Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(107)
“Oh god!” I cry, arching again, his arms sweeping under me, holding me to him while his hips take over the work of pumping in and out in long, tortuous strokes.
“My dreams, Emma. This is better than my dreams,” he says, his breath hot against my ear.
I wrap my legs around him, searching for ways to feel him even deeper inside, and Andrew responds, his hands moving to my ass, pulling me up into him with every pummel, our pressure meeting, the sweet ache growing and growing with every thrust.
I can feel the sweat beading on my body, and Andrew’s back is moist as his muscles work to hold us together, to send us both over the edge.
“I’m so close, Andrew. Please…just a little more,” I gasp, my teeth grazing his shoulder, my fingers digging into his skin as he rocks into me. The need to release builds until I can no longer breathe, and when I feel Andrew begin to push harder, I know he’s with me, so I let everything go.
“Come for me, baby. Please…come for me,” he growls into my neck. I cry out loud until all I have left in me are soft whimpers of pleasure as I feel Andrew thicken inside me, his breath held as he follows me into bliss.
“Emma! Fuck me, Emma,” he grunts, pulling me into him harder and harder, exploding inside me until all that is left is exhaustion and two satiated souls in love.
Andrew doesn’t still right away, sliding in and out in slow movements, wanting to drain every last moment of pleasure from my body. He finally pulls out of me completely, then kisses my scar softly before whispering against my skin. “For always, Emma Burke. For always,” he breathes.
* * *
Showered and now nestled deep in Andrew’s sheets and arms and clothes, reality begins to settle in, and I grow still and quiet. For long minutes, Andrew doesn’t ask why, instead content to have me here and hold me, to stroke my hair and press his lips to the back of my head every so often as I lay here in the safest place in the world.
“Do you know that the only time I ever smoked a joint was that one time?” Andrew says, breaking the silence. I swallow hard. “Once. Ha! I’m like the perfect anti-drug campaign. Don’t do drugs, kids. Even just once could ruin your whole life.”
His joke is the sad kind, and I squeeze his arms, pulling them tighter around me. “I’m sorry, Andrew,” I say, kissing his hand and pressing it against my face.
“Don’t be. I made my choices. I made every single one of them,” he says. I’m not looking at him when he speaks, but there’s something about the timber in his voice that lets me know he’s smiling. Right now—with me—he’s smiling.
“You still shouldn’t have had to go through any of that,” I say, shutting my eyes at the thought of his younger self at the hand of someone hurting him. “They shouldn’t have punished you at all, let alone to that extent.”
“I’m a Harper. We’re bad seeds,” he chuckles.
“No. You’re not,” I whisper.
“How you see me,” he says against my neck, leaving a soft kiss there before blowing it away. “That’s what matters.”
His hand moves back up to my hair, and he continues the gentle strokes, combing his fingers through my long waves and letting them fall against my bare arm, my body hugged in the soft cotton of one of his shirts.
“Are you going to tell someone?” Andrew asks, and I turn a little, my head shifting to look at him, not sure what he means. I’ll tell the world about you, about how I love you, Andrew. Why wouldn’t I?
“About Graham,” he explains, my gut sinking the second he utters his name. “I know it’s hard, and I know you want to just forget, but he hurt you, Emma. He can’t get away with that.”
“I know,” I say, letting my face fall back to the pillow, away from him.
“I’ll go with you…to tell someone. We can go together,” he says, and I squeeze him again, so thankful for him, but sick knowing I’m going to disappoint him.
“I can’t,” I say, my eyes shuddering to a close as his arm pulls away from me and he pushes himself up to sit next to me. I suck in a long, painful breath, feeling the bruises on my ribs as I do, as if those injuries mock me. I sit up to face Andrew, but never lift my eyes to his. “He’s Dr. Wheaton’s son. She…she’s my mentor, and she was the one who…” I move my fist slowly to my chest, letting my thumb scratch over the space in the middle where my scar resides.
Andrew understands in an instant, breathing in once, sharply. His head bows and he nods. Slowly leaning to the side, he slides his phone from his small night table, then holds it up to me, his lips pursed, his forehead wrinkled with question. “May I?” he asks, pointing to the camera lens. I pinch my brow, but offer a small nod yes. I let my expression fall to nothingness as he clicks a photo of me then lays by my side.
He turns the screen to face us both, sliding his finger over my image, zooming in, the purple around my eye still very much there. I close my eyes remembering the feel of Graham’s hand crashing into me.
“I understand, Em. I swear I do. I just…I thought you needed to see what I see,” he says.
I pull his phone into my hands, zooming the image back out, hoping from farther away the bruise is less noticeable, but it’s not—it’s all I see. I push the small button at the bottom to share the image with me, sending it to myself. Then I move to Andrew’s contacts screen and enter my number, biting my lip as I hand the phone back to him.