by Marie Meyer
Is she serious? Again, I point to my dick, still hard—and getting harder by the minute—ready for round two. But, I take the phone and give her the reassurance she wants.
What we just did, fucking amazing, Harper.
A look of relief washes over her face. What is this look? Why was she worried? She grabs the phone from me.
I just thought you might not have enjoyed it as much since…She stops typing.
“What?” I sign, urging her to continue, pointing to the screen.
She finishes her thought, I wouldn’t talk to you.
I sit up, forcing her to follow suit. I pluck the phone from her hands. Red, I’m not lying when I say that was the best sex I’ve ever had. Fucking hot as hell. Can’t wait to do it again! ;-) So don’t worry about that. I think you’re perfect the way you are, but can I ask why you don’t talk?
She waves her fingers, wanting the phone. Oh, good. As long as you enjoyed it. I was worried. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken out loud. I was nine. I wasn’t very good at it and I hated going to speech class. My teacher was awful. Out in public, when I tried to talk, strangers stared at me, kids would point and laugh, etc…You know how cruel kids can be. When I told my parents about the bullying, they suggested that maybe I shouldn’t speak, save myself the heartache. I was devastated. I thought they’d back me up, support me, build up my confidence and self-esteem. Nope. Although they never said anything negative to my face, I always felt like they sided with the bullies. If I didn’t talk, I couldn’t embarrass them. No talking, no heartache, no embarrassment.
Wow. Just wow. Emotions pummel my heart like fists on a punching bag. The urge to grab Lizzy and head to the abandoned pool hits me hard. Images of a young Harper, looking very much like the little girl, Penny, I’d met at the YMCA, flip through my brain. I’m sad and angry for Harper, having had endured ridicule from strangers. And it makes me ill to think that little Penny is struggling with her own set of monsters at home.
Fuck them. Fuck them all for not making this world a safe, happy place for those young girls.
I want to make Harper feel safe with me. I want to seal her in my arms and protect her from all the shit in the world. I don’t ever want to be the cause of her pain.
I hold my hand out for the phone. Harper drops it onto my palm. I shift, angling my body toward her. Pinching her chin between my thumb and index finger, I lift her head, needing her to see me. “I’m sorry you had to put up with that. It’s not right. In the short time we’ve been together, I’ve never met anyone as strong and brave as you.” Bringing my right hand to her face, I brush my fingers over her cheeks, cradling her head, hoping she understands every word I’m saying. If not, I pray my touch will convey the message. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, but if people can’t get past the fact that you can’t hear, so what. Fuck them. They’re missing out on getting to know a brilliant woman.” I lean in for a gentle kiss, brushing my lips over hers. I can still taste her desire from earlier, lingering on both our mouths. And it’s so goddamn hot. My cock throbs, remembering how amazing she tasted.
I drag my tongue over her lips, savoring the taste of her.
Harper kisses me back, her tongue teasing mine until I can’t take it anymore. I plunge deep into her mouth. My hands at her sides, I lift her body, bringing her onto my lap. My cock presses against her, desperate to slip inside. I want to devour her.
Harper rocks her hips, my dick rubbing against her clit.
I’m going to fucking explode if I don’t take her now. Tearing my mouth away from hers, breathless, I say, “Baby, don’t stop.” I love that she’s getting herself off on my cock. Not taking my eyes from her, I lean to the side, groping for my wallet on the floor. Damn condoms. Annoying as shit, but necessary.
Harper throws her head back, pure ecstasy on her face. So beautiful. I keep guiding her rhythm with my right hand, helping her grind away, wanting her to get there. “That’s it, Red.”
Seconds later, my fingers touch leather. Latching on to the wallet, I pull it up, flip it open, and grab the corner of one of the foil packets with my teeth. Ripping it open, I take out the condom, and drop my hands between us.
Lifting her head, Harper glances down, as I’m about to fit the condom over my cock. Wrapping her fingers around mine, she grabs the latex from my hands. My eyes flick to hers. A sultry, crooked smile grows on her face and she winks, wrapping her hand around my dick, rolling the condom into place.
