Harley & Rose

by Carmen Jenner

  Dermot’s hand slides up under my sweater. His touch is soft and cool against my burning flesh. His palm grazes my breast, the sheer lace of my bra providing no protection against his hands, and my nipples stiffen and form two hard peaks. He rocks his hips against me and I squirm, Delicious heat engulfs me from the core up. His mouth devours mine; he pinches my sensitive flesh, and I pull away because I can’t breathe. “Dermot ...”

  “You’re right, I should stop.”

  “No. I want you closer,” I pant, reaching for the hem of his sweater and lifting it up over his head. He pulls it the rest of the way off but his eyes search mine as if he’s uncertain. “I want you.”

  He grins, and as quickly as flipping a switch, the man snakes his hand behind my back and flips me onto my stomach. I gasp in shock as he pulls me up by the hips and slides my leggings and panties down over my ass. Cool air rushes across my body, and I’m completely exposed to him. Shock and fever both have me stunned, and I don’t dare move a muscle.

  I’m rewarded with a warm, wet tongue plunging into me. I let out a sharp breath, and Dermot shifts me so that my torso is bent over the armrest of the small loveseat and my ass is offered up to him for the taking. His whole mouth devours me, and if it didn’t feel so amazing, I might have had the good graces to be embarrassed. I tremble as I try to keep my balance and not fall over the edge of the couch, as if that were even possible considering the grip Dermot has on my hips.

  His tongue laves at my flesh over and over. He’s relentless, merciless, and I think he gets off on control because the more he keeps up his ministrations, the closer I am to coming, and the more he orders me not to. I moan as the orgasm builds within me, wracking my frame and making me feel as if I’ve lost complete control over my body. And just when I’m close, he slides two thick fingers inside me and hooks them toward my belly in a ‘come hither’ motion, hitting my G-spot. His tongue slides over me again, but not on my clit. This time his whole mouth greedily eats my pussy and ass, and I come so hard it’s as if for a moment I cease to exist. Bliss. That’s the only word for it.

  I pant. My whole body goes limp as I collapse against the couch, but it seems Dermot’s not interested and letting me rest because he moves up my back, rubbing his stubble against my buttocks, awakening my skin to the bittersweet agony of it. I feel the wetness left behind long after his mouth leaves my flesh. His leanly muscled body hovers over mine.

  “I’ve waited a long time to do that,” he says, coolly. My core muscles tighten again, sending a thousand little mini aftershocks through me. “You taste like a fucking angel, Rose. So goddamn sweet and so fucking tasty.”

  Jesus. He’s so vocal. Somehow, knowing he has a dirty mouth makes me that much more attracted to him. He grinds himself against me, and even clothed I can feel how hard he is. I moan, and he lifts my sweater up my back and over my head, then grabs a rough handful of my breasts through the bra I’m wearing. He doesn’t bother to take it off.

  “I wanna fuck these tits. I wanna see my come spread all over them later, but first I’m going to bury my cock inside your sweet little cunt and fuck you until you beg me to stop.” He pinches me hard, and his mouth kisses my neck with the barest hint of teeth.

  “Oh,” I moan, wrapping my arm around his neck and drawing my back up against his front.

  Behind me, I hear the tearing of a foil packet as Dermot angles his body away, unzips his pants and rolls the condom on. His palm rests between my shoulder blades, and he pushes me down as he guides himself inside.

  “Oh fuck,” he grunts, as he eases in inch by inch. I’m ready and soaking wet, but I still grip him tightly, contracting my walls around him so he gasps. “Jesus, Rose, stop or I’m going to come much sooner than you want me to.”

  To punctuate his words, his hand comes down on my butt cheek and I gasp, jumping a little beneath him and squirming with my smarting flesh. “Keep still, baby, or I’ll do it again.”

  I can’t keep still though. My brain tells me to, but my body moves because I can’t have him inside me and not writhe. I want more, more heat, more delicious stroking, and more blows from his hand. So I rock my hips back and forth. He growls, and that hand comes down upon my ass again, striking even harder than the last time.

