Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  She nods, but it’s not what I need, and I slice my hand upward through the air, landing with a quick smack on her backside, just enough to get her attention.

  “Say it, Harlow.”

  “Y-yes,” she says. “Yes.”

  I do it again, my palm connecting with her skin, a little harder this time.

  Harlow gasps, her fist closed tight around the sheets, and she arches her hips, pushing back toward me. Wanting more.

  “Didn’t I tell you I’d give you what you need?” I say, and bring my hand down again, on the other side. The sound she makes is louder this time, more desperate. I spank her a few more times, just until her skin is warm and pink, and she moans as I soothe the flushed skin with my palm. I wonder if she’s ever thought about this kind of thing before, had any idea how much she’d like it.

  There’s no doubt Harlow Vega gets off on a little manhandling, or that I very much enjoy being the one to do it. There’s just something so hot about the way she lets me. She knows she could take control at any moment, but I’m sensing that she doesn’t want to. I’m sensing that maybe she needs someone else to lead right now.

  By the tenth spanking, Harlow is wet down her thighs, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been harder. Her hand has disappeared between her legs, fingers slipping over the slick skin.

  “You do like it,” I say. “Feel that.” I lean forward, touch where she’s working herself over. My fingers push in alongside hers and fuck. I need a condom right now.

  Straightening, I reach for the box I’d hastily tossed into the dresser drawer. Harlow moves to her back and watches, eyes fixed to where I slide the condom down and over my dick.

  I climb over her, lifting her arms above her head, helping her reach for the bed frame. “Keep them here, okay?”

  She nods, and I see the way she tightens her grip, knuckles turning white with the effort.

  I press the head of my cock against her, moving it back and forth before beginning to push in. “Think you can be quiet?” I ask, gauging her expression as I continue to move. “Oliver could come home anytime. You need to be quiet. Okay?”

  She looks down the length of her body, where my palm slides over her skin, and nods.

  I reach for the pillow next to her head and lift her hips to position it just beneath her ass. “That’s right,” I say, pressing deeper and deeper, watching as I disappear entirely inside her.

  Her teeth bite into her bottom lip and she moans around it. I shush her gently. “Look so good like this,” I tell her, watching her breasts bounce with each snap of my hips. I place my hand on her sternum to hold her down, and admire the color of my skin against hers, tan and rough against golden softness. A rough engine sounds outside and I recognize Oliver’s car, hear it move up the street and pull into the driveway.

  Harlow’s little gasps are still too loud, and so I reach near her hip for her panties, ball them up in my fist, and, after I kiss her on the lips, I stuff them into her mouth.

  Her eyes close like she’s grateful, and she moans around it—and it’s enough that I nearly come.

  “I said quiet, Ginger Snap.” I spread her legs even more. I tilt her hips in a way that my pelvis doesn’t rub against her clit while I fuck her.

  And again, she moans, a deep, desperate sound that makes me fuck into her harder, wanting to make her do it again.

  “You definitely like this,” I whisper into her ear. “I bet you think I won’t be able to stop thinking about this later, how wet you’re getting my cock.” I suck along her neck, careful to leave the skin red, but not marked. “Can you tell I like it, too? You nearly made me come before I was good and ready.”

  She groans around the fabric and presses her knees to my waist, using the leverage to bring me closer, harder.

  “I wonder if you’ll get wetter?” I say. “Should we see if I can make you wetter when you come?”

  She nods urgently.

  I can hear Oliver outside, laughing and shouting something over to a neighbor. I hitch Harlow’s leg up higher and reach down, smacking her ass again. She cries out, clenching around me. Her skin is flushed, her nipples hard and goose bumps spread along her skin.

  “He’ll be inside any second. Do you think you can be quiet? I can make it so good for you if you can.”

  She nods and I fuck her harder, my arms shaking, neck corded and tense as I hold myself back. I see the moment it happens: Harlow’s eyes widen before they close again, a tear slipping down her cheek as she struggles not to make a noise.

  It’s enough to send me spiraling after her. I lean down, nearly bending her in half with my thrusts—just one more time before I’m coming and have to muffle my sounds against her skin.

