by Lacey Black
My hips buck as I drive up into her palm. She places her other hand on my abdomen, wraps her legs around me, and starts to pump faster. It’s hard to breathe as her hands works me over, her soft skin caressing my cock. My body is already tightening, a familiar tingle starting at my spine. It spreads quickly up my back and races to my balls. I’m seconds away from exploding and there’s nothing I can do but stand here and enjoy the ride.
Her hand pumps hard (well, as hard as she can, considering they’re confined to my boxer briefs). My cock starts to drip. My hips start to thrust. I imagine what it’ll be like to thrust into her sweet pussy. No, that’s not happening tonight, but soon. I can feel it. We’ve been dancing around it for too long to just up and forget about it. Now, I’ve had a taste, and I need more.
Harper scores her nails down my chest, and my hips drive forward. I’m there, ready to explode with nowhere to go with the mess. As if sensing my problem, she pulls my boxers down and points my cock at my chest. She leans back ever so slightly and cradles my back to her chest. I lean back and explode, coming all over myself. Curse words fly from my lips as her hand tightly caresses my pulsing cock, milking it for everything I have. A shudder sweeps through my body as I sag against the counter, against her. “Fucking hell, woman.”
“Mmm,” she whispers in my ear, her warm breath tickling me and breathing a whole new life into my body. My cock hasn’t even had a chance to soften yet, and suddenly, it’s ready to go again. But this time, he wants in her pussy.
That’s why I need to go.
As much as I want to fuck Harper, I won’t do it tonight. Not when we just sort of met on solid ground. It’s not the most stable of land, so I have to be careful not to rock it too much and risk the entire thing collapsing.
Plus, there’s the little issue of the building between us. She still wants it, and so do I. We’re bidding against each other, and until that issue is resolved, I don’t want to sleep with her. Fine, I want to sleep with her, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a horrible idea.
Trying to get my breathing under control, Harper grabs a hand towel from the counter and swipes it over my chest. I take the material in my hand, finishing up the job, and stand on shaky legs. Her legs are still wide and I turn to face her easily enough. My lips find hers, wet and eager, but I keep the kiss from heading into the direction that involves both of us panting with a lot less clothes.
Finally peeling my lips away, I rest my forehead against hers and just breathe her in. My eyes are locked on her crystal blue ones, too many emotions and conflicting thoughts swirling between us. Where in the hell do we go from here? I know where I’d like to go, and that would be to the bedroom down the hall. But that’s not happening. Not yet, anyway.
“How about we finish up these dishes?” I ask, taking her by surprise. I think she’s expecting that trip to the bedroom too.
“Okay,” she says softly, offering me a smile. It’s not a glare or one filled with annoyance and mischief I’m accustomed to. It’s a genuine, beautiful smile that makes my heart tap dance in my chest, and suddenly, I’m questioning my own decision not to advance this portion of the evening.
I grab the dishcloth, flip on the water, and try to ignore the raging hard-on in my pants. Shouldn’t be a problem at all.
* * *
Before I head over to my sister’s place to meet my family on a beautiful late Sunday morning, I fire up my laptop. I’m smiling as I bring up the program I downloaded for a rainy day. Well, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky…
But today, it’s raining.
I can’t wait.
I log into her laptop, careful not to mess with anything but the music program that came standard with her new laptop. I glance through my playlist, looking for the perfect song.
Yes.
That one.
I click upload, adjust the settings, and log out of her system.
Illegal?
Fuck yes.
Do I care?
Not in the least.
I take a few minutes to clean my trail, and shut down my computer.
She’s going to hate this.
She’s going to hate me.
But I don’t stop smiling the entire time I finish getting ready. I grin like a loon the entire trip to my sister’s house. I laugh easily the moment my sister asks me if I’m seeing anyone special to put that smile on my face.
No, I’m not seeing anyone.
But she’s definitely special.
* * *
“Who is she?” Larkin whispers as I help her clean up the lunch dishes.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, not really wanting to get into it right now. I don’t even know what’s going on between Harper and me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spill my guts to my nosey little sister right now.
“Fine, be that way,” she whines, stacking the dried dishes back in the cabinet.
My two-year-old niece’s giggle filters into the kitchen, putting an instant smile on my sister’s face. “How’s she doing?”
“Perfect,” my sister boasts. “She has a little friend from daycare that she wants to come over and have a playdate.”
“Sounds nice. I’m sure she’d get a kick out of an afternoon of playing princesses with her little friend,” I confirm, draining out the water and rinsing away the soapsuds.
Larkin smirks. “I think there’d be only one princess in this castle.”
I finish and glance at my sister. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a prince. Her friend is a boy.”
A boy? Hell no. “Not happening,” I tell my sister with conviction.
She laughs. “They’re two, Latham, not getting married.” A growl slips from my throat. “Stop being such a big overprotective uncle right now. Five seconds ago, you were all for this playdate.”
“And I still am. If it were a girl.”