  “Oh god,” I cry. “Again.”

  He does it again. In fact, I lose count how many times he strikes me, because the smooth, cool strokes of his hand on my stinging flesh soothe like a balm, and his thrusts make me lose my mind. I come over and over again until I lose count of this too, lose focus on everything around me.

  Dermot pulls me up flush against him. His hand is at my throat as he comes inside me, and I tremble on shaking knees as he sags into a kneeling position on my couch, taking me with him. I lean back against his rigid body, the hand at my throat now softly stroking my face, my hair, and my breasts as he nibbles my ear. I don’t know why, but I feel both empty and satiated, raw and numb. Too many emotions clamor for my attention—I don’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. All I know is I want sleep, and I want Dermot to hold me as if that meant something to him because the last man I let inside my body hadn’t.

  As if he can sense this, he shifts on the couch, removing the condom and disposing of it, and then he lifts me up and carries me to the bed. He pulls me on top of him, my back against his front.

  “I have no control around you,” he whispers sleepily against the shell of my ear. “I couldn’t help myself. Fuck, Rose, the way you came alive under my hand … beautiful.”

  Reverently, he caresses my body from my hips to my chest. He snakes his fingers between my thighs and strokes the wet flesh, paying particular attention to my clit. I squirm against him. My muscles clench. “Let me take care of you.”

  I don’t protest. I come hard as he whispers in my ear the sweet and brutal things he wants to do to me. I feel as if I’m coming down from the greatest heights. My feet barely touch the ground, and yet I’m still afraid, afraid he’ll leave, afraid to let him in—afraid that at some point I’ll fall, and no one will be there to catch me.

  ***

  When I wake, I’m alone.

  There’s a note on the pillow. I squint at the darkening sky and wonder what time it is. Afternoon, for sure. Did I sleep all day? I pick up the note and read it with bleary eyes.

  Rose,

  You are fucking incredible. I want dinner tomorrow night, my place, you naked and sprawled across my dining table at eight p.m. sharp.

  Don’t be late, or there will be another spanking in your future.

  D.

  Holy shit. Wow. Just wow.

  I’d been aware of him pulling me closer, holding me and kissing my neck and cheek and telling me how perfect I was, how wanted, as I drifted in and out of sleep. Though I don’t know how long he stayed, I do know that I woke several times with his warmth at my back, and every time he seemed to wrap me up in his arms tighter than the last.

  Now, I press my hands against my head to stave off the headache. I ache with need as I read the note once more. The idea of being with Dermot again is both exciting and terrifying, and I don’t know if I’m dreading or eagerly awaiting eight p.m. sharp.

  I drop the piece of paper. It flutters to the pillow beside my head, and I smile as I fall asleep again.

  ***

  Dermot doesn’t come in for coffee the next morning, and I’m a little disappointed. I know we have plans for dinner tonight, but I’m jumpy and full of nervous expectation and nothing will calm me down. Of course, that could have something to do with the two cups of coffee I’ve had Izzy make me already this morning.

  I slide my empty mug toward her again with a sheepish smile. She gives me a puzzled expression, then a smug smile lights her face and she shouts over the high-pitched squeal of the machine frothing the cream, “You got laid on the weekend.”

  My eyes bug out as I glance at the longline of customers waiting for their coffee. They all look at me, and then their eyes dart back to Izzy like zombies hunting a f
resh brain. One of the hipsters is actually slack-jawed. “Did not.”

  “You did,” she shouts. “Someone rocked your world; it’s written all over your face, and you’re walking like you got a good dicking. Did Harley come around after all?”

  I feel a pang of regret when she mentions his name. “No.”

  “Then who?” she says, her grin widening. “Oh my god, Silver Fox?”

  “His name is Dermot.”

  “His name should be Yes Please. You have to tell me everything. When did this happen? I didn’t think you were that into him.” She sets the stainless steel creamer jug on the counter and begins creating her masterpiece. I still haven’t worked out how she makes little flower patterns in the foam, but every single one is different. She hands them off to the awaiting customers, three at a time and I keep manning the register.

