by Tracy Wolff
She did it again, squeezing a little bit harder, a little bit longer, before she released him.
“Stop it,” he growled, his free hand coming down hard on her ass.
She threw her head back and laughed, even as she tightened the muscles again and again. “Make me.”
“Harmony.” His voice was low, a warning more animal than human as she continued to caress him with her body. He was getting ready to lose it—she could feel it in the thighs that trembled beneath her own and the hand that clenched more firmly around her wrists.
But she didn’t care. She wanted him to lose it, wanted him to plunge inside of her with all the darkness and passion and emotion he had inside of him. She wanted him as crazy and out of control as she was.
She wanted him every way she could have him.
“Come on, Dalton,” she whispered tauntingly. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
He released her hands with a roar, his fingers clenching on her ass to keep her in place as he stood. He took two long strides, slammed her back—hard—against the kitchen wall.
“You asked for it,” he growled, as his hips began to piston against her. Harder, deeper than before, he pounded into her. Again and again he slammed inside her, until she was overwhelmed. Surrounded. Completely taken over by him. More, she was completely in his thrall. This man who was so strong and smart. This man who made her want to cede control for the first time in her life.
And still he surged inside of her. Desperately. Furiously. Each quick, hard stroke of his dick a branding that told her exactly who owned her body.
Harmony moaned as she wrapped her arms around him and held his shaking, furious body against her own. She’d wanted to push him, to see him without his infernal control. To show him that she could take whatever he dished out. And she was taking it, but God, she’d never felt anything this intense before, not even the last time he’d made love to her.
Her orgasm slammed through her. Heat radiated along her every nerve ending, radiant incandescent flames that she couldn’t control. That she could only experience. She called his name then, her hands tangling in his hair, her legs clenching tightly around his waist.
“I love you, Harmony.” Dalton’s voice was low, hoarse, his body jerking spasmodically against hers as he emptied himself inside of her in long, jetting streams. His shudders—and his words—set off another explosion inside of her, and then she was crying out his name, whimpering, wailing, burying her face against the heavy muscles of his chest as her body spun onto a whole different plane, one where the pleasure went on and on and on.
When it was over, when the pleasure had finally receded and she was left limp and lazy and utterly exhausted, she kept waiting for him to say it again. Kept waiting for him to whisper that he loved her, that he wanted her—just the way she was.
But he didn’t say anything and neither did she. How could she, when he was wrapped around her, filling up an empty space inside of her that no one else had ever been able to reach?
* * *
Chapter 19
* * *
“Wakey, wakey.” Someone slapped Harmony on the ass a couple of times. She knew that saccharine-sweet voice … it was the only reason he wasn’t dead. Tre.
“I just crawled in bed.” She cracked one eye open. It was 4:06 a.m. No hangover, so that was good. “Go away, I’m tired.”
“Get your ass up, young lady, we have hair and makeup. Remember Wake Up Fort Worth?” Tre pinched her on the bottom. “It’s not my fault you had a close-to-overnighter with Mr. Tall, Dark, and You Didn’t Let Me Meet Him.”
“Ouch.” She rubbed her bottom. “I’m up.”
She had to be on set for Wake Up Fort Worth by six, and according to Tre, it would take close to thirty minutes to get there. They only had an hour and a half for makeup, hair, and clothes for both her and Lyric. In Harm’s opinion, that was about an hour and twenty-five minutes too much, but what did she know? Tre had stolen her gold-lamé bikini and refused to give it back.
“Don’t make me carry you into that shower, because I will and you won’t like the cold water I turn on for you.” Tre was downright snotty. “Your sister’s already up and in the shower.”
“Good for her.” Slowly, Harmony rolled out of bed. Usually she was up way before now, but considering she’d only gone to bed two hours ago, she was running on fumes. “Lyric’s always been an overachiever.”
“Yep, that’s what I love most about her.” Heath popped his head in and jumped back. “Damn, you look rough.” His face was all shock and horror. He glanced at Tre. “Got your work cut out for you there.”