Larkin rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. I think I’m going to invite them over next weekend.”
“Do you even know them?” I ask, leaning my hip against the counter.
Again, my bratty little sister rolls her eyes. “Of course I know them, dummy. It’s Rockland Falls, not Chicago.”
“Who is it? I can do a background check.”
“Stop it.”
“Who’re the parents,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest and offering my best big brother glare, letting her know I mean business.
“Lath.”
“Lark.”
“Evan Parker.”
“Evan Parker?” I repeat, wrapping my head around the fact a name from my past was just thrown in the conversation. Evan was one of my best buds back in grade school. We hung out a lot until I got into sports. Evan was much more of the bookworm type, which is what originally drew us together as friends. I’m a much bigger book nerd than anyone would guess. In fact, even with the ability to play a few sports, I was a big dork in high school.
“Yeah, Evan. He was married for a short period of time, but it didn’t last. He raises his son full time now.”
“Where’s the ex?” I ask, curious about the friend I’ve long lost touch with.
“A flight attendant, I believe. Travels a lot so he takes care of their son. She has him whenever she’s home, but I rarely see her pick him up from daycare.” I continue to watch her. “What?”
I shake my head.
“I was talking about a playdate with his son. You’re the one making this into a date.”
“I didn’t say anything about a date. You did.” Now, I’m glaring.
“Stop with the big brother act,” she replies, narrowing her eyes.
“It’s not an act.”
For a third time, she rolls her eyes as my niece comes running into the room. “Uncie, come pway!” Vivian yells, throwing herself at my leg and attaching to it like a twenty-pound spider monkey.
And that’s how I s
When it’s finally time for her nap, she throws her tiny arms around my neck, kisses my scruffy cheek, and tells me she “woves me.” I never really thought too much about the future (outside of expanding and growing the hardware store), but after spending a little time with Vivian, I’ll admit that tiny seed has been planted. My mom just sat there and smiled, probably already picturing another dozen little grandkids running around the house, and for the first time, I don’t feel myself starting to sweat at the idea.
Now, it doesn’t seem so bad.
Chapter Thirteen
Harper
I have a shipment coming this afternoon with a small order of negligées and warmer pajamas, but that doesn’t stop me from oversleeping on this hazy Monday morning. Even with my massive amount of work to accomplish, I still turned off my alarm instead of hitting snooze.
There’s a small storm cell just off the coast, making everything dark and gloomy – just like my mood. I spent way too much time in my backyard yesterday, thinking about my Saturday, nonetheless. In fact, I haven’t stopped thinking about it. All of it. I painted my doghouse, stapled in a soft rug on the floor, and positioned it under the tree so Snuggles has shade all day long.
And yes, tried to eradicate all images of Latham getting me off just by sucking on my nipple ring.
Didn’t work. I spent the entire night wet, needy, and having to take care of it myself with the vibrator in my nightstand drawer.
Now, I’m five minutes late to open my shop and didn’t have time to grab a caffeinated drink from the café down the street. Thank goodness for my small four-cup coffeepot in the very back of the kitchen cabinet. Let’s just hope the creamer in the mini-fridge isn’t expired.
I’ll just worry about lunch later…
I quickly turn on the lights and flip the open sign, hoping my tardiness hasn’t cost me a sale. Though, if I’m being honest, my entire mojo is just off today, so it wouldn’t surprise me if I had a line of customers waiting that walked away the moment I didn’t open the door.
Yeah, probably not, but still…
I set my purse on the counter and fire up my laptop. While I wait for it to do its thing, I head to the kitchen area to find the coffeepot. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll stumble across some crackers or something to go with the brick of cheese I stashed in the mini-fridge. Just as I open the cabinet, music rings through the building. It’s a loud and twangy song I recall from my childhood. Tammy Wynette starts to sing about standing by her man.
The fuck?!
I race back to the front to locate the source of the obnoxious country song, only to find it blasting from the one thing I wasn’t expecting: my laptop. I click on the music icon, something I used for the first time last week. However, I know there was no country music in my library. So where the hell did this song come from?
I start to click frantically. “Zip it, Tammy,” I mumble to myself, desperate to get her to stop crying about her man, when finally the song stops. “Thank God.”
Except, it starts again.
“What the hell?” I yell to no one, moving the mouse and trying to click on the music app. Nothing works. After several frantic double-clicks, the app finally opens, displaying a lovely photo of the woman singing. I’m sure it’s a great song and all, I mean, who doesn’t love the fact she’s supporting her man through all his issues, but come on. Enough is enough. But when I click on the stop, nothing happens.
Nothing. Happens.
Tammy still belts out the lyrics to her iconic song, drowning my shop in her familiar twangy vocals.
“Son of a bitch,” I groan, trying everything.
Exit.
Control, Alt, Delete.
Escape.
Exit, exit, exit.
Slam laptop down on the counter.
Okay, I didn’t do that one. It’s new, after all, but I want to.