“Uhhh…” A sigh rips from my mouth and my eyes close, succumbing to the overload of sensations. So many nerve endings firing at once.
Harper positions me at her opening. Before I can open my eyes, tight warmth engulfs my dick. Holy…fucking…shit. Blinking, I watch as she lowers herself on me. A sight I will never forget.
I wrap my arms around her back, tugging her close. In turn, Harper does the same as she circles her legs around my waist, melding our bodies together.
Pressing my palms under her hair, I work my fingers upward through her tangled strands, lowering her head to mine. I kiss her deeply while she rides me.
Faster and faster, Harper bears down on me, rolling her hips. Neither of us can manage to sustain a kiss any longer, so we’ve given over to pressing our open mouths against each other’s, panting wildly. I lick her tongue, tasting, bouncing her on my lap.
“Harper,” I groan, “I’m gonna come.” I try to hold off, not sure if she’s found her release. “Come for me, Red,” I say against her mouth.
She tightens around me, every inch of her. Riding out her pleasure, she throws her head back with a breathy sigh. I’m right there, light bursting behind my closed lids as I let go.
Our rocking slows, coming to a halt. I drop my sweaty forehead to hers, catching her gaze. “Fucking perfect,” I say, shoulders heaving.
And it is. More perfect than ever before.
*
“Hungry?” Harper signs and leans over, pulling on a pair of leggings. I didn’t know that sign, but seeing the word on her lips, I catch the drift.
“How do you sign, ‘starving’?” I ask.
Smiling, she repeats the sign for “hungry,” only slightly more dramatic. I make a C shape with my left hand and replicate her motion, facial features and all.
Harper raises her hands in the air, shaking them.
Grabbing my hand, she fits her fingers between mine, and opens her bedroom door. Bobby pops up from his post, tail wagging, happy to see us. “Hey there, little guy. Did you get locked out?” I bend down and scratch behind his ears. Immediately, he falls and rolls onto his back, needing a few belly scratches.
Harper crouches beside me, ruffling Bobby’s fluffy ears, smiling contentedly.
Standing, I grab her hand, and we walk down the stairs, Bobby trailing behind. I can’t remember the last time I held hands with a girl. Becky Lambert in the fourth grade, maybe? I know she’s the first girl I kissed. Or did I kiss McKenzie Swanson and hold hands with Jessica Oliver? What the hell did I do with Becky Lambert? Shit. My left eye starts twitching. Too many fucking girls.
Making a sharp right into the kitchen, I stop in the doorway. There are cupcakes everywhere; the counters, the table, the stove, the top of the refrigerator, even on a couple of the chairs. I throw a look at my feet. This is a dog’s wonderland, but Bobby obediently sits just outside of the kitchen, recognizing his boundary. Such a well-trained dog. If I were him, this kitchen would be a chocolate cupcake murder scene, and I’d be dead, because, you know, dogs and chocolate.
Tapping Harper’s shoulder, she spins around, piercing me with her green eyes. “You didn’t tell me you had a cupcake fetish?” I joked.
Fingerspelling and moving her hand in a wave motion away from her chest, Harper signs and mouths, “C-U-P-C-A-K-E fish?” Eyes drawn tight, she looks very confused.
I shake my head, laughing. “No.” I pinch my fingers together, signing the word. I can’t get enough of the look on Harper’s face when I sign—like someone’s thrown a s
witch for a spotlight, she glows like she’s in the goddamn sun. Not wanting that radiance to dim, I clumsily shape my fingers into the letters she taught me. “F-E-T-I-S-H.”
“Oh,” she mouths, nodding. Turning on her heel, she walks across the kitchen and pulls open a drawer. With a brown crayon and a Post-it in hand, she scribbles on the paper and hands it to me.
My roommate’s a baker.
Giving Harper a thumbs-up, I snatch a cupcake from the counter and peel the paper off. I’m not as well mannered as the mutt.
Even though it’s chocolate, and not butterscotch, which my favorite, it’ll do. Popping the whole thing in my mouth, it’s an instant chocolate overload, with a hint of something else. What is that flavor?
I chew, trying to place the weird, savory tang mixed with the chocolate. “What?” I ask, pointing at the empty wrapper. Swallowing, I can still taste the odd flavor. It’s not bad, but, the jury’s still out on whether it’s good.