Harmony grabbed a pillow and fired it off in Heath’s direction.
Heath dodged it. “That’s not very nice. And to think, I made you breakfast.”
He popped a blueberry mini-muffin in his mouth.
“Aren’t those the muffins I made yesterday?” She yawned and stretched.
“Yes, but I warmed this one up,” he said around the muffin in his mouth.
“You also ate it.” She headed to the en suite bathroom.
“All your negativity made me hungry,” he called after her.
“Bite me,” she fired back.
“I love you too, little sister—”
She slammed the bathroom door and turned on the shower so the water could heat up.
Fifteen minutes later, she was showered, shampooed, and wrapped in a yummy-soft terry cloth robe.
Several dresses were laid out on her made bed. She was learning that Tre was a neat freak. She looked around. He’d picked up her clothes from the night before, folded them, and set them on a chair by the bay window.
He hovered, impeccably dressed in gray slacks and a pale-pink dress shirt. Who was impeccably dressed at four in the morning?
“What do you think of the outfits I’ve laid out?” Tre waved his arm like a game show hostess showing off prizes.
They all showed a lot of skin. True, she’d picked everything out with Tre, but before she’d left Dalton’s last night, Dalton had suggested she tone it down for the interview. While normally she wouldn’t pay any attention to what he said, he’d been on TV a lot more than she had. Plus, she didn’t want to embarrass him or Lyric anymore than she already had. She’d been causing damage ever since she got here, and she couldn’t help wondering if maybe it was time for her to cool it, just a little.
It hurt that Dalton didn’t like the way she dressed, but since she was pretty sure she was falling in love with him, she wanted to make him happy. Harmony knew she was falling into the same old trap she was trying to escape with her mother—being who everyone else wanted her to be instead of being herself—but maybe Dalton had a point. Was curbing her fashion sense really that bad? After all, she’d let Tre do the same thing and had never questioned his choices.
“I’m leaning towards the black crop top and matching skater skirt. It’s edgy without being trashy.” He shook his head. “I don’t know about the shoes though.”
“Pick something from the closet,” she told him. “I never go anywhere without a pair for every occasion.”
He whistled when he saw her collection, but it didn’t take long for him to come back with a pair of wicked-looking Louboutins. When he put them next to the outfit he’d chosen, it was all she could do to blink away the tears.
Which was stupid. She wasn’t a crier, and yet twice in the last few days she’d had to struggle to hold back her emotions.
She tried to hide it, but Tre must have seen because he pulled her in for a hug. “Now, come on, Super Girl, there’s no crying before a large-market TV appearance. Think about the Food Network exec who will be watching. We can’t have you with puffy red eyes.”
Tre was the Tim Burton version of a fairy godmother—dark, well-meaning, and a little angry. He had a good heart and impeccable talent.
“I feel like the clothes we bought yesterday are the first ones I’ve ever had that feel like me. Thank you for that.” She didn’t know how to explain the
closet filled with Junior League on the right and Roller Derby on the left.
“You’re too young to be drowning in so much Talbots,” he said. “But I’m all for the Loubies.”
“I bought them all on eBay. I’m pretty sure they’re either fake or stolen, but since I paid less than three hundred dollars for each pair, I don’t care.” She might compromise on her clothes, but the shoes were all Harmony. “My mother wants me to be Ann Taylor and I thought I was Harley Quinn, but I don’t know anymore. I like lace short shorts, but I’m not sure they’re who I am. I don’t know what to do. Dalton told me that he loved me, but then he told me to tone it down for the interview today.” She honestly didn’t know what to do.
“Do you love him?” Tre led her to the bed, carefully moved a blood-red dress over, and sat her down.
“I think so. Unfortunately.” With the sleeve of her robe, she wiped her face.
“Listen, sweet cheeks, I know a little something about not fitting in. I’m a gay man who grew up in Gilmer, Texas, population five thousand. I played the straight guy until I didn’t recognize myself. I hated everything about me. My senior year in high school, I met a man.”
