by Hazel Jacobs
“Sorry,” he says, his voice rough and husky. “Think I got a bit carried away toward the end.”
Harper doesn’t dignify that with an answer. She can still feel him pulsing inside of her, slowly going limp. She runs her hands over his chest again and feels him shiver all around her fingers as she pulls him into another kiss.
Slate pushes Harper’s hair out of the way so he can kiss her shoulder. They’re entwined together, his front against her back, still basking in the glow of their evening together. But Harper feels the weight of what he wants to say laying between them. She’s felt it building up from the moment he pulled out of her, and she settled herself against him. She doesn’t know how she’s felt it, but she knows a talk is coming.
She’s dreading it.
Does he regret this? Does he wish they hadn’t done it? Maybe she should have made him talk through his feelings more, rather than just throwing herself at him.
She’s got a terrible feeling that he’s going to tell her this was a mistake. Maybe he’ll tell her that he’s not interested in a relationship. Maybe that’s why he’s been resisting sleeping with her, because he doesn’t want to give up the life he’s been living. The groupies, the drugs. The thought of it all depresses the shit out of Harper, but it makes sense while she’s lying there in his arms with the weight of what is unsaid laying between them.
Maybe she should just go with it? The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it and when it’s there she can’t get it out. What would it cost her to just keep this as a casual, easy thing that she and Slate share? Do they need to define it? To put themselves in a bubble?
I’d like to.
Harper has had relationships like them in the past. Casual, open things that aren’t defined and don’t require any maintenance. She’s been in aggressively open relationships. And she always found them draining. Eventually, she just runs out of energy, trying to pretend that she’s being fulfilled by a relationship that doesn’t actually give her anything beyond adequate sex. Sex with Slate blows ‘adequate’ out of the water. But is that enough? She doesn’t know.
She hopes it is.
When Slate takes a breath to start talking, Harper braces herself.
“So, I guess we should talk about this?” he says. She can hear the question mark in his voice.
“I guess,” she replies.
She rolls over and her back is immediately cold. She realizes that they never actually made it under the covers. They’re just laying on top of the bed, the door wide open, and their clothes everywhere. She hopes that Dash didn’t come back to the room while she and Slate were getting busy. If he had, he’d had the good taste to not interrupt them.
Slate’s eyes run over her face. His pupils are back to their normal size, his cheeks are no longer flushed, but his hair is sticky with sweat. He looks a bit tired, and Harper feels a stab of accomplishment to think that she’s worn him out. She probably looks just as exhausted. His muscles glisten in the low, yellow hotel light and Harper has to keep herself from reaching out to touch. This probably isn’t the time. They need to have the serious talk. Then she can touch the beautiful man lying beside her.
He leans his head against the pillow and smiles at her through his eyelashes. “I had fun tonight,” he says.
Harper takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t just have to be tonight,” she replies.
Slate’s hand comes up to run gently over the skin of her upper arm. “You’re still my employee.”
“Technically, I am employed by Bass Note,” Harper points out quickly. She’s lying on her side and her breasts are squished together, and she knows that Slate is deliberately not looking at them. She might shift a little bit so that they’re put on display. She’s only human.
“Like you were employed by Black Orchid Escorts?” he asks.
Harper swats his arm. “You’re nit-picking,” she says. “We’ve talked about this. You’ve clearly got some morals, but it’s not like I’m vulnerable here.”
“I know,” he says. His hand doesn’t pause in tracing light patterns on her arm. “I know. You can make your own choices. I’m not taking advantage, and when I think that I am, I’m insulting you,” he says it like he’s reciting something.
“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”
“I can’t take credit. Dash explained that to me.”
Harper makes a note for herself to buy Dash a chocolate cupcake. “Dash is a very clever young man.”
“He’s got his shit together,” Slate says, nodding sagely. “Which is surprising, considering how much time he spends double-tapping Wolfstar fanart on Instagram.”
“What’s Wolfstar?”
“It’s a Harry Potter thing,” Slate replies. He brushes her hair out of her eyes again. “I love your hair.”
“I love yours, too,” she says.
“But I’m still not sure about this,” he says. “And I know I should be. But I’m not. I guess. I just don’t know.”
He shrugs and Harper hates that he seems to be retreating. It’s not stuttering, but it’s close. Insecurity doesn’t suit him, but it’s a look she’s learned to associate with Slate’s desire to be something when he isn’t sure that he can be. It’s the way he’d looked with his family. He’d been trying to put on a persona that didn’t work on him. He’s much freer when he’s being his happy-go-lucky self, grinning at everyone, genuinely happy to be alive.
So she was right. He’s not sure if he can do a relationship. Why else would he be so insecure at the thought of them talking about this?
Harper shifts and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “How about this,” she says, taking the lead because she thinks that’s what he needs right now. “Let’s not, like, define this right now.” She gestures between them and he watches her hand thoughtfully. “Let’s just… have fun. Enjoy each other’s company. We don’t have to be exclusive.”
“We… don’t?” he asks slowly.
Harper shrugs. “Nope. No we don’t. Exclusive is a bit much, really, and we can maybe see other people or something so that it’s less of a problem.”
