Page 18

Lovie

H ere’s the thing about Harrison Clark—he doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t hesitate when he spreads my legs and thrusts inside me.

He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches up, pressing a hand against my stomach so I feel every inch of him.

And when he doesn’t like the angle we’re at, he doesn’t hesitate to reach up, grab my ass, and haul me closer to him, bracing one of his thighs on the couch and tilting his hips so I’m covering my mouth with one hand, trying not to scream too loudly.

“Let it out,” he says, reaching up and grabbing my wrist, tugging it down, placing it over my breast instead. “I want to hear whatever you’re feeling, Lovie.”

I should tell him no—that we should be quiet. That we could bother the neighbors.

But there’s something about not having to think, just getting to react. To make noise, to take up space—and so I do.

When I whimper his name, he lets out a low noise of approval, and I try it again, realizing my hands are still on my breasts, and Harrison put them there.

So I touch myself, feeling stupid at first, but letting the pleasure override the self-consciousness.

When I open my eyes again, getting ready to tell him that I’m close, I find Harrison watching me with an open expression, his pupils blown and black, his attention focused on where my fingers pinch my own nipples.

“Fuck, Lovie,” he says, leaning down, driving into me again, holding that position as he takes my mouth with his.

He kisses me deeply, so my hands are trapped between us, his cock deep inside me, my legs starting to shake from everything—the intimacy of it, how intense it feels to be with him, the pleasure building inside me like pressing on a loose tooth.

When he pulls back, Harrison growls, “Hottest goddamned thing I’ve ever seen.”

And I come around him, walls pulling tight, blacking out from the sensation. He matches his rhythm to the pulsing of my orgasm, and a moment later I feel it once more—the release of it, warm and filling, his cum inside me foreign and familiar all at once.

Harrison falls over me like a warm blanket, and I know that he must be holding at least part of his weight up, because I don’t feel crushed.

His skin is slightly damp, and when I drag my nails gently over his back, he shivers, turning his head and placing a kiss on the crook of my neck, which makes me shiver, too.

Logically, I know there should be no neck kisses. No lying together and shivering. No Harrison eating me out—but I can’t help it. There’s something soft and comforting about him, a quiet kind of strength that I want to sink into. It allows me to turn off my brain for a moment.

“Here,” he says with a jolt, as though remembering something, and he pulls back, grabbing my legs and tucking them to my chest. I blink, realizing I’d forgotten what we were doing here—what the point of this was.

Moving with a grace I can’t imagine I would achieve fully naked, Harrison grabs a blanket, throwing it over me. He disappears around the corner and returns a moment later wearing a loose pair of gray sweatpants, holding my tea.

“Here,” he says, his voice rough as he sits on the ground by my head, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. “Think if you drink it at the same time, it’ll increase your odds?”

I laugh, looking up at the ceiling, closing my eyes. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Would it help if I said you look hot?”

I laugh again, turning my head to face him and finding him close—close enough that I’d only have to move slightly, push my head forward and toward him, to kiss him. The urge rolls through me like something natural—go to the bathroom, get something to drink, kiss Harrison Clark.

But we shouldn’t be kissing. I should not have the urge to kiss him.

Pushing the thought away, I shake my head and look to the ceiling again, saying, “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know.”

“What kind of host would I be if I left you to percolate on your own?”

“Oh, God,” I sputter, hating how easily he can make me laugh, a fresh flush rising on my cheeks. “Don’t use that word again, please.”

He’s laughing, too, and I force myself not to look at him. If I do, I’m going to have to face the ever-increasing softness inside me, the familiarity with him that makes me want to be close to him.

Harrison and I are barely even friends. We’re legal acquaintances. Bound together by the contract. That’s all.

I tell him that he can leave again, but he refuses, making himself comfortable on the floor and leaning against the couch, playing with the tips of my hair as we talk. Harrison gets a text on his phone, and when he checks it, I catch a glimpse and laugh out loud.

“What?” he pulls it back, clearly defensive.

“I didn’t figure you for an organic turkey kind of man,” I say, nodding at his phone. The text was from a local turkey farm, letting him know his bird would be ready for pickup in just a few days.

His face goes hilariously serious. “Cooking a turkey is an undertaking, Waters. You plan to spend ten hours working on it, you want good material to work with.”

“Fine, that’s fair. It just changes my perspective of you, that’s all.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Lovie. It’s just too bad you won’t be able to try some of my turkey—people here in Baltimore would fight for an honor like that.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I roll my eyes. “I’m not getting any turkey this year.”

“You’re not…a vegetarian, are you?” He says vegetarian like flat-earther, and I laugh again.

“No, I’m not—not that there would be anything wrong with that—but I’m just not going to cook a whole thing when it’s just me.”

“You’re not going home?”

I shrug, clearing away the sadness that coats my throat, “Well, now that there’s no IVF appointment, I can’t really justify it.”

It’s also due to the huge medical bills piling up, but I don’t need to tell Harrison about that. A beat passes, and I realize he’s looking at me with a thoughtful expression.

