Harlan Coben Novels & Stories

The dim bar in Berlin's outskirts hummed with low chatter and clinking glasses. Coby Harlan, 42 now, nursed a whiskey at the corner table, his broad shoulders hunched under a worn leather jacket. Retirement had not softened him, scars from old wounds pulled tight across his knuckles, and his buzzed hair showed flecks of gray. Ten years since that botched op in Kabul, the one that cost lives and shattered his world. He came here on a whim, chasing ghosts, not expecting to find one staring back.

'There was a sudden deem lights, Phelan remembers someone, who was Don Carlton telling her to go lay down and rest. She tried to refuse, but he was too strong, and she was unable to stop him. It was so sudden that Don stood, watching Phelan in a distant approached her in a smile that shed some lights in the deem lights that came from the window. A meter from Phelan, Don put his hands on her shoulders, and then made an excuse and left.

"I wondered if you'd actually come." "Where's the senator?" Cole said. "Safe. Comfortable even." Harlan turned then. His face was unremarkable up close. The face of a man who'd spent decades being underestimated. He looked at me with mild interest. "You must be the complication." "Ashton Irwin," I said. "I know who you are." His eyes moved back to Cole. "I didn't expect you to bring him." "I'm full of surprises." Harlan smiled. It didn't reach anything. "Sit down, both of you."

She said, laughing, “I’m sure we will talk about it. There are lots of things I need to ask you Ichabod, like the last time, you said you know a lot about double personalities, and then you said you were in my room last night that you thought someone was in and...” “Oh, about that...there was no one and....” “The thing is, Ichabod.” Haromy said, looking at him sternly. “I think someone comes to my room every night and that is why I hired you. I need to catch that person!”

I walked past the gray suit and pushed the heavy, dark wood doors open, stepping into a library lined with thousands of leather books that stretched all the way to the high ceiling. A large fire crackled in the hearth, throwing orange shadows across a desk the size of a small car. Harlan Vaughn sat behind the desk, his shock of white hair contrasting sharply with his granite-colored skin. “So,” Harlan said, his voice rough and deep. “You are the designer my son is suddenly introducing to the board.” “I am Meghan Cole, sir,” I said, keeping my hands clasped tightly behind my back so he couldn’t see the way my fingers were locking together with tension.

His thumb finds my clit and circles it while he moves inside me. The double attention of Brennan using my tits, and Liam deep in my pussy is making my body arch against the cuffs. Harlan watches from beside the bench with his rms crossed. He’s watching his two officers fuck an inmate on a holding cell bench and his expression hasn’t changed from the cold composure he walked in with. Something about his stillness while chaos happens around him makes him the most dangerous man in this room. Brennan pulls away from my tits and Harlan takes his place, but not on my chest. He straddles the bench above my head and tilts my face back and pushes his cock into my mouth upside down.

The glittering lights of Boston speckle the passenger side's window as Harlan drives me downtown to the hotel that is hosting the event. Harlan is perfectly pleasant during the ride, a step up from his usual brooding self. The man even smiles while I talk, filling me in on his relief of getting the publication sent out, how excited he is to see his colleagues tonight, and how he is happy to finally be sleeping again. It is a relief seeing him like this; any reminders that the man is an actual human are much appreciated.

Natalia: The hotel room was still warm from the morning sun, the faint hum of the city below spilling in through the half-drawn curtains. I sat at the edge of the bed, legs curled under me, still wrapped in one of Nolan’s shirts. It was too big on me, the sleeves hung past my hands, the fabric soft against my skin, and yet somehow, it felt right. He was sitting opposite me, his hair still damp from a shower, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips as he watched me stir the coffee he’d brought from the lobby.