floors, and a jukebox playing in the corner.
“Ian!” Gabriel calls from behind the counter with a smile.
“Gabriel,” I say with a nod, leading Harlow by the hand to my corner booth.
“Ian’s stunning friend,” Gabriel says with a nod in Harlow’s direction before he resumes wiping down the countertop again.
Harlow stares at Gabriel. I’ve always liked him until now, but I’m not blind. He’s a sandy haired, lithe guy with a French accent from his European boarding school, relegated to working here for a year while his parents’ money magically makes his university forget last semester’s “little incident”—well, that’s what I heard his mom call it at least.