“Your first lover?” Harmony knew how it felt to look in the mirror and not see the person you really were.
“No, far from it. He was gay though.” Tre turned sad and serious. “He had end-stage lung cancer. I volunteered at the hospital …” He laughed. “I had this crazy idea that because my father was a doctor, I needed to be one too.” He wiped the tears from his own eyes. “Anyway, Charles had been a loving husband to his wife of more than twenty years. They had four daughters. But, he was gay. He said, ‘I always thought there was time to be true to myself. I always said one day I would do this or one day I would do that. One day … one day … but I’m out of one days, and I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy. Don’t let life pass you by because you’re waiting for one day.’ He was right. I went home, told my parents I was gay, and I haven’t looked back since. Has it been easy? No, but I’m living my truth. You need to be true to yourself.” He smiled sadly up at her. “To thine own self be true. The real you is fantastic and funny and fabulous. Don’t get confused.”
He was right—she knew he was right—but she’d been wearing a mask so that people would love her for so long that it was frightening to take it off. “You’re right, I know it.”
“You don’t have to decide about the rest of your life right now. All I need you to do is pick out something to wear. We’re running out of time, and I need at least forty-five minutes to turn you from a pumpkin into Cinderella.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s get a move on.”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was exactly what she needed to hear. Tre was just the right amount of bitchy to get her moving.
“I’m wearing the black crop top and skater skirt,” she said firmly. It felt the most like who she was inside, and she would start living her truth one outfit at a time. “But I think the black lace-up Loubies are too much for prime-time TV. Let’s go with the floral ones. The black background ties everything together, but the neon flowers are the right pop of color. What do you think?”
“I think we’re finally dressing for your inner Harmony. I love it. Now for hair and makeup.” He headed for the bathroom.
Five hours later, she was seriously rethinking her inner Harmony as the Wake Up Fort Worth executive producer continued to yell at her in the greenroom—which was a sickly eggshell and not green at all, much to her disappointment.
“We are a family-friendly TV show. Do you know what you’ve done?” His name might have been Les or Brett. Harmony couldn’t remember.
“Don’t be an ass.” Tre stepped between her and Les/Brett. “All she did was uncross and cross her legs.”
“I didn’t realize that when I sat down, my skirt would be so short.” The outfit was cute and totally her, but there was no way around it. She’d had a serious wardrobe malfunction on live TV.
“Are you going to claim you didn’t know you weren’t wearing any underwear? Putting on underwear is a choice. One you should make every single day of your life.” Les/Brett’s face was turning a deep shade of purple. That couldn’t be good.
“I did have underwear on, but right before the last segment, one of the straps holding it on broke. It’s not like I could sew it back together.” If she hadn’t taken them off, they would have ended up around her knees. She’d made it through most of the segments with underwear on. Didn’t that count for something?
“Back off.” Lyric stepped into Les/Brett’s personal space. “She didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t see what’s so wrong. So what if she showed her vagina? Every second person in the world has one. Get over it.”
Harmony took a step back. Usually she was the one standing up for Lyric, not the other way around. But she’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel good to have Lyric in her corner. Plus, defiance looked good on her. Clearly, being married to Heath was doing her some good—and not just in the sex-life department. Not that Harmony had any intention of ever telling him that.
“What’s wrong?” The producer’s voice was at a screechy level that only dogs should be able to hear. “We can’t even say the word vagina on morning TV, much less show one to our viewing public. This is a disaster. The network is talking about pulling our show.”
Tre shot Les/Brett a glare that should have singed the producer’s hair plugs. “That’s it. We’re going.” He stabbed an index finger at the producer’s chest. “You’re no longer invited to my monthly dinner party, and you’re off my Christmas card list. You are dead to me.”
Tre put his arms around Harmony’s and Lyric’s waists and walked them out.