Besides, she got him into bed. She doesn’t want to push her luck just yet. Maybe in a couple of weeks he’ll be more inclined to be exclusive. But right now, he’s clearly not ready and if she pushes too hard then he’ll run for it.
“You… want to see other people?”
“I think it’ll take the pressure off.”
Slate nods slowly. His facial expression is doing something that Harper can’t really put her finger on. Eventually, he smiles and Harper decides that she’s done the right thing.
“Whatever you want, babe,” he says, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead.
Harper feels a weight come off of her shoulders even as a heavy lump settles in her chest. She’s given him the out. She’s given him the chance to pull away from her, to indulge in whatever he wants.
She tells herself that she can handle that. She can handle the thought of him going away, having casual sex and snorting cocaine or whatever it is he does with his spare time, as long as he comes back to her bed.
Slate lets out a huff of breath and sits up, stretching his back. “I’m glad we got that straightened out,” he says. When he looks back at her, his eyes are still lidded and he runs them over Harper’s body the same way that he’d been running his fingers over her skin just now. “I’m starving. You think we can get the Concierge to get us Pizza Hut?”
“You’re paying for these suites, you should be able to order whatever the fuck you want.”
He wanders out of the room, his pert ass distracting Harper so easily that she thinks that must be his superpower. He doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that he’s naked. Something that’s re-iterated when Harper hears a door slam shut and Sersha’s voice come through the open door of her bedroom.
“That’s quite a cock you’ve got there, Slate.”
“Thanks.”
“Fucking hell, Slate,” Tommy says in a tired voice. “At le
ast cover it with a bottle or something.”
“Do you see a bottle around here that’s big enough to cover all of this?”
Harper’s already up, putting her clothes on, and she doesn’t know why she’s moving so quickly because it’s not like she and Slate hadn’t talked about keeping things non-exclusive, they never said anything about keeping it a secret.
“Is Harper around?” Sersha asks while Harper is struggling to get her bra back on. “You said you were going to go get her but you never came back?”
“She’s in the bedroom,” Slate says.
There’s a pause.
“You guys had sex, didn’t you?” Tommy asks.
Well, so much for covering it up. Harper slows down in putting her clothes on, sliding her jeans on one leg at a time instead of trying to lay on her back and shove her legs into them while flailing around like a stuck turtle.
“She started it,” Slate says easily.
“So you guys talked?” Tommy says, sounding pleased. “That’s great!”
“Yeah, we talked,” Slate replies. Harper’s starting to wonder if they know that she can hear them. “We’re gonna keep things casual, not exclusive, you know how it is.”
There’s a pause. Tommy’s voice sounds confused when he asks, “Really?”
“Yep,” Slate says cheerfully. “Totally not exclusive. We’re gonna see other people and enjoy ourselves, and see how we go.”
“That sounds… nice,” Sersha says. She doesn’t sound convinced.
Harper finally decides that she’s heard enough and walks purposefully out of the bedroom. She finds Slate in the living room, phone in hand, flaccid penis dangling unashamedly between his legs. Sersha and Tommy are by the door, their shoulders brushing and their faces in identical expressions of confusion.
That’s the thing about Sersha and Tommy. Mikayla and Logan are constantly on one another, touching and caressing, coming up with more and more creative ways to maintain contact with one another, but Sersha and Tommy display their connection without touching too often. Instead, they’re connected in how they feel. Their expressions match when they’re together—if one is confused, so is the other. If one is happy, so is the other. If they’re apart and Harper sees one of them laugh or frown, she’s reminded of the other. Their faces are so entwined in her memory that to imagine one is to never forget that the other should be nearby.
Their eyes swivel over to Harper when she enters the room. It must be a bit of a shock to see her fully clothed while Slate is letting it all hang out. Slate winks at Harper when she comes in and she rolls her eyes at him.
“You didn’t think that maybe they don’t want to see you in all your glory?” she asks him.
He shrugs. “Nothing Tommy hasn’t seen,” he says easily. “And Sersha needs something to dream about while Tommy’s disappointing her.” Tommy gives him the finger while Sersha laughs. “By the way, I promised you guys a threesome,” Slate adds, throwing them a wink. He’s throwing around a lot of winks tonight. “Come see me later tonight and we’ll work something out.”
Harper rolls her eyes again and heads over to the fridge so they don’t see the hurt that she knows was flashing across her face when he said that. She did practically give him permission to see other people. Seeing two people at the same time is technically allowed, though she’d hoped he wouldn’t throw it in her face like that.
“Well… that’s kind of you,” Sersha says. Harper has her back turned to the three of them, but she thinks she can hear an unasked question in her tone. “Speaking of disappointment, maybe you can invite Harper to this little party and I can give her a real seeing to.”
Harper fumbles with the bottle of water she’d been pulling out and quickly tries to cover it up.
“I am one hundred percent on board with that,” Slate says.
“Me too,” Harper throws over her shoulder, not one to be outdone. She straightens up and opens the water, taking a sip and closing the fridge door.
“It’s settled then,” Tommy says crisply. “We’re all going to have a wild foursome. But in the meantime, we wanted to know if you’re up for another nightclub.”
