Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(33)

It’s sort of strange to see this version of Harlow: prim and proper and dressed in her slim black skirt, heels, and bright orange silk blouse, long hair brushed and smoothed down her back. She’s funny and charming, composed, and so different than the Harlow I see in bed, the one who begs me to spank her, begs for harder and more. And though it might seem like I’m the one calling all the shots, she’s clearly been using me, using my body to forget herself and get off. It’s a little worrisome just how much I like the idea that I’m the only one right now who gets to see the secret, unraveled version of this golden, beautiful girl.

“Since we’re doing the just-friends thing,” I say, “I can tell you that you look really f*cking pretty today, Ginger Snap.”

She blinks at me, surprised for a moment before she grins. “Thanks.”

“Because the last time I saw you this early, you looked like you’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed,” I say, completely bypassing the fact that I saw her just this morning. She doesn’t correct me and . . . well, good. I think we both know that particular conversation is a land mine, one definitely better left alone.

“Not one of my finer moments, so I’m going to breeze past that and agree with you. Definitely no more Toby Amslers in my future. I’m running out of fingers, so it’s time for me to be more selective in the screening process.”

“Running out of . . . fingers?”

“Fingers,” she says, holding up both hands and wiggling all ten fingers in front of my face. “This is an incredibly personal decision, and one that can be approached in so many different ways, but I always said I didn’t want to have sex with more guys than I could count on two hands. Eight fingers are accounted for, so I don’t have room for any more mistakes.”

It takes me a second to understand that this means Harlow has only had sex with eight guys.

Or rather, Harlow has had sex with seven guys that aren’t me.

And . . . I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m sort of surprised. It’s not that I had some sort of preconceived notion about any of this, but rather that Harlow herself seems to go out of her way to make people think her sex life is something it’s clearly not.

On the other hand, I think of myself as a pretty progressive guy, and as long as you’re not cheating or hurting anyone, you should be able to love or marry or f*ck whoever you want. Still, as hypocritical as it is, there’s something about listening to Harlow talk about the others guys she’s been with that’s making it hard to just sit here and nod.

And Harlow, who for whatever reason seems to pick up on every little thing I do, notices.

“Hey. Whoa, whoa- whoa. What’s happening here?” She brings a finger up to tap my forehead, hard.

“You’re all frowny and scrunched up. Are you making a judgey face at me?”

“What?” I say. “I am not making a face.” I’m actually glad I’m not because the face she’s making is a little terrifying.

“You totally are. Are you trying to slut-shame me, Mr. Good with Rope and Ridiculous Oral Skills?”

“Absolutely not. I would never call anyone—”

“Don’t think that just because I let you put your dick in me, that you get to pass judgment on what I may or may not have done. I like sex, just like you. And I’ll f*ck whoever or however many people I want, ten-finger rule be damned. Just because society would prefer that I—”

“Harlow. I wasn’t saying that. Ten fingers. It’s all good.”

“Oh.” She searches my face and seems to realize I’m being sincere. Her forehead relaxes. “Good.”

“Good,” I repeat.

“Then what about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“How many fingers do you have left?”

I sit forward and look around, indicating that we are in fact sitting in the middle of a crowded store.

“I don’t think this is the best place to have this conversation, Snap.”

“Well, what else are we going to do? I have twenty minutes to kill, and since we’re no longer banging . . .”

“Yeah,” I say, and lean my head back against the couch. “That plan seemed to make a lot more sense right after we’d actually had sex. I was a little less tense then.”

“Right?” Harlow shifts on the couch, lifting her long bare legs and draping them across my lap.

“And speaking of, sorry I sort of melted down on you last night,” she says, and I feel something tighten in my chest.

Harlow might have been tied up in bungee cords last night, but it was like watching her bloom, and I don’t really want to hear her apologize for it. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so real. In a matter of hours, things went from an easy, uncomplicated way to burn off some steam, to anything but simple. I like Harlow. Deciding we’re not going to sleep together anymore? Fucking sucks.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, and without realizing it, I place my hand on her knee, squeezing it. Her skin is warm beneath my palm and my fingers ache to move, to smooth up and over her thigh, distract us both again.

Fuck.

I move to pull away but she reaches out, taking my hand in hers while she casually studies it.

“No,” she murmurs. “Just saying I’m sorry if I made things weird.”