Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(42)

If I close my eyes I can still feel the press of Harlow’s thigh against mine, the heat that radiated through the denim, the brush of her hair when she reached across me. I fill my lungs and huff out a breath, letting my mind go and conjuring up every dirty, lewd thought I’ve been trying to tamp down since we decided to just be friends.

I imagine things having gone a little differently tonight. That I went to the bar to get a drink and she followed, telling me to meet her in the bathroom. Maybe I f*cked her in the stall, from behind with her legs spread wide, both her hands trapped in one of mine. I could spank her like that, just enough to see my handprint bloom across her skin and make her so wet it gets all over her, all over me.

Sweat pricks at my forehead and down my back. My shirt clings to my skin and so I pull it off, dropping it at my feet. The sound of my hand on my cock is obscene, the frantic clink of my belt in the otherwise still house. Somehow, it makes me harder, pre-come dribbling from the tip to help with the drag, leaving my hand slick.

I think of the last time we f*cked and how amazing she looked all tied up, how much she wanted it.

Did the cords leave a mark, a gentle abrasion on her skin that was there even after I was gone? I wonder if she’d press on them, make it hurt just enough to remind her of what we did, how it felt to be bound and just knowing that I would take care of her.

I’m almost blindsided when it happens, and I come with a choked-off sound, biting my lip to stay quiet as a Novocain numbness spreads heavy over my body. I work through the last of my orgasm, skin slippery as I slide over it in slow, lazy strokes. I manage to reach for my shirt and wipe off my hand before I cross the last three steps and fall, face-first, onto the bed.

I don’t open my eyes again until morning.





Chapter NINE


Harlow


I’M IN A bad way, hard up, losing my mind—and I’m not even bothering with denial. Being near Finn—even when he’s being a complete jackass like he was at dinner tonight—obliterates any other worry, and being trapped with him in that truck made me nearly lose my mind. I could smell his soap, the clean smell of his sweat. I could feel his eyes on me the entire drive, flickering up again and again in the rearview mirror.

After he drops me off, I get myself off on my couch, thinking about our night together in this very spot, before falling asleep half dressed. After all, there is no Finn here to carry me in a boneless heap to my bed and spoon me all night like a champ.

In the morning, I break routine for the second time in two weeks and head to the Starbucks where I ran into Finn his first day back in town. Spoiler alert: he’s not there.

And now, I’m standing outside Downtown Graffick, hoping Finn is spending the morning here with Oliver. Unfortunately, through the front windows, I can see Oliver at the counter, but no Finn.

Dammit. I should have just gone to their house in Pacific Beach to see him since I’m clearly past the point of pride. But what am I expecting? That somehow between last week and now, our situation has become convenient for a relationship? He lives in Canada. I’m in San Diego. My mother is undergoing aggressive cancer treatment and his family business is going under unless he signs on for a glossy reality television show that stipulates he can’t have a girlfriend.

But all of the other obstacles—the ones I thought were meaningful only weeks ago, including our tendency to bicker and his bossy male act—don’t seem that relevant anymore. We’ve softened together, found some sort of easy peace. Plus, I like his kinky little rope thing. I like the fact that working with his hands, and rope, is so ingrained in his history that it makes him wild to pull me into that world, too, literally wrapping me up in it.

Oliver looks out the window and spots me, waving for me to come inside. Now I’ll have to go in and pretend I’m really looking for Lorelei because why else would I be at a comic book store? I’ve been friends with Lola long enough to hold my own with basic pop culture references, but Oliver knows the only reason I can differentiate Hellboy from Abe Sapien is because of Lola’s T-shirt collection. I take a deep, confidence-building breath: if I’m here, I’m obviously here looking for her.

The little bell rings when I push through the door. “There you are, Lola!”

Lola looks up from where she’s reading in the front nook, and just laughs. Oliver hands a customer some change and thanks them, before looking up at me. “He’s in L.A. today.”

“Grah,” I mutter. “Busted.” My pulse accelerates thinking about Finn going alone to Los Angeles to meet with the big television executives. He’s got better life instincts than most people I know, but I feel a halfhearted spike of irritation that he didn’t ask me to come along for moral support.

Ugh, I’m in a bad way. Hard up.

Losing my mind.

“Don’t you work today?” Lola asks.

“No,” I tell her, slumping down on the chair next to hers. “I changed my schedule because Mom starts chemo today, but then Dad told me to come see her tomorrow instead.”

“What do you even do, Chandler Bing?” Oliver asks, laughing.

I look up, startled. I didn’t realize he could hear us, and for a beat I’m panicked because I mentioned Mom’s chemo. But Oliver doesn’t look even a little surprised. Either he didn’t hear that part, or Lola’s already told him and he knows he’s not allowed to ask me about it.