“Come to my place.”

“No—that’s…I wasn’t fishing for an invitation, Harrison?—”

“I’m not on the hook for one, either. You’re not going to be alone for the holiday, Lovie.”

“Seriously, that’s an imposition. And this whole thing is supposed to be just?—”

“—about sperm, yes, so I’ve been told. But we’re friends, right?”

I bite my tongue, look over at him, swallow down the hesitation. Why don’t I want to admit that we’re friends?

“Sure,” I relent, and he bumps his elbow into mine.

“So, think of it as a friendsgiving, then.”

I let out a breath, thinking I’ll just feign sickness and cancel day-of. “Okay, fine.”

Pleased with himself, Harrison refocuses on the TV, which has restarted the recording of the game. We both end up watching, which turns into talking about the game, which turns into discussing the players, which brings us back to Greenhill.

When I first brought it up, I expected Harrison to go on another rant about my stupid initiatives, but he doesn’t.

“I have to admit,” he says, shaking his head and leaning back against the couch, tilting his head to look back at me. “I think some of the stuff is working.”

“Oh, of course.” The words burst out of me, and I laugh, shaking my head.

He jolts, blinking at me, “What? What is it?”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment!” I’m giddy—maybe a little too giggly. From the sex. From the realization that after today, I could actually be pregnant.

From talking to Harrison, joking with him, realizing I’m just as comfortable here with him as I am at home.

“Waiting for what moment?”

“When you’d have to eat your words and admit I’m making a real difference for the team.”

“Now, wait just a second—” I’m laughing hard enough that he has to pause, putting a hand on my arm and shaking his head, waiting for me to stop and take a breath. “I am not eating my words, and I still think the robots are stupid?—”

“Harrison Clark doesn’t know how to admit when he’s wrong,” I laugh, bringing up a hand from my knees to wipe at the tears streaming down my face. “God, I wish I wasn’t stuck like this. I’d do a victory dance.”

He’s still shaking his head, and I can feel his eyes on me as I continue to laugh. When I calm down a little, still giggling every few seconds, I finally look at him.

Harrison is smiling slightly, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“What?” I ask, sobering a bit at the look in his eyes. He blinks, does a little headshake.

“Nothing.” A quick clear of his throat. “How long do you have to stay like this, anyway?”

“At least fifteen minutes.” I think about the articles I’ve read, wonder if he cares, then decide to tell him, anyway.

“The whole ‘legs in the air’ or ‘knees to your chest’ thing might just be an old wives’ tale,” I admit.

“But I found some evidence that staying immobile for fifteen minutes after sex can help.” When he says nothing, I glance at him, “Why?”

“Just wondering.” His voice is a bit deeper, thicker now, and I don’t miss the way he sweeps his eyes up and down my body, making shivers break out over my skin.

“Just wondering?”

“Just wondering when you’ll be ready to go again,” he clarifies, his words making my heart drop down into my stomach. I swallow through the adrenaline coursing through my body, ignore the heat on my face.

“Already?” I tease, “I thought libido decreased with age?”

“Oh, just for that,” he growls, “I’m going to have to punish you, Lovie.”

With that, he leans forward and scoops me up into his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I laugh, letting go of my knees and throwing my arms around his neck to stay stable.

“Wow, and your back didn’t crack or anything,” I whisper into his neck, feeling ridiculously girlish and light when he effortlessly tosses me down onto the bed.

Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, he draws them down his body, and I—stupidly—gasp.

I’ve seen Harrison naked before. I’ve seen lashes of him each of the times that we have been together. I’m familiar with his bare chest, broad and strong, the line of salt-and-pepper hair heading south to his navel, the cut of his hips and the strength of his legs.

And I’ve seen his cock before, but just glimpses of it in the low light. Obviously, I’ve felt the length and press of it against me and in me. In my mind is a collection of fractions, flashes of him that I’ve composited into a full picture.

But this—this is something completely different. He stands in front of me, as though he knows that I’m looking, and he likes it. The lamp is on, casting his body in a warm, golden spill of light that makes him look like some sort of Roman statue.

The physical representation of a fertility god. God of sex, lust. Of aging entirely too well.

Harrison’s eyes meet mine for a second, and stay on me as mine wander over him, taking him in, admiring the strength from decades of training. His arousal obvious in the way his cock hardens the longer I look at him, the longer we stay in this moment.

Then it shatters as he plants his hands on the edge of the bed, the hunger in his eyes turning ravenous as he climbs over my body, his cock brushing against my thigh and making me shudder with an impossible want.

“The only back we have to worry about is yours,” he murmurs, before taking my hips, flipping me over, maneuvering me where he wants me. When he presses a kiss to the spot just above my ass, the small of my back, it sends another shiver up my spine.

And I choose to focus wholly on that, on the pleasure, on the physical, bodily sensation. It’s safe. Safer than the spark of warmth in my chest, the supple, steady sense that something between us is changing—and much faster than I could ever be ready for.