“Are you sure you’re going to fit?” I blurt out, a touch of nerves in my voice.
He laughs once, wraps his hand around my waist, and tugs me gently down on the futon, laying me next to him. Skin to skin, flesh to flesh. I look in his eyes, and I’m flooded with so many feelings—love, lust, anticipation, fear. It is staggering, but I am ready.
“We’ll take it slow, okay?” he says.
I gulp, bringing my hand to his belly, letting my fingers dance near his erection. “Okay,” I say, agreeing, but I’m scared. I don’t want my first time to hurt. I want it to be amazing, even if that’s asking for the moon. I don’t care. I want the moon and the sun and the stars with him.
“Do you want to put it on me?”
He hands me the packet. I look at it like it’ll bite. “Tell me how.”
He rips open the foil. “Pinch the top, then roll it on,” he says, and he moans in pleasure as I slide it on him. “See what you do to me? I get even more turned on just from you doing that. You can do anything to me, Harley. Anything.”
I lie on my back, propped on my elbows, and foreplay is over—and that’s fine because the last several months have been foreplay, and now there is only this.
When he hovers over me, my shoulders shake once, twice.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No. I’m nervous as hell.”
“We don’t have to,” he says as if it pains him, but still I love that he offers an out.
“I don’t want an out.”
Then he teases me, rubbing the head against me through all my wetness, and it feels so good the way he’s touching me. I start to spread my legs wider for him. “You’re so wet it’s almost a sin for me not to go down on you. But I love it,” he says, then he pushes into me. Not far, maybe an inch. Hell, maybe even half an inch.
I tense up.
He meets my eyes, asking me with his if it’s okay.
“It’s okay,” I tell him as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “You can come in more,” I say with a silly smile because the words sound silly.
He slides in deeper, and I clamp my legs against his. “Are you sure?”
I breathe out deeply, yoga breaths, deep calming exhalations. Then I spread my legs again, relax my body, and tell myself that it will feel amazing because it’s him. I close my eyes and nod into his shoulder, then run my hands down his strong back to his ass, guiding him.
He sinks slowly into me, and the pain is intense. I am being stretched in directions I didn’t know I had. This man is so big, and I don’t know how he’s fitting inside me. Oh wait, I do know. Because when he thrusts once, my spleen leaps into my chest.
I grit my teeth and try to tell myself it’ll be over soon. He’s turned on, he’ll pump once, twice, three times, and he’ll come, and I can curl up and let the pain roll out to the night.
Then I feel his breath on my neck, his stubble on my cheek, his hand on my hip. “Harley, I don’t want to hurt you. I can tell you don’t like it,” he says, but he’s not mad, he’s not hurt. He’s simply being honest.
And I decide to do the same. I open my eyes, and look up into his. They are so earnest, so heartfelt. “Yes, it hurts. But it’s okay. I can handle the hurt,” I say, and it’s strange but true. Because maybe it hurts now, but it might not hurt the next time. Or in five minutes, or in five seconds. And with that, I start to relax, to let go, to give in. As I do, I realize the pain is fading, and now I just feel full with him deep inside me. I let go of the tight grip I have on his ass, and the way my strong thighs are holding him like a vise.
Then he slips his hand between my legs, and he slowly, softly rubs me with his finger while he moves inside me. I gasp in pleasure for the first time.
“Oh!”
I let my eyes roll back into my head, and I can feel him smile.
“That better?”
“Yes,” I say with a happy sigh. “More.”
He slides his finger across me, rubbing me, stroking me, all while sliding gently in and out, and the sweep of pleasure from his finger starts to consume me. Soon I’m opening my legs farther, and I’m wrapping them around him, and I’m taking him in. And holy fuck. He’s all the way in me and it no longer hurts. It starts to feel good, this feeling of being filled, of his hard length moving in and out of me, of his nimble finger rubbing me. Then the tingling sensation grows stronger, rippling through my veins like a wave, and I shudder.
“God, I love this, Harley,” he groans as he touches me. “I love being inside you. I love touching you. I love you so damn much.”
His words thrill me. His feelings shred me, and soon all the hurt washes away and I am left with only the barest of essentials—this imperfect moment in time with this perfectly damaged man who is mine and who knows all of me and still loves me and still wants me, and who doesn’t want to turn me into his fantasy, but wants us to create a new reality together. I wrap my arms around him, and he sinks deeper. The stretching is still bizarre, but it’s delicious at the same time, and I want to feel every second of it as I start to rock with him, to move with him. And then his pants and groans aren’t solo anymore. They’re meshed with mine, with these sounds and noises I make as I gasp and moan from his finger working me over in the most delirious way while he thrusts into me.
“Trey.”
“Oh fuck, Harley. Is there any chance you’re going to come? Because I can’t hold back much longer.”
“Yes,” I answer, and I dig my nails into his back, so deep I’m leaving marks, but I have to hold on, I have to mark him. My body tenses, then it’s like there’s an explosion of color and light and sounds, and that sound is my sound, it’s my voice, calling out his name, and then he’s doing the same, chasing me on the other side of this sweet release.
