Page 23 of Tanner

My hips grind against his thigh as I look for the friction I so desperately seek. His fingers skim down the side of my body and shimmy between us to settle over my core.

As his hand moves in vicious circles, my body comes alive. And, when he slides two fingers inside, I swear, I’m done for. I moan with a cry that comes from deep within my belly.

“Tanner,” I beg.

He kisses me again and then holds it as he works me into a frenzy. I have to release the kiss as I gasp. I’m so close, and it feels dangerous.

My hand wraps around his shaft, and I watch his eyes close in pure passion as I pump the hard steel up and down. It’s thick and throbbing, and I need it inside me. Desperation is seeping through me, yet what we’re doing is too erotic, too powerful … and I don’t want to stop.

I’m stroking him on the outside. He’s stroking me on the inside.

It’s foreplay, and yet it’s the home run.

This man can caress me so intimately, caressing me with his kisses and touches, loving me with his glances and words.

I come apart at the seams.

With ragged breaths, I clench around him and experience a climax beyond my wildest dreams. He is right behind me, spilling out onto my belly.

There’s no rush to leave. No need to abandon where we are. Our mouths are once again intertwined as he softly kisses me and wraps his hands around my body. And that’s how we stay.

A man and a woman on a bed of pillows on the floor, covered in smeared paint … kissing until the feelings of pleasure lull us to sleep.

6

TANNER

The sun pours through the exposed windows, hitting me square in the face. I lift a hand to block out the light. It does no use, so I roll over.

Last night’s memories come back full force—Harper’s fluttering eyes after I kissed her in the bar, the shocked expression on her face when I let her follow me onto the subway, the laughter at the club, that wild look in her eyes when she was unleashing herself on the canvas, and the way her body went limp after she fell apart from the stroke of my hand.

Last night was unexpected, to say the least.

I look down to see the sheets covered in paint, as is my body, which is buck naked.

“Harper,” I call out.

If she showered without me, I’ll be disappointed. I’d love to see what all that color looks like when dripping off her body.

We kissed for what felt like hours last night. My cock was so close to her, so ready to take her on the floor and fuck the night away, but we didn’t. She didn’t push for more, and I didn’t take it.

And it was erotic as hell.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes as I grab boxers off the ground and slide them on.

“Harper?” I ask again, standing up and fixing my hair so that it’s not falling in my face. I walk through the studio—to the kitchen and then to the bathroom.

She’s gone.

I look around the room for a note. There isn’t one. I stretch out my arms and feel a tug in my chest. I’ve had one-night stands with women, but I’ve never left without a goodbye. It’s called common fucking courtesy. I didn’t take Harper as that type of girl who tiptoes out in the night.

Annoyance climbs up my spine and grips my stomach. Anger and hurt go ten rounds in my veins, and I’m about to punch the wall to rid this foreign feeling when I turn to see the painting she created up against the wall.

The red and purple are boldly displayed on the sheet from when Harper went wild on it. The only difference between how it looked last night and this morning are the words Thank you written in black paint across the entire piece.

No phone number. No last name. Just a thank you.

I think of all the times I’ve listened to my friends who’ve bailed on women in the middle of the night. I never understood how they could be so crass, yet here I am, the one who was ghosted.