She writes on the Post-it and flips it around. Bacon bourbon cupcakes.
Bacon and bourbon. She’s right, that’s what it is. “Chocolate bacon bourbon cupcakes? No offense to your roommate, but I’m sticking to butterscotch.”
“Wine?” She pulls out a bottle from the fridge.
“O-K-A-Y.” I shrug. I’m more of a tequila or beer kind of guy, but wine’ll do. Mind-blowing sex, wine, and cupcakes; lord knows I’ve had worse combinations.
Taking two glasses from the rack under the counter, she grabs the bottle, and nods her head in the direction of the kitchen table.
Catching her drift, I slide a handful of the bacon cupcakes to the side just as she sets everything on the table.
“Thanks.”
I wink, hold three fingers to my chest, and move them in a circular pattern. “You’re welcome.”
There’s that glow again. Her eyes shine like sea glass sparkling in the sunlight.
Sitting down at the table, Harper goes to work, pouring the white wine. I keep thinking about the sea glass, and how much her eyes remind me of a time when life with my dad wasn’t so fucked up…before he was a drunk asshole.
Sliding a cupcake-free chair next to hers, I take a seat. Smiling she passes me a glass. Harper points to me and then to herself, winking. A toast? To us, maybe? Whatever her meaning, I’ll drink to anything that involves the two of us, together.
I take a hefty sip, wincing. Spinning the bottle around, I read the label: Angel’s Wings. Riesling. A better name would be Syrup of Hell, or Diabetic Coma. Think I’m sticking to beer from now on.
Setting the glass down, I hold up a finger, “Be right back.” Standing, I jog out of the kitchen and to the sofa in the living room. I rub a hand over my chest, remembering how Harper was driving me mad, playing with my piercing not too long ago.
Glancing around, I look for my phone. It’s got to be here. I pat the cushions, shoving my hand between them. Aha! Grabbing hold, I pull it free. “Gotcha.” Now I can talk to Harper.
Turning around, I see her standing in the kitchen doorway. “Found my phone,” I say, holding it up, walking in her direction.
Someone distracted me earlier. ;-) Couldn’t remember where I left this, I type, handing her the phone.
She types her response and flips it around. Sorry, not sorry.
She sticks out her tongue, smiling coyly. Too damn sexy for her own good. And I’m hard again. Before I can make my move and pull her tongue into my mouth, she glances back down at my phone and types. I pull on the crotch of my jeans, adjusting my hard-on around the seam while she’s not looking.
I’m leaving town tomorrow, had to give you something to remember me by.
I read the rest of her message. Dread pools in my gut like I just got sucker punched. Not only did I forget she was leaving to go back home, I sure as hell hope she doesn’t think I slept with her because she’s leaving. She must think I am the biggest fucking douche bag. I yank the phone from her grasp and type quickly. Harper. Fuck. I’m so sorry. Please don’t think that’s the reason I let things go as far as they did. Shit. What you must be thinking of me right now. I run a nervous hand over my head, acid churning in my gut. I hand her the phone.
She scans over the words, then flicks them back to me. I can’t read the expression on her face as she types.
What do you mean? I don’t understand. Do you regret sleeping with me?
I answer: God no! I just don’t want you to think you had to do that so I would remember you. I may have been an asshole like that once upon a time, but not with you. Even without sex, I would still be here when you got home. Never think that you have to do something you don’t want in order to “keep me around.”
I step closer to her, my heart aching. I’ve never felt like this before—caring more for the woman I’m sleeping with than for myself. Her body radiates warmth, I crave it more than my fingers crave the bite of Lizzy’s strings.
That was supposed to be a joke. I trust you. I know you won’t hurt me. Frankly, I WANTED you. Badly. I had to have you before I left. Please don’t think that I felt pressured in any way. You’re a gentle, kind man, Thor.
As I read her message, Harper closes the gap between our bodies. I can feel her tits beneath her flimsy tee, brushing against my chest. She puts her hand over my heart.