Here, where there is sex and love, and love and sex, and they don’t just spill over into each other.
They are one and the same with him.
25
Harley
“I’ll expect your first writing exercises on character development by the end of the week. You can deliver them via email, and remember to think about what makes each person unique—how they grew up, how they were raised, what events informed them. All of those are part and parcel of what makes a character in a story come alive.”
My writing teacher taps the laptop screen for emphasis.
I grew up strangely, I was raised in a topsy-turvy world. But now and then, memories flutter in and out of my mind of peaceful, sunny days from long ago. Maybe they’re all part and parcel of me.
“See you next week,” he says, then dismisses us.
Summer classes have begun, and I am hoping to enjoy writing again. Funny, how blackmail can sap the joy out of something. I leave the classroom, grabbing my sunglasses from my purse and sliding them on as I head outside.
I stop in my tracks when I see my mother waiting for me outside the building.
She’s been calling and writing to me for the last week, but I’ve ignored all her messages. Let’s be honest, there’s not much to say to each other.
“Harley,” she says crisply from her post standing sentry on the sidewalk.
“Barb,” I say, and this time I use her name, not because she wants me to, but because she doesn’t deserve to be called Mom.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls. Nor my emails.”
“That is a correct observation. I see your reporter skills are strong,” I say, and I can barely contain a wicked grin because—holy cow—I sassed her. I talked back, and she’s not used to that.
She raises an eyebrow sharply, as if that action alone can bend me back to her will, into my submission as the sister she wishes I were.
But I am not my mother’s daughter anymore. There was a time when we were cut from the same cloth, but no more.
“In any case, I’ve decided to forgive you.”
“Excuse me?” I scoff. “I think I might have heard you wrong.”
She nods. “I have been thinking about what you did.
Your actions. Your choices. And I have a way for you to be forgiven.”
I’m dying to know what she has in store. “Oh, do tell.”
She gestures grandly to the modern building I just left. “I pay for your college. And I am glad to do so because education is a vital element to one’s growth. And I will continue to do so under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you come home and live with me again. That way I can help you.”
“Oh,” I say, letting the one syllable last forever. “Like, rehab for my bad behavior?”
My sarcasm is lost on her.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I would call it. We can start over, we can have nightly chats, we can have dinners together. We can be open about your whereabouts so you don’t descend into bad habits again.”
Right. Because talking to her would change things.
“So, if I do this,” I say, as if I’m truly considering her offer, “would you be willing to go to Miranda and confront her about the blackmail? Because I’m pretty sure what she did in forcing me to write that book is illegal, and you could expose her, since that’s what you do—you expose people.”
She presses her plum-colored lips together as if she’s pondering my request. “I could, but I’m not sure that’s best. We don’t really want that getting out, do we? I think it’s best to let that sleeping dog lie.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, nodding as if I completely agree. “Definitely let that one lie. I mean, sexting senators are so much more important than editors blackmailing your own daughter. You wouldn’t want that to get out. Because that might besmirch your unblemished reputation.”
“That’s not it. I just think we could both benefit from moving on. What do you say? Truce?”
She extends her hand. I look at it like it’s a diseased object.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then you leave me no choice but to cut you off.”
She parks her hands on her hips, waiting for me to grovel. She has the trump card, right? She thinks she can buy me back. She thinks she can buy my love.
I shake my head. I’d like to cry, but my eyes are dried up. I have no more tears. I have no more emotions to waste on her.
“So cut me off, then,” I say, like it’s no big deal.
She blinks, as if a UFO has just crashed through the sky, splattered onto the sidewalk, and poured out little green men announcing they’re from another solar system. She’s as astonished at my brinkmanship as she’d be by the miniature aliens.
“Are you just going to drop out of college? Become a hooker full-time?”
I point a finger at her. “Actually, allow me to make a correction, since I know precision is important in your line of work, Barb. I wasn’t a hooker. I was a call girl. A specialized, very high-class, high-priced call girl. So, guess what that means?” I don’t bother to contain my grin.
“What?” she says in a quaky, wavering voice.
“I made some serious bank, and I saved every single penny of it. Never spent a dime. So you can’t buy my love and I don’t need your money. Which means I don’t really see that there’s anything more for us to discuss.”
I could snap my fingers, swivel around, then strut off, reality-show style. But I don’t. Instead, I simply walk away, and it hurts that she isn’t who I wanted her to be, but it also feels good that I finally found the words to tell her so.
In my own way. In my own time.
I’ve stared down my past, and now I’m moving on.
26
Trey
“Do you trust me?”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Duh. I thought we’d established that by now.”
“I know. But do you trust me to do this without watching? I want you to close your eyes or look the other way, okay?”
“Yes.”
She sits on the stool, crosses her legs, and clasps her hands in front of her. She’s wearing a jean skirt, black combat boots, and a tank top with a cartoon cat on it. In other words, she looks like my girl, and I love it.