Just as I’m about to hurl the brand new laptop into the wall, the bell chimes over the door. “Oh, dear, why are you playing music so loud?” Mrs. Henderson asks, blanching as she tentatively steps inside.
“I’m not. Well, not really. I’m not sure why it’s playing this,” I tell her (well, I yell at her). “Come on in!”
“What?”
“I said come on in! Is there something I can help you with?”
She starts to glance around, but her attention is elsewhere. It only takes a couple moments before she starts to retreat back to the doorway. “You know, I’ll just come back. Another time…” she says as she hightails it out of my shop so fast, you’d think I told her the deli was offering free cheesecake.
Groaning, I glance to where my first customer of the day was once standing, before turning back to the offending device on my counter.
After an hour (yes, a motherfucking hour) of listening to the same song over and over and over and over again, and scaring off another potential customer, I call my big brother. “Hello?”
“I need help.”
“Why are you yelling? And can’t you step outside or something? Why are you blasting music in my ear,” Samuel grumbles.
“I am outside! That’s the problem! My laptop is blasting Tammy Wynette!”
“I didn’t think you liked country music,” he states matter-of-factly.
“I don’t! Focus, Samuel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My. Laptop. Is. Playing. Music. And I can’t get it to stop.”
“Turn it off, Harper. There’s a little exit button at the top of the screen. Click it,” he says, his voice carrying a tinge of annoyance, as if he’s talking to a small child.
“I did! I clicked it a thousand times.”
“Then it must not be coming from that app. Do you have any other music apps on there?”
“I don’t know,” I whine – yes, whine. “Can’t you come over and fix it?” He is our resident computer nerd, after all.
“Sorry, I’m unavailable. I can come by around three, after the Sparling funeral.”
“Fun,” I crack. It’s still a little weird my brother is a mortician.
“I have to go. Good luck,” he says before hanging up, not giving me enough time to say goodbye.
“Whatever,” I snap at no one, setting my phone down on the counter and wishing I had a landline so I could slam the receiver down on the base.
My stomach growls angrily, probably because it’s tired of hearing Tammy too, which reminds me I didn’t even get to make my morning coffee. Ignoring the song belting from the small speakers, I head to the kitchen area and fire up the coffeepot. It’s a small four-cup jobby, and even though I could seriously go for about sixteen cups, this one will have to do in a pinch.
It doesn’t take long before the pot is ready and I pour myself a large mug. I check the fridge and find the creamer outdated, confirming the worst. I have nothing to pour into my black coffee. My day officially blows. My coffee’s shit and my pretty boutique sounds like a country western bar.
The hours drag on.
Yes, with Tammy crooning on repeat about the importance of standing by her man. Over and over. And over and over… I try to pretend it’s not happening, but that doesn’t work well. Every time the song ends, a sense of sweet relief washes over me, only to have it dashed away with the start of the song all over again.
“Holy shit,” I hear hollered over the music. “What the hell is happening in here?” my best friend says as she enters my shop, her eyes wide with shock.
“Welcome to Hell, population one.”
“Seriously, why are you blasting that music?”
“I’m not!”
“What?”
“I’m not! I don’t know why it’s playing that song.”
Free approaches the counter, sets the bag of sandwiches down, and comes around to check out my laptop. I watch as she brings the music app up and does the exact same things I’ve done all morning. She stares down, clearly thinking, before reaching around the back and unplugging the small speakers, bathing the shop in silence.
“Oh my God,” I yell, throwing my arms around her and hugging tightly.
“Why are you still yelling?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” I grumble.
“What the hell happened?”
“I have no idea,” I start, grabbing the bag of sandwiches and pulling out my lunch. “I came in, fired up the laptop, and it started playing that song. What time is it?”
“Just after one. And that one horrible song? Over and over?” she asks incredulous, taking a bite of her own sandwich.
“Yes, it’s been horrible. I lost about six sales this morning because no one wants to shop with Tammy Wynette screaming in their ears.” I’ve been listening to that singular song on repeat for almost four hours.
“You don’t even like country music,” she adds, pointing out what we both already know.
“I know. When I loaded up the library, I can promise you Tammy Wynette wasn’t added to either playlist.” I have two: one that can play softer music at the shop, and the other with my favorite tunes from all my favorite artists for after I close.
“And the fact you couldn’t turn it off? It’s like someone played a joke on you,” she says just as I take a bite of my sandwich. It turns to dust on my tongue and like puzzle pieces, things start to click together.
“Latham.”
“What?”
“Who else would tamper with my laptop? Plus, he’s the one who set it up!” I growl, balling up my empty sandwich wrapper and tossing it in the garbage. I start to pace, back and forth between the counter and the front window. I walk four miles in a short amount of time, trying to figure out what to do.
What to do…
Anger grabs hold, balling in the pit of my stomach before coursing recklessly through my blood. I’m at the door before I even realize what’s happening. “You’re okay?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I’m fine. Go.”
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