  There’s still a line halfway to the door, so I know I’m not going to get away with telling her I’ll give her details later. She’d likely halt all coffee production until it was done, and we can’t afford to lose their business, so I angle my body away from the customers.

  “Um … we’ve sort of been dating for weeks.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” She slams the paper cup down, spilling coffee over the sides. I glance at the next customer; it’s zombie hipster guy. He doesn’t even seem to notice. He just picks up the cup and draws it to his face, getting foam in his trimmed yet strangely unkempt beard, then he closes his eyes and groans in ecstasy, shambling out of the store.

  “I didn’t know how much there was to tell.”

  “Well clearly there’s something to tell, because you’ve been walking bowlegged all morning.”

  “I am not.” I’m not. Am I? “I told him I was hung up on someone else.”

  She raises a brow at me. “Okay, I’m bored now. When did the sex happen?”

  “I went to Harley’s,” I blurt out.

  “And now I’m confused.”

  “I walked over there after my date with Dermot on Saturday night. I stood at his window screaming up at him … in the rain.”

  “You what?”

  “I don’t know; I just couldn’t stand the silence between us anymore. I was angry, and I thought if I confronted him something would happen.”

  “And did it?”

  “I wound up with a head cold.” I shrug and take the money from the next three people in line while Izzy hands them their coffee.

  “Are you getting to the sex anytime soon?” Izzy makes an impatient face.

  “Have you …” I pause and look at the line. Just two people left—one a middle-aged woman in sweats and a tank, and the other a tall blond man in a navy suit. They’re both engrossed in their phones, so I lower my voice and say, “Have you ever had anyone spank you?”

  “Oh god, he’s a control freak too?” She pouts, as if I’d dangled a piece of candy in front of her face and eaten it myself. “You know if you ever let him go, feel free to send him my way. I love those domineering alpha types.”

  “I second that,” the woman in the workout gear says.

  “Third,” Navy Suit says, without looking up from his phone.

  I blush and smile awkwardly at the customers before turning my attention back to my employee. Then I decide I should at least look like I’m doing something now that the line has dwindled, so I take out my appointment book from beneath the counter. I stare at the pages, seeing but not taking anything in. “I really like him, Izzy, but I’m—”

  “Still hung up on Harley, I know,” she says. “You know sometimes what we want isn’t the best thing for us.”

  I pause in my perusal of our appointments and glance up at her. “Is that what you think Harley is? No good for me?”

  “I just think he’s had you so long, in so many ways—friends, not friends, lovers, friends again, and fuck buddies—that I think he’s taken that for granted. You have to do what’s best for you. If that means moving on with the fantastic Mr. Fox and forgetting Harley exists, then so be it. You can’t be at his beck and call forever, Rose. Eventually, something has to give. You have to let him go.”

  She’s right. I hate that. I’ve already come to this conclusion, of course, but I hate that it has taken her a few short months to see what I hadn’t noticed in a lifetime. Maybe we never saw what was best for us until the damage was already done, until hearts were already broken with no way to put them back together. As far as I’m concerned, hindsight could suck it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rose

  Age eighteen

  In the morning I wake late. It’s the first time that I haven’t woken with the sunrise on Thanksgiving, but even without me waking the entire house, the moms have got up and are in the kitchen, preparing the turkey for dinner.

  I lie in bed and listen to the clatter of pots and pans, the moms endless chattering and the dads complaining that their noise is interfering with the game. I can’t hide out in this room forever, and after ten minutes of quietly chanting ‘there’s no place like home’ as I click my heels together—and likely bruise my ankles—I get up. I shower and dress in jeans and an old T-shirt, and head downstairs. I don’t bother doing anything with my face or hair, because who gives a shit, right? Certainly not Harley. He has a girlfriend. Rat bastard. Besides, no makeup in the world could hide the fact that my eyes are puffy and practically rubbed raw.