“I’m not looking, I’m not looking, I’m not looking,” she says in a singsong voice as she pointedly stares at the framed photos that line the walls of No Regrets. Blue butterflies on upper backs, stars on hips, dragonflies on forearms. The shop is closed now—it’s nearing midnight on a Thursday in July, and I wanted to do this after-hours when I wasn’t on the clock. Besides, it’s a gift to her. An early birthday gift.
After she takes off her tank, I press the transfer paper on her shoulder, the drawing I made to replace the first time I marked her with a design that kept her tied to her guilt. The red ribbon that was supposed to symbolize her love for her mom. She’s moved past it now, and I want her to live a life with no regrets, and goddamn it, if that’s the name of our shop, then I need to be able to deliver. I’m building her red ribbon into a new design.
An hour later, her eyes are still fixed on a point on the wall. Maybe the butterflies, or maybe the tribal ink next to it. Hard to say, because I’ve barely glanced at her. Only enough to know she’s focused and she’s tough and she’s gritting her teeth through the pain that’s very nearly over.
I finish the final letter, giving a script-y end to the T in the words.
Then I put down the needle, and she relaxes, her shoulders slumping forward.
“You did great,” I tell her.
“Now let’s see if you did great,” she says. “Am I allowed to look?”
“Yes. You can look.”
27
Harley
I can’t stop staring at my shoulder.
I trace my finger around the design, mesmerized by its beauty. By its perfectness. By what it means.
Trey turned my red ribbon into a heart. But it’s a badass heart, the edges of it torn and tattered. It’s like the one on the notebook Joanne gave me, only it’s not misshapen. It’s whole, and it’s complete, and it’s tough as nails with the way it’s frayed on the outside. An arrow pierces it, clear through the center from one side of the heart to the other. Then there are words in the V at the bottom—Carry My Heart.
“It’s so unbelievably perfect,” I say, and I am awestruck. “I love it so much.”
“You do?” His voice is wobbly.
I glance up at him, barely able to tear myself away from the new ink. “Are you kidding me? It’s the coolest tat ever. It’s perfect for me. And it’s from you. And it means something. Why wouldn’t I love it?”
He shrugs. “I was just hoping you would. I mean, I didn’t want you to have to hunt down some other tattoo artist to redo mine. Or worse, get laser removal.”
I cup his cheeks, stubbly against my hands. “This is never being removed. I love it, and I love you.”
“Happy early birthday.”
“My birthday’s not til next month.”
“So I like getting you stuff. I’ll get you something else when you finally turn twenty-one. What do you think about the arrow?” He returns his focus to his work.
“I love the arrow in the heart,” I say, then consider it thoughtfully, running my finger across the art on my skin. “Is it coming or going though?”
He shakes his head. “Neither.” He reaches for my hand, linking my fingers through his. “It’s staying.”
“Like you,” I say, and I’m vaguely aware that my voice has turned breathy, but then so has the moment, shifting into something more, something expectant.
“Like me. And like you,” he repeats in a low, husky voice.
In one swift move, he lets go of my hand and yanks off his own shirt. There, over his heart, he now has an arrow. It matches mine, and I am overwhelmed, bursting with heat and light and unfettered happiness. My hand is drawn to his chest, and I trace the tattoo, then kiss the arrow on his chest. “I love it,” I tell him.
“It matches,” he adds playfully.
“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “I got that.”
Then his hands are in my hair, and he’s pulling hard, exposing my neck,
kissing me, marking me, claiming me with his mouth. I respond instantly, my hands looping around his back, tugging him close. His breath is hot on me, and there’s sweat on his neck from working, from inking me, and my skin is slick too. From the summer, from the heat, from the needle.
And I want to have hot, sweaty sex in his tattoo parlor.
I have become more forward, more outspoken in the last few weeks with him. So I unbutton his jeans and slide them down to his knees, along with his boxers.
“I want you on the chair.”
“Gladly,” he says, and he takes a seat, and in seconds he’s grabbed a condom from his wallet and handed it to me. It’s become our thing—I love to put them on him, and he loves it when I do. In an instant, he hikes up my skirt, pulls my panties to the side, and thrusts inside me.
I groan as he fills me. “Trey,” I say, letting his name slide off my tongue in a sexy purr, because I love the way his name sounds when he’s deep in me. As if I’m owning his name when we’re together like this. When I take him all the way in.
“So I guess this means it turns you on when I ink you,” he says in a hungry voice as he rolls his hips upwards.
I inhale sharply. I can feel him so deep inside me, and I’m still not sure I’m used to his size. But then I don’t know if it’s something to get used to, or something to just thank the heavens for, as I lean my head back, let my hair fall down, and imagine I’m on a wild motorcycle ride after midnight as he drives into me with abandon. Soon I am panting and moaning, greedy for more of this heat, this love, this life.
“Yes, it turns me on when you ink me,” I say, finally managing to answer in between my erratic breaths. “But then, everything you do turns me on.”
“Good. Because I want to do everything with you,” he says. “And right now, I want you to ride me hard, Harley.”
The Thrill of It (No Regrets Book 2) Page 12