“Kind” and “gentle” in the same sentence as my name? What kind of Twilight Zone have I entered? All the reasons why I never get involved with a woman come rushing back. What the hell happens if I turn into my father? I do share half a gene pool with him.
Harper touches my cheek, forcing me to look at her.
“Talk to me,” she mouths, her hands making words I wish I understood. “What’s wrong?”
I back away and fall onto the couch. Harper follows my lead, sitting beside me.
When’s your flight? I show her the message, hoping to change the subject. I hate talking about my dad.
Taking the phone from my fingers, she replies. Early evening. I’ll be at the hospital half the day, then I’m heading straight to the airport.
Harper types fast, faster than I do. My thick fingers always manage to hit letters that even confuses autocorrect. Backspacing, I try my answer again. How long will you be gone?
She answers: Just the weekend. That’s about all the parent time I can handle at once. I get back Sunday night.
My weekend’s busy too. I have to work. And the guys and I hit the studio on Monday. We’ve got nonstop rehearsals planned.
Passing the phone back and forth, I avoid the hard questions—the ones lingering in the space between us. The questions I know she wants answers to. Even though I’ve never heard her voice, in my head, I can hear her speak, What are you so scared of, Thor?
The house is quiet. I’ve never really contemplated it before, but this is what normal sounds like to Harper. And even still, if I concentrate, I can hear the hum of the fridge, cars passing by outside, and the faint tick of a clock somewhere upstairs.
She stares ahead, captive by a world of thoughts I’m not privy to. Hidden away in her secret world.
Her secret world…
My brain works over the rough edges of a song, carving and molding it into…something.
Hidden away in her secret world.
Measuring time with the beat of her heart.
When to stay? When to leave? When to hold her in my arms?
Can’t hear the thoughts she plays in, can’t see what makes her smile.
It’s only when her eyes light up she lets me in for a while.
I watch her from my periphery, content in her thoughts, lovely green eyes focused on the dark TV. Glancing down at my phone, I type, compelled to let her into my world, just a little. I’ve got one good memory of my dad. The memory she stirred up weeks ago when she asked me about our family’s favorite vacation spots. That, coupled with her sparkling eyes, I haven’t been able to get that beach vacation out of my head.
When I was little, four or five, my parents took me to the beach. One of our only famil
y vacations. It’s a vague memory, I don’t remember much about most of it, but I remember watching it storm from our hotel room. The lightning would crash down on the ocean, followed by ear-splitting cracks of thunder. I wasn’t scared, just pressed my face against the glass and watched like it was Saturday morning cartoons.
Harper rests her head on my shoulder watching me type, patient as she waits for my words.
Once the storm passed, Mom and Dad took me down to the water’s edge. Dad got down on his knees and started sifting through the wet sand, until he pulled up a handful of colored pebbles—so many different shades of blue and green. He plopped the mess into my hands. The polished rocks were nothing like I’d ever seen. He called them sea glass.
I’ve never forgotten that moment. It’s clear as day in my head. And the only good memory I have of my father.
Your eyes are the same green as the sea glass my dad gave me that day. A shiny, bright green, with a whisper of ocean blue.
Pretty much the only happy memory I have of my old man.
Thumbs stiff and cramped, I hand Harper my phone. I crack my knuckles and run my sweaty palms along my pants leg, nervous. I’ve never told anyone that story. And I know it’s going to open up a slew of questions about my family that I’d rather keep buried. But she went out on a limb, was brave, and opened up about something painful in her past, I needed to give her something of mine. I need to trust her the way she says she trusts me.
Harper angles her body so she’s facing me. Now I can read the expression on her face. So much concern and tenderness softening her features. I’ve never been scared of much in my adult life, but hurting this woman has me scared shitless.
She signs. Not short phrases like she usually does. This time, she speaks her mind. Turning up the volume. I only wish I was tuned into the same frequency. I’d give anything to live inside this part of Harper’s life, to really hear her.
With each motion, each new word, her expressive face dances over so many emotions: pain, sorrow, devotion, boldness, determination. I want to know the thoughts and words that bring her to life like this. Simply reading her words illuminated on a phone’s blue screen is so impersonal, so far removed from the intensity and passion her hands capture with each word she signs.