Once they were back in Cherry Cherry, Harmony sighed in relief. “Well, that sorta went well.”
“At least the world at large now knows there are two of you.” Tre closed the passenger’s-side door. “Mission accomplished.”
“How can you say that?” Harmony didn’t know what to do next. What if her wardrobe issue cost her the Food Network show? Dalton had been right; she should have toned it down. At least then she wouldn’t have pulled a Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct on live TV.
“Didn’t Food Network want a badass baker? Hello, they just got what will become national and possibly international free publicity.” Tre sounded very satisfied with himself.
“Did you sabotage my panties?” Harmony knew Tre meant well, but his methods were another thing entirely.
“Trust me, Super Girl, I’ve never done anything with a woman’s panties in my life, except admire them on a shelf from afar.” Tre poked his head between the seats. “I’m a glass-is-overflowing kinda guy. The bright side is free publicity, which I’m afraid is also a downside.”
“No, no … I think he has a point.” Lyric turned over the engine and for once, Cherry Cherry didn’t protest having Harmony in the car. “You’re getting your name out there.”
Chopin’s Funeral March played on Harmony’s phone, and Lyric shot her a look of sympathy. It was Momma and she wouldn’t be happy. Come to think of it, she was never happy.
Harm slid her finger across the screen and held the phone to her ear.
“Harmony Marie Wright, you are a disgrace and a disappointment. I expect this of Lyric, but not you. What on earth—”
Tre grabbed the phone from Harmony. “I don’t know who this is, but you will never address Harmony or Lyric in that tone of voice or spew such vile words at them ever again. When you regain some composure and common decency, feel free call back. Until then, don’t call this number.” He hit end.
Silence cut through the car.
Lyric leaned over and kissed Tre on the cheek. “That was our mother. I doubt anyone has ever spoken to her like that before in her life. You really are our fairy godmother.”
Harmony didn’t know what to say. She knew she’d have to talk to her mother at some point, but for now, she didn’t have to take the verbal abuse. It was safe to say t
hat Harm’s reputation was finally tarnished beyond repair. The fact that she’d done it unintentionally was neither here nor there.
Harmony’s phone rang again, and Tre turned the screen so she could see it.
“It’s not Momma this time.” She didn’t recognize the number. She slid her finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“It’s Holly Braeburn from Food Network. Please tell me you didn’t do it on purpose.” She didn’t sound happy.
Talk about kicking Harmony when she was down.
“I really didn’t do it on purpose.” Harmony could feel her dream slipping away.
“It’s not a total loss. We can find a way to spin it, just don’t ever do it again.” Holly sounded like she was swigging something. Was it Jack Daniels or Pepto-Bismol? Or some weird mix of both?
“I won’t.”
“What was with the gold-lamé bikini? I said badass baker, not badass streetwalker.”
“I know. Sorry.” She wasn’t one for apologies, but if it kept her dream alive, she’d say sorry a hundred times. After the last few days, she knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t to run back to San Angelo in shame with her tail tucked between her legs.
“Why don’t you lay low for a few days. Stay out of the media while I do some damage control on this end.” Holly sounded like she’d aged ten years.
“I thought we were going to tape a practice show before the pilot?” Considering what had just happened and Holly’s current level of anxiety, she didn’t want to bring up any more bad news, but she really didn’t have a choice. “We can’t film at the bakery in San Angelo, but I have a better idea. My twin sister Lyric is married to the Fort Worth Wranglers’ own Heath Montgomery. They’ve invited me to tape the show in their kitchen.”
She sent Lyric a pleading look.
Lyric gave her a double thumbs-up.
“Fort Worth is a much bigger market, and we have the tie-in with the Fort Worth Wranglers we can exploit.” Now Harm was practically begging.
“It’s not a bad idea. I guess we could tape the pilot there.” Holly didn’t sound convinced. “Since we’re scheduled for next week, it’s kind of short notice to change the location, but it can be done. As long as you swear that you’ll keep all of your clothes on.”