  When I can move, when my heart doesn’t feel like it might burst out of my chest, I push up, slipping out of her carefully before tying off the condom. I take her in my arms, kissing her fingers, her wrists, the corners of her mouth.

  “You did so good.” I press my lips to her shoulder, drag my nose up her neck, and growl in her ear. “You did so fucking good, sweet girl.”

  Chapter FIVE

  Harlow

  I DON’T REALLY KNOW how I would feel three days after having both of my breasts removed, but given what an important part of my body they are, I can imagine I’d be doing the exact same thing my mother has done since Monday: sleep, and cry.

  And there is nothing, literally nothing any of us can do to make her feel better. Mom has never been particularly vain, but her career was obviously dependent on her body. So even though at forty-five she would be unlikely to get a bikini-dependent film role, anyway, and the newsmagazines are highlighting her bravery and strength, she really just hates no longer having what was admittedly an awesome pair of boobs. Plus—and Mom is tougher than nails—I can tell how painful her recovery from surgery is.

  She’s released from the hospital on Wednesday morning, and Dad, Bellamy, and I spend most of the day sitting in bed with her, watching reruns of Law & Order while she sleeps. By Thursday afternoon, we’re all restless, unshowered, and picking at each other.

  I now know what would go down if the four of us were ever trapped together in a bomb shelter: murder. The incessant chirping of Bellamy’s cell phone is making Dad homicidal. Bellamy keeps talking about how hot the room is. And Mom tells me, “If you offer me food one more time I’m going to throw this remote at your head. Sorry, sweetie.”

  For the family that never really fights, we sure are a testy bunch.

  Finally, Dad pulls us both aside in the hall. “Girls, I love you,” he says, laying a hand on each of our shoulders. “But please get out of my house. Just go get back to your lives for a couple of days. I’ll call you with any updates.”

  The problem is it’s not really that easy. I detest the morbid, niggling sense I have after talking to Finn at lunch on Tuesday that my mother is going to die. I can’t talk about it with anyone, and even if I could, giving voice to it would only make me feel like I was validating the possibility or—worse—turning it into reality, somehow. I have too much free time to think; my part-time job isn’t nearly absorbing enough, I can only run or spend so many hours at the beach, and my friends have packed schedules from morning to night. All of them, that is, except Finn.

  Once Bellamy has driven away, I stand on my parents’ driveway and forcibly pull myself together. It feels literal: Pick up the pieces and put them where they belong. Pull the spine straight. Tie my still-wet hair back in a messy bun. Smooth my hands down the rumpled front of my T-shirt and jeans. Slap on a smile.

  I’m making everyone join me at Fred’s, and I won’t take no for an answer.

  “NO,” LOLA SAYS, and then I hear a loud clang in the background. “I can’t tonight. I need to finish these panels. And Mia said she and Ansel are staying in, since he’s leaving tomorrow and won’t be back for a few weeks.”

  “I’m barely keeping my shit together, Lorelei Louise Castle.”

  “You’re going to bust out my full name?”


  “I didn’t brush my hair after I showered, I’m wearing one of Bellamy’s Hello Kitty titty shirts because I forgot all my clothes at home, and the Latin Love Machine”—Lola and Mia have a bit of a thing for my dad—“kicked me out of the house until further notice. Get your ass to the Regal Beagle.”

  She sighs. “Fine.”

  Fred Furley opened Fred’s Bar in 1969, when he was only twenty-seven. Now he’s seventy-two, has been married (and divorced) six times, and loves my mother maybe only a fraction less than my father does. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday here, and Mr. Furley only let me have two shots. Perhaps relatedly, I went home sober and alone. He’s loosened up somewhat, but he still likes to play the role of father figure, which is probably why I’m so comfortable being here. Besides, it’s a way better regular hangout than a coffee shop because, hello, booze.

  It took him about seven years to understand why my dad called the bar the Regal Beagle, but the name stuck even if Mr. Furley is nothing like the guy from Three’s Company. He’s calm, tanned, and fit and gives me almost anything I want.

  Like Thursday Ladies Nights.

