Chapter Five: His Place

Three more dinners. Two weeks of texts that were short and direct and made her stomach flip every time her phone buzzed. Harlan didn't flirt. He stated things. *I'm thinking about you. I don't do that often.* Or: *You wore your hair down today. I noticed.* Or, at midnight on a Tuesday: *Are you writing?*

She was always writing. Or trying to.

On the third dinner, he drove her to his place. Not a penthouse. Not what she expected. A brownstone on Holloway Street, three stories, brick, ivy on the front. Old. The kind of old that had character, not decay. The inside was clean and sparse. Hardwood floors, white walls, furniture that looked expensive but felt like it had been chosen by someone who didn't care about furniture. A kitchen that had never been used. A living room with one couch and a stack of books on architecture.

"Your place is very you," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"Big. Clean. Slightly intimidating."

He poured wine. Red. He handed her the glass and stood close. Too close. The kind of close that said I'm about to do something and I'm giving you time to stop me.

She didn't stop him.

His hand came up. Fingers on her jaw. Tilting her face. His palm was warm, that same too-warm warmth she'd felt when their fingers touched at the coffee shop. He looked at her mouth. Then her eyes. Then her mouth again.

"I've been thinking about this," he said.

"For how long?"

"Since you handed me a coffee and said trust me."

She laughed, soft, against his thumb. "I said trust me about the oat milk latte. That was Dane."

Something moved behind his eyes. A flash. Green to gold and back so fast she thought she imagined it. "I know."

He kissed her.

Not gentle. Not soft. Harlan kissed the way he did everything: like he'd already decided. His mouth on hers, firm, certain. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers in her hair, gripping just tight enough to hold her still while his tongue found hers. He tasted like red wine and heat.

She put her hands on his chest. His heart was hammering. Steady and hard, like a fist against a door. She could feel the warmth of him through his shirt, through her palms, like he was running a fever.

"Upstairs," he said against her mouth.

"OK."

The bedroom was the same as the rest of the house. Clean. Sparse. A big bed with grey sheets. Windows that looked out on a garden she couldn't see in the dark. He closed the door and the room got smaller.

He pulled her shirt over her head. Dropped it. His eyes went to her body and stayed there. She was in a black bra, nothing fancy, but the way he looked at her made her feel like she was wearing something that cost a thousand dollars. His gaze moved over her like hands.

"You're beautiful." He said it flatly. Like a fact. Like the weather.

"Harlan."

"Shh." He unhooked her bra. One hand. No fumbling. He'd done this before. A lot. But the way he looked at her when the bra fell, the way his breath caught, it felt like the first time he'd seen skin.

He put his mouth on her. Lips on her collarbone, her chest, the curve of her breast. His tongue found her nipple and she gasped. His mouth was hot. Hotter than it should have been. Like he was running ten degrees above normal. His tongue circled, then he sucked, gentle at first, then harder, pulling her nipple into his mouth until her back arched off the bed.

"God."

"Not yet." He moved to the other breast. His hand found the first one, thumb rolling the wet nipple while his mouth worked the other. She could feel the heat of his palm, the roughness of his thumb. Her hips moved on their own, pressing up, looking for friction that wasn't there yet.

He kissed down her stomach. Slow. His hands on her hips, holding her down when she tried to press up into his mouth. He was strong. Stronger than he looked, and he looked strong. His grip on her hips was iron. She couldn't move.

"Stay still," he said against her skin, just above the waistband of her jeans.

"I can't."

"You can."

He unbuttoned her jeans. Pulled them down, slow, taking her underwear with them. She was bare on his grey sheets and he was still fully dressed and the imbalance of it, the vulnerability, made her pulse kick.

He looked at her. All of her. His eyes tracked from her face to her breasts to her stomach to between her legs and he stayed there, looking, and she felt herself flush from her chest to her hairline.

"Harlan, if you just stare at me I'm going to."

His mouth was on her before she finished the sentence.

No warning. No buildup. His tongue found her clit and pressed flat against it and she broke off into a sound that wasn't a word. He worked her slow at first. Broad strokes, his tongue flat and wide, covering her. Then he focused. The tip of his tongue circling her clit, tight, precise, while his hands held her thighs apart. She tried to close her legs. She couldn't. His grip was too strong. He held her open and ate her like he had all night.

She didn't have all night. She had about two minutes.

"Harlan. Harlan, I'm."