“Another one?” Slate asks. He still looks tired and his shoulders droop slightly.
Tommy shrugs. “Yeah, it’s Dash’s idea. He’s picked someone up and she told him about this place where they have bubbles coming out of the ceiling.”
“Sounds awesome,” Slate says. He takes a seat on the armrest of the couch and Tommy winces when his bare ass lands.
“Yeah, it does,” Tommy agrees. “The dress code is a bit fancier, though, so Sersha wanted to get changed before we go.”
“Not my fault the clubs are sexist,” Sersha says, shrugging. “You boys could get in with your button-downs and your plaid, or even cocks-out if you’re so inclined, but I need to show some leg and put a lipstick on.”
“What about Mik?” Slate asks.
Tommy and Sersha shrug in unison. “Mik and Logan disappeared,” Tommy says. “They’re probably having more fun right now than we will. Unless it’s one of those clubs. Which, if it is, I will never forgive Dash because he knows how I feel about those—”
“It’s okay, Love. It’s not going to be a sex club.”
“They just never seem like they’re having any fun. It’s a job to them.”
“I know.”
Harper watches this exchange in a kind of mute awe.
Slate glances over at Harper and shrugs. “You want to go?” he asks.
She doesn’t. She wants to stay in, drink some water, and maybe watch something on Netflix and cuddle up to Slate. She can only imagine how good it would feel to fall asleep in those arms. Probably the same way it felt when he’d held her during sex—protected, safe, gently covered.
“Sure,” she says. “Let me put a lipstick on.”
“Don’t forget to show some leg,” Slate says, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Maybe we’ll find you a fella while we’re out.”
For some reason, that sounded almost like a challenge. There’s a light in his eyes that tells her this isn’t entirely a joke, but she’s not sure what it’s meant to be. It’s weird to have the gauntlet thrown down by a naked man.
“You should put some clothes on, babe,” Harper tells him, giving a significant look to his penis. “Is it getting cold in here?”
It’s clearly not because he’s still as long and perfect as ever, but her words have the desired effect. Sersha and Tommy burst out laughing, while Slate smirks at her with a ‘you little shit’ look in his eyes.
“Sersha, you wanna help me pick out a lipstick?” she asks.
“Happy to, Love,” Sersha replies, following Harper into the en-suite.
She reaches out and takes Harper’s hand, giving it a squeeze as they go, and Harper holds onto it as tightly as she dares without seeming desperate. Behind her, she hears Tommy’s voice.
“Do you think I could get muscles like yours if Harper gives me a special routine?”
“I think you rock the tortured artist look, man.”
“Thanks.”
Harper and Sersha find themselves in the en-suite, which is basically a tiny pool area masquerading as a bathroom. It’s so well-lit that Harper has become spoiled after a few hours. She thinks she’ll need to buy all new bulbs when she gets home because she’s never had better lighting before in her life.
Sersha waits until the door is closed before turning to Harper. “Everything all right?” she asks. “Because I didn’t get a ‘non-exclusive’ vibe from you. Or Slate, for that matter.”
Harper shrugs, trying to put a brave face on but knowing that she’s probably failing. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” she promises. “But right now… lipstick?”
Sersha gives her a long look. Harper has a disturbing feeling that the other woman is reading her mind. If she is, she’s probably seeing the thoughts that every woman has had at one point or another—if I talk about it, I’ll cry, so please don’t ask.
“Red,” Sersha says, nodding with certainty. “You’ve got a red, right?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s do this.”
There are bubbles coming out of the ceiling.
“Awesome,” Slate says, reaching over to grab Harper by the hand and pull her past the bouncer.
Dash is already inside, his arm slung around the waist of the woman he’d been dancing with at the first club, but he waits patiently for the others. His eyes fall on Slate’s hand still wrapped around Harper’s, and for a moment he looks pleased. Then he looks Harper in the eye and he frowns.
“Bubbles,” Sersha says giddily as she and Tommy stroll in together.
The club is dark, but lights in the floor and walls keep everything illuminated enough to see. Bubbles descend from the ceiling in waves, taking on different colors when the lights change—pink, blue, green, red. It’s pretty amazing. Even better are the people. Everyone is dressed slightly formally, but most have florescent paint on their cheeks and bodies that shine whenever they move. The DJ is mounted against the back wall and there’s a bar along the left side of the room, with tables and stools for people to rest in. They’re hardly being used. Nearly everyone in the room is on the dancefloor while dubstep thuds through the room, making Harper’s chest vibrate.
She’s got red lips like Sersha suggested. She decided to switch out of her jeans for a skirt and keep the top and ballet flats. The bouncer hadn’t even batted an eyelash, but that probably had something to do with some women in the line realizing that Slate, Tommy and Dash are in Black Lilith and nearly started a riot trying to get their autographs. Once the bouncers realized they were dealing with celebrities, they were ushered inside. Harper could have been wearing a burlap sack as long as she was with the band.
Dash checks his phone, swiping through a message and frowning thoughtfully. He types a quick reply before turning to his date for the evening. Harper realizes that she’d never asked the woman’s name.