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“No, we are not. We’re nothing like them.” I stop him. I don’t want anyone else getting into his head, not tonight.
Hardin doesn’t look convinced, but I force myself not to focus on that right now.
“What do you want me to do about your dad? Kick him out?” he asks. He moves to sit on the bed with his back against the headboard while I grab his dirty jeans and socks from the floor. Hardin’s arms lift to rest behind his head, fully displaying his toned, inked body.
“No, don’t kick him out. Please.” I crawl into bed, and he pulls me onto his lap.
“I won’t,” he assures me. “Not tonight, at least.” I look up for a smile, but there isn’t one.
“I’m so confused,” I groan into his chest.
“I can help with that.” He lifts his pelvis, and l’m forced forward, using my palms to steady myself against his exposed chest.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you can. Every problem looks like a nail when your first tool of choice is a hammer.”
He smiles wickedly. “Are you saying you need to get nailed?”
Before I can bemoan his bad joke, he takes my chin between his long, busted fingers, and I find myself shifting my hips, rubbing against him. I’m vaguely aware of my period; I know Hardin certainly doesn’t mind it.
“You need sleep, baby; it would be wrong to fuck you right now,” he says softly.
I shamelessly pout. “No, it wouldn’t,” I say and slide my palms down his stomach.
“Oh no, you don’t.” He stops me.
I need a distraction, and Hardin is the perfect fix. “You started it,” I whine. I sound desperate, because I am.
“I know, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll take you in the car tomorrow.” His fingers slip under the sweatshirt and begin to draw unknown shapes across my bare back. “And if you’re a good girl, I’ll even bend you over the desk at my father’s house, just the way you like,” he says into my ear.
My breathing hitches, and I playfully swat at him, and he laughs. His laugh is almost as distracting as sex would be. Almost.
“Besides, we don’t want to make a mess in here tonight, do we? With your father out there? He’ll probably see the blood on the sheets and assume I’ve killed you.” He bites the inside of his cheek.
“Do not start that,” I warn him. His cheesy menstrual jokes are not welcome right now.
“Ahh, baby, don’t be like that.” He pinches my behind, and I yelp, sliding further into his lap, “Go with the flow.” He grins.
“You’ve used that one before.” I smile back.
“Well, excuse me for not being original. I like to recycle my jokes about once a month.”
I groan and try to roll off him, but he stops me and nuzzles my neck.
“You’re disgusting,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m just an old bloody rag, I suppose.” He laughs and presses his lips to mine.
I roll my eyes. “Speaking of bloody rags, let me see your hand.” I reach behind my back and gently grab him by the wrist. His middle finger is the worst, a thick gash spreads from knuckle to knuckle. “You should get this looked at, if it doesn’t begin to heal tomorrow.”
“I’m fine.”
“This one, too.” I run the pad of my index finger over the mangled skin on his ring finger.
“Stop fussing, woman, go to sleep,” he grumbles.
I nod in agreement and drift off to the sound of him complaining about my father eating his Frosted Flakes again.
Chapter one hundred and twenty-five
TESSA
I lay in bed for over two hours, waiting patiently for Hardin to wake up, before I gave up. By the time I’ve showered and am fully dressed, the kitchen is cleaned, and I’ve taken two ibuprofen to get rid of my cramps and massive headache. I make my way back to the bedroom to wake him up myself.
I gently shake his arm and whisper his name. It doesn’t work.
“Hardin, wake up.” I roughly grip his shoulder and recoil when the vision of my mother ripping my father’s slumbering body off of the couch flashes into my mind. All morning I’ve been avoiding thoughts of my mother and the heartbreaking history lesson I was given last night. My father is still asleep; I imagine that her short visit has worn him out as well.
“No,” he grumbles sleepily.
“If you won’t get up, then I’ll be going to your father’s house alone,” I say, slipping my feet into my flat shoes. I have many pairs of Toms, but I always find myself wearing the tan crocheted ones the most. Hardin calls them “hideous moccasins,” but I love the comfortable shoes.
He groans and rolls over onto his stomach, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His eyes are still closed when he turns his head to me. “No, you won’t.”
I knew he wouldn’t like that idea, which is precisely why I used it to get his behind out of the bed.
“Get up, then. I’ve already showered and everything,” I whine. I’m anxious to get to Landon’s house and see him, Ken, and Karen again. It feels like ages since I last saw that sweet woman in the strawberry-print apron that she hardly ever removes.
“Dammit.” Hardin pouts, opening one eye. I stifle a giggle at the lazy expression covering his face. I’m tired, too, mentally and physically drained, but the idea of getting out of this apartment for the day has perked me up tremendously.
“Come here first.” He opens the other eye and reaches out for me. The moment I’m beside him on the bed, he rolls his heavy body on top of mine, encasing me in his warmth. He purposely rubs his hardness against me, grinding his hips until he’s perfectly nestled between my thighs, his morning erection pressing torturously into me.