He slid a finger inside her. One thick finger, curling up, pressing against the front wall while his tongue kept working her clit. She felt her body tighten around him. His finger was hot inside her, so hot, and he curled it again and she came with her hand fisted in his hair and her back bowed off the bed.

He didn't stop. He worked her through it, slowing his tongue, easing his finger in and out while she shook. When she stilled, he kissed her inner thigh and looked up at her. His chin was wet. His eyes were gold.

Gold.

She blinked. Green again. She must have imagined it.

"Condom?" she managed.

"Nightstand."

She reached. He caught her wrist. Held it.

"My turn first." He stood. Pulled his shirt over his head.

His body was lean and cut, the kind of muscle that came from genetics and something else. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, his chest defined. And on his back, running from his left shoulder blade to his hip, was a scar. Thick. Old. Pink and white, like something had raked four lines down his back and the skin had healed around the memory.

"What happened to your back?"

He turned, hiding it. "Old injury."

"Old how?"

"Very old." He unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled them down. He was hard. Big. Not exaggerated, not impossible, but big enough that she felt her body react, a clench between her legs that was anticipation and a little bit of fear. Thick. The head flushed dark, the shaft veined, curving slightly upward. He was proportionate to his frame, which meant more than she was used to.

He rolled the condom on. Came back to the bed. Hovered over her. His forearms on either side of her head. His face close. Those eyes, green, watching her.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"It won't be."

"It might."

"Then I'll tell you."

He kissed her. She tasted herself on his tongue. He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was wet. Wet from his mouth, wet from coming, wet from wanting. He pushed in.

Slow. Inch by inch. He took his time. She felt herself stretching around him, adjusting, her body opening to accommodate his thickness. He filled her and kept filling her, the curve of his cock pressing against her front wall in a way that made her gasp against his mouth.

"OK?" he asked.

"More."

He gave her more. Deeper. His hips pressed flush against hers and he held there, buried inside her, and she could feel his heartbeat through his cock. That fast, steady, hammering pulse. His body was so warm. She felt like she was lying next to a furnace.

He started to move. Long strokes. Pulling almost all the way out, then pushing back in deep. Each thrust pressed his pelvis against her clit and sent a shock through her whole body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he groaned. Low. Chest-deep. A sound that was almost a growl.

"Fuck, Josie."

"Harder."

He went harder. His hips snapped forward, driving into her, the bed frame hitting the wall. She grabbed the headboard. The impact of each thrust shook through her, her breasts bouncing, her body sliding on the sheets. He caught her hands, pinned them above her head, one big hand wrapping both her wrists. He held her down and fucked her and she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but take it.

"Say it," he said. His voice was rough. "Say you're mine."

Her mouth opened. She almost. Almost. But something stopped her. That dream. That feeling. That warning bell that said some words are doors and once you walk through them you can't come back.

"Don't," she whispered.

His rhythm stuttered. He groaned. Dropped his head to her shoulder. His breath was hot on her neck, too hot, almost burning. She felt his teeth. Not a bite. A press. His canines against her shoulder, pressing down, not breaking skin, but there. Sharp. Sharper than they should have been.

He came with a shudder. His whole body locked, every muscle rigid, and he drove deep and held. She felt him pulse inside her, the condom filling, and his heat was so intense she felt it through the latex. She came again, just from the pressure of him buried inside her and the weight of his body and the feeling of his teeth on her shoulder, not breaking skin, just holding.

He stayed inside her for a long time. Breathing. His breath slowing. His body cooling, degree by degree, back toward something approaching normal.

He lifted his head. His eyes were green. Steady. But his jaw was tight, like he was clenching something back.

"You didn't say it," he said.

"Say what?"

He pulled out. Rolled away. Disposed of the condom. He came back to bed and lay beside her, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Nothing," he said. "It was nothing."

She curled against his side. His skin was warm. Comforting, now, in the aftermath. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.

"Harlan."

"Hmm."

"Your back. That scar. It looks like claw marks."

He was quiet for a long time. "It is."

"From what?"

"Something old." He kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep, Josie."

She didn't go to sleep. She lay there against his chest and thought about gold eyes and teeth that were too sharp and a scar that looked like something with claws had tried to open him up.

On his nightstand, his phone lit up. A text. She couldn't read it from where she lay, but she saw the name on the screen.

Dane K.

*Well?*