Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(10)

“You won’t move in?” I ask.

“I like my space. I like living alone.”

I nod. I like living alone, too. My hometown is small enough as it is; sometimes it’s nice to imagine I can close my door and get some distance.

Not that even at a thousand miles away I can really distance my thoughts from all the bullshit going on at home. My phone feels like a lead weight in my pocket, and I slip it out, putting it on the flat top of a cardboard box. Harlow watches me do it, and then does the same, pulling her phone from the pocket of her frayed-hem denim skirt and laying it facedown beside mine.

I step forward and she turns her face up to me, closing her eyes when I slide my hand along her neck and into her hair. “You smell like a f*cking dream.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, but she misses it, eyes still closed. “Give me your underwear.”

No pretense, no warm-up, and she doesn’t even startle. My worries are safely placed on top of a cardboard box four feet away, and what I have in front of me is a soft, warm girl to make everything else evaporate. With a little glance up at my face, she reaches under her skirt and shimmies out of her panties, giving me the tiny blue handful of lace. I slide them into my pocket, and then bend, kissing her.

This, too, is new. It’s sweeter, more honest than the wild, biting, savage kisses we knew before. I kiss her once, just a touch, and then again, groaning as her hands slide up my chest and around my neck. Her lips fall into an easy rhythm against mine—there’s no physical negotiation or uncertainty, only Harlow offering me her full bottom lip, little strokes of her tongue, and her eager little gasps. I can taste a hint of cherry lip gloss, the shots we did together in the kitchen. She’s not sloppy drunk, but her cheeks are warm from the alcohol, her body pliable and relaxed. I’m sure I could bend her however I want. I could spread her out on the floor, put her legs over my shoulders, and f*ck her so hard that people out in the living room would hear the slap of my skin against hers.

“You think about f*cking me sometimes?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her neck, slipping a strap off her shoulder, and trailing my lips and teeth along her skin.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s my go-to when I get myself off,” she admits without hesitation.

“So you think of me like five times a day?”

Harlow laughs and it catches in a little hiccup when I push her skirt over her hips and lift her onto the dresser, spreading her legs and stepping forward. I’m already hard and the feel of the bare warmth of her * against the denim over my cock is enough to have me hissing against her mouth, pushing my hips forward.

She presses into me and I slide my hand between us, reaching to touch the soft, slick skin between her thighs.

Fuck.

She’s gasping these perfect little breaths and shaking against me, and I’m so hard it’s all I can do to not reach for my fly, pull out my dick, and rub all over this, but instead I slide my fingers over her unbelievably soft body. She’s the only woman I’ve felt in so long. It’s hard to not let my mind instinctively tattoo her with mine when I kiss her neck, her lips, her shoulder. And it’s easy to pretend everything beyond this room has evaporated or, at the very least, been put on pause, and that relief— even if imagined—sends a thrill down my spine, coiling tightly at the base. I’m so hard for this girl; she makes me harder than anything I can remember. I swear I can still feel the echo from almost two months ago of her lips kissing down my cock, her hands guiding me into her.

“You have any idea how this feels to me?” I step back enough to watch my fingers slide up and over her clit and back down, lower, inside. I f*cking love how they look when they’re wet with her.

“God, when did your * get so sweet?” I look up to her downcast eyes, the lip trapped savagely between her teeth as she’s watching me touch her. A searing fire iron of a thought stabs at me: “You let that * kid lick you here last night?”

She closes her eyes, pushing into my hand, and I lean in to kiss her neck. Her silence is as good as a yes and it further sparks a fire in my chest. And then I remember how she looked this morning: like she simultaneously wanted to f*ck me and beat me.

“Tell me you like my mouth.”

She whimpers, choking out, “I like your mouth.”

“Tell me you remember coming on it.”

“I do.”

“How many times?”

Harlow coughs out a laugh and it turns into a groan when I slide my thumb around and around and around her clit. “A lot.”

“I remember telling you to crawl across the room to get it.”

Her nails dig into my shoulder. “Dick. ”

“But you did.” I kiss her neck, her jaw. “And I love licking it. I love your obscene little sounds.”

A knock on the door cracks through the quiet room and we both startle. Against me, Harlow tenses, reaching to hold my arm so I don’t stop touching her.

“Finn?”

Fuck. It’s Ansel.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, uh . . . we are leaving, in case you wanted a ride back to Oliver’s.”

I can practically feel Harlow waiting for my response; her body is tense all around me. “When is Oliver going?” I ask, contemplating my options.

“He left about ten minutes ago to swing past the store one more time.”