  “Oh, darling, you look terrible,” my mother says as I plonk myself at the kitchen table.

  “Thanks Mom,” I mutter, burying my head in my elbows.

  “Are you coming down with something?” She places her cool hand against my forehead to check my temperature.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think Rose has a fever,” Rochelle says, nodding her chin towards the window.

  I know what she’s referring to without having to look, but still, I do it anyway. Through the living room window I see him closing the front gate. His movements are stiff, and he looks like hell. He wears the same gray T-shirt and jeans he had on yesterday, and his hair is mussed from sleep. I suck in a sharp breath because looking at him hurts, and I turn my back to the window before he can notice me.

  The worried look our mothers share doesn’t go unseen, but I ignore them both, resting my head in the crook of my elbow again. I just have to get through this weekend, that’s all. It’s not like he intends to stay for good, because he has a girlfriend that I’m sure he’ll want to get back to. I’m struck with uncertainty. What if by some cruel fate he brought her to my city? What if they move to SF and I’m forced to spend all of the holidays with the two of them, pretending I don’t want to shank her with my fork? No, Harley wouldn’t do that, I tell myself, but fear strikes my heart because the Harley I used to know isn’t the same guy as the one opening the front door to the cottage.

  I guess I can’t avoid this forever. Our families are … well, family. I make a promise to myself then and there that next year, I’m going to Maui for Thanksgiving. Alone.

  I can’t help it. I lift my head and watch Harley step inside. He removes his Chucks and sets them down on the shoe rack that we used to try to break as kids. His eyes meet mine, and he walks across the room and sits on the barstool beside me. Agitated, I get up and storm around the small kitchen, collecting a bowl, a spoon, and a box of cereal that I return to the counter. Harley rises too and starts banging things around: a mug, a canister of freshly ground coffee, the sugar bowl. Our moms look on dumbfounded while our dads, who are sitting on the couch in the open plan living room, tell us to pipe down because they can’t hear the game. Ordinarily, Harley and I would be watching it with them, cozied up on the loveseat like we have every year since we were seven years old, but there is no more cozying in our future. Harley stands in front of the refrigerator, looking for juice or cream or his cold dead heart, I’m not sure which, but the fact that he’s blocking my way annoys the shit out of me.

  “Excuse me,” I snap.

  He turns to look at me as if I’m int
errupting a very important clandestine meeting he’s having with the contents of the fridge. He steps back a little as if to let me in, and when I reach for the milk his fingers get there first and wrap around the bottle. I attempt to yank it out of his hands, but he holds it tightly to him and brings it to his chest. And then the rat bastard twists off the lid and guzzles down the rest.

  “You ass.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you wanted it,” he says, wiping away the milk moustache that I so badly want to lick. Even now.

  “Harley,” Rochelle chides.

  “There’s another out in the icebox,” Mom says, like the jackass didn’t just drain it dry on purpose.

  “It’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.” I brush past him in a hurry because it’s the stupidest thing, but tears are forming in my eyes. Not from the milk, though that was a douche-canoe move, but from the aching in my chest, from the blackness that I fear will swallow me whole if I can’t just put my arms around him, or have him hold me and tell me that though we’re broken now, we’re going to be okay. But we’re not okay. We both made decisions that led us to this point, and we were both selfish assholes. What I’d done might have seemed selfless, leaving him so he wouldn’t be held back, but it wasn’t. I could have given up my studies; I could have moved to Louisiana and opened a shop there, but I didn’t want to leave my city. So I left him. And in turn, he left me for someone else.

  I walk down the hall to my room and close the door firmly behind me. It doesn’t have a lock on account of the ’rentals insisting that we didn’t need one, as our relationship had only turned romantic a year ago. I wish there was a way to bar the door but then I wonder what’s the point? Harley won’t come after me—why would he? When Harley wants something he makes sure he gets it; that’s how I knew he wasn’t coming after me when I left Louisiana. Because despite everything he said, he didn’t want me enough.