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My breath hitches, overcome with emotions and lost in the hazy afterglow of multiple orgasms. A part of me wants to spout feminist jargon assuring him that my body belongs to me alone, but I’m too blissed out to start an argument and too happy to care.
“Yours?” I quirk an eyebrow and wipe the sweat off my brow, fearing I look like a hot mess.
He nods with confidence. “You heard me. Mine.”
10
Ididn’t mean to move so fast. I didn’t take Harlow out to watch the sunset with the intention of getting under her skirt. It's what I wanted, and I’m thrilled it happened, but my relationship with Harlow is too important to rush.
Says the man who took the first opportunity to sneak his hand into her panties.
I can’t keep thinking about this, but there’s no sense in dwelling on something I can’t change. It’s too late to bring things to a crashing halt and begin again. We made love—sweet love that will live in the forefront of my mind until I’m old and gray, still chasing Harlow around the house with an obnoxious erection.
Baxter was right. Finding the one is equivalent to being struck by lightning. Her big eyes awakened the dormant part of my heart, the one that believed love was for fools who were terrified of dying alone.
I take it back. My limited encounters with anything resembling love turned me into a skeptic. And it took Harlow to make me a believer.
I turn to my side and stare at the clock, wishing I’d convinced Harlow to spend the night. I wasn’t angling for more sex, although I wouldn’t have turned it down. But I was looking forward to curling her into my arms as she slept, listening to her breathe, and waking up to her beautiful face when the sunrise filled my bedroom with light. She politely declined.
Her cats need her, and she wouldn’t feel right spending a whole night away from them.
I understand. Or at least I told Harlow I understood. I would have jumped at the chance to stay at her house, but she, unfortunately, never asked.
I take a deep breath and kick the blanket off my legs, too anxious to sleep and too desperate for Harlow to think. Is she pulling away? Did we do too much too fast that she thinks there’s nowhere for us to go?
My heart races with panic as I imagine her sitting at home, typing details of her life into a dating profile on Tinder. She’s almost half my age, and her generation is much more comfortable hooking up than mine. Was she just looking to shed her virginity with the first man who laid his heart on the line?
No. Harlow’s breathtaking. She probably has a line of men hoping wrapped around the old Mills estate, dying to show her a good time.
I clench my fists and punch the pillow next to me. This won’t stand. I’ll fight for what’s mine. My girl deserves a man who can prove his worth, heap her with non-stop praise, worship the ground she walks on and make her feel like the queen she was born to me.
I spring out of bed and storm into the shower. As much as I want to head to my car and drive like a bat out of hell to Harlow’s, I still smell like sex and sweat. Last night, I couldn’t bear to wash off her scent, but that can be easily remedied today.
I’ll have that girl on her back before noon. Shortly after she brings me to my knees.
An hour later, I’m on my way to Harlow’s house. The sun has risen, and my imagination is still working overtime. I take a sip of coffee from my travel mug, hoping the caffeine will make me refocus my thoughts and calm my nerves. I’m walking on shaky ground, and I need to tread lightly.
Instead of heading straight to her place and frightening her with such an early appearance, I make a U-turn and head to the bakery for a box of pastries. I’m too nervous to eat, but it will be harder for her to turn away someone bearing gifts.
I greet the baker, with a wave and ask her to assemble a box without clear directions. She groans, unsatisfied with my lack of enthusiasm for her hard work, but I’m too wound up to choose muffins over croissants and donuts.
Always efficient, she gets me out of her establishment in less than ten minutes. There’s no time to waste. What girl doesn’t want pastries first thing in the morning? She worked up an appetite last night. I’ll bet she’s ravenous.
Before I arrive, I text her, asking her to open the main gate leading to her house.
Felix: Good morning, Harlow. I missed you. Can you let me in?
I sit in my car, idling near the gate, and wait for her reply. Five minutes pass, and I try to keep my cool. It’s early. Perhaps, she’s in the shower or cooking breakfast. I can’t expect her to jump whenever I come calling.
Ten minutes go by as I stare at a phone screen without any notifications. Five more minutes pass, and I step out of the car to look closer at the front of her house. There’s a truck parked in her garage—a red and white diesel truck hogging most of the driveway.
I check my watch and verify the time. It’s 7:30 and far too early for visitors. Whoever drives that truck more than likely spent the night. Is that why she didn’t want me to stay over? This has to be a mistake.
I type another message, stare at the screen, and hit delete. It would be a mistake to remove the element of surprise. If she’s knocking boots with another man, I should find out before I fall in love.
What am I saying? I slap my forward and thread my fingers through my hair, pulling it roughly to knock some sense into my dense brain. It’s too late. I’m in love with Harlow, and no asshole driving a diesel truck will steal away the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
While I jump to conclusions, I devise a plan to sneak in. The front gate is locked, but with a little push, there’s enough slack to let me through. It isn’t an easy squeeze. For a moment, I fear I won’t be able to push through, and Harlow will find me dangling upside down from my belt later in the day. Once the worst is past me, I race to the front of the house before she spots a crazed lunatic cutting across her grass.