  Ansel and Mia picked up Lola and Finn on their way over here, and they arrive around the same time Not-Joe stumbles from his beach cruiser, parking it haphazardly against the side of the building.

  “Where’s Olls, Ollie, Olzifer?” I ask with a silly grin.

  Lola pulls back, studying me. “Are you already drunk?”

  “No. Just . . . in a weird mood.” And it’s true. I feel a little unsteady, like if I stop moving I’ll crack and the crazy will spill out onto the street like a pool of oil. “I’ll probably be better once I’m drunk, actually.”

  “Oliver’s meeting us here,” Ansel says. He’s the only one who isn’t looking at me like my hair’s on fire and I’m full of nitroglycerin.

  Finn is watching me, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. “You okay, Ginger Snap?”

  I nod. “No.” I take his arm and use the opportunity to grope his bulgy-hot bicep. “Yes? I guess. Weird day?”

  “I hear that,” he says, leading me inside.

  Mr. Furley renovated the interior of Fred’s a few years back, but at my mother’s insistence he kept the décor almost exactly the same and just brought in new tables, chairs and booths, fresh paint, and flooring. Like I said, Fred loves Mom. Yet another reason to love this place: We have our own booth in the back corner with a RESERVED card keeping people out whenever we’re not here. The truth is, Fred’s is rarely busy enough for someone to try to snag our table, but the gesture still makes me feel like a bit of a badass.

  We greet Mr. Furley, order our drinks, and head to the booth en masse. Finn follows, unsure.

  “This seems very ritualistic,” he says, opting to lean against the side of the booth rather than sit next to me.

  “You stay here long enough and you’ll get the routine down. It’s a little complicated, though.” I hold up my fingers and count off the steps for him: “You walk into the bar. You order whatever you want as you pass Fred over there. You then walk to this table.”

  He nods slowly. “Walk, order, walk.”

  “Good puppy.”

  Finn surprises me by touching his thumb and forefinger to my chin and gazing down at me sweetly before turning to Ansel.

  Our drinks show up, and we decide to order some food, and then Lola and I spend some time catching up in the comfort of the booth. She recently signed a contract with Dark Horse for a comic book series, and my first response, pre-Google, was “I’m so happy for you!”

  My second response, post-Google, was to nearly crap myself. Although this happened almost as soon as we got back from Vegas, I still sometimes can’t get over what a big change this is going to be for her life. In only a few months, the press will start: She has some interviews, a couple of trips to little boutique shops, and then her baby, Razor Fish—for which she’s been drawing characters since she could hold a crayon—will be launched into the wild.

  While we talk, Finn wanders back over, leaning against the booth and listening to the tail end of our catch-up.

  I peek over his shoulder. “Your drink is empty.”

  He shakes his glass, looking at the liquid sloshing over the ice. “No, I have a little left.”

  “Oh, just mine is empty, then.” I hand it to him, eyes wide and innocent.

  He laughs, taking the glass.

  “Tell them to put it on my tab,” I call to him as he heads over to the bar.

  Finn throws me a dirty look over his shoulder. “I got it.”

  “Smooth, Mistress Vega,” Lola says, her eyebrows raised.

  “Harlow Vega?” Not-Joe asks, blond brow quirked.

  I nod, popping an olive into my mouth and repeating, “Harlow Vega,” around it.

  “Did your parents ever want you to go to college, or did they plan for you to go straight to the pole?”

  I cluck my tongue at him, licking my fingers. “Careful, Not-Joe. Your boner is showing.”

  “Oh!” Not-Joe says, turning to Lola. “Speaking of boners. I’m excited for your book to be out and selling like crazy, and then at Comic Con it will be unreal. You’ll be in your chick author getup, strutting around. Wearing a sexy mask, and spand—”

  “Are you high?” Lola asks.

  I realize it’s rhetorical so it cracks me up when Not-Joe answers, “Well . . . yeah.”

  “I’m not going to deep-throat a corn dog and then go make out with a bunch of chesty girls in Catwoman costumes just to show I can hang with the comic guys.”

  Oliver chose this moment to arrive and looks a little stunned, eyes wide behind his thick frames. He stares at her, gaze softening with what clearly appears to be admiration. His speechless reaction makes me do a slight double take. Is quiet, sweet Oliver beginning to fancy Lola? I meet Mia’s wide eyes and can tell she’s wondering the exact same thing. Swear to God, if my head weren’t so fucked-up right now, I’d be all over getting these two together.

  “But would you let a comic book guy make out with you if he wore a Catwoman costume and deep-throated a corn dog?” Ansel asks, tilting his head to Oliver. “Theoretically speaking.”

  “Reckon the fanboys will be gobsmacked regardless,” Oliver deflects, collecting himself. “Corn dog deep-throating or not.”

  Mia scrunches her nose, shaking her head at Oliver. She almost never understands his thick Aussie accent, which is ironic considering she’s married to someone who speaks English as a second language.

  “Happy fanboys no matter what,” Lola translates in shorthand.

  I remember the first night we hung out with Oliver—after Mia and Ansel disappeared down the hall and it was just me and Lola, way drunker than the two strangers in front of us. After closer inspection, we realized Oliver had a black Sharpie flower drawn on his cheek.

  “I’m curious about the flower,” Lola said when he’d settled onto the seat next to her. He wore his usual thick-rimmed glasses, black straight jeans, dark T-shirt. I was almost positive it wasn’t a face tattoo . . . almost.

  “Loss a bit,” he said cryptically, and then returned to silence. It took several beats for me to recognize that he’d said, “Lost a bet.”

  “Details,” Lola said.

  And Finn supplied them happily. Apparently they’d just done an abbreviated version of the biking trip across the States that brought them together six years earlier. “The deal was, whoever went through the most tire tubes had to get a Sharpie face tattoo. Oliver here can’t help but treat a road bike like a mountain bike. I’m surprised his tire rims don’t look like tacos.”

  Oliver shrugged, and it was clear to me he couldn’t care less that he had a flower drawn on his face. He was definitely not there to impress anyone.

  “Do people call you Ollie?” Lola asked.

  Oliver looked at her, completely dumbfounded by the possibility of this nickname. She may as well have asked him if people call him Garth, or Andrew, or Timothy.

  “No,” he said fl
atly, and the only thing charming about him was the way his accent seemed to run through every vowel with one syllable. Lola’s eyebrow twitched in her single tell—mildly annoyed—and she lifted her flashing LED drink cup to her lips.

  Lola wears mostly black, including her glossy dark hair, and has a tiny diamond pierced into her lip, but, even still, she’s never been able to pull off the full physical manifestation of the angry Riot Grrrl. With her perfect porcelain skin and the longest eyelashes in the world, she’s simply too delicate. But once she decides you’re an asshole, it no longer matters to her what you think. She gives good glare.

  “The flower suits you,” she said, tilting her head to study him. “And you have pretty hands, kind of soft. Maybe we should call you Olive.”

  He grunted out a dry laugh.

  “And a really beautiful mouth,” I added. “Gentle. Like a woman’s.”

  “Aw fuck off.” He was laughing outright by then.

  Somehow we all went from tipsy strangers to hammered best friends to spouses that night. But Lola and Oliver were the only couple that didn’t consummate anything, and, even at the time, Lola was pretty convinced Oliver wasn’t interested at all.

  Now I’m pretty sure she was wrong.

  “Where’s Finn?” Oliver asks, sliding into the booth, then saying, “Hey, Joe,” to Not-Joe.

  “Driving Miss Harlow,” I say.

  He stares at me, confused.

  “Getting Harlow a drink,” Lola translates again.

  Oliver nods once, satisfied, glancing over at the bar and then back to me. “Be nice to my boy,” he says, giving me a wink, but his tone tells me he’s serious.

  “Because he’s delicate? Please,” I scoff. “I’m just using him for his enormous penis and surprising skills with rope. Don’t worry about his finespun man feelings.”

  Oliver groans, covering his face. “More than I needed to know,” he says, at the exact same moment Lola shouts, “Overshare alert!”

  “That’ll teach you to lecture me,” I tell them with a grin. “How’s the store?”