Page 50 of Harper

Bullshit. Sawyer’s not tired. He’s only twenty and always has energy to spare.

If I had to guess, I’d say that Sawyer’s not interested in an anonymous one-night stand. At least three times over the last few days, he’s mentioned someone named Ivy Caswell who works at the King Kone in Skagway. I don’t know her, but apparently, she’s the niece of one of his high school teachers, and used to spend her summers with her uncle. She’s back in Skagway this summer for a job, and from the way Sawyer talks about her, I think my little brother’s got a big, old-fashioned crush.

“I’m gonna grab a slice next door, and then I’m gonna hit the hay,” I tell him.

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Nope. Come on.”

We swing into the Pan of Gold Pizza Shop, each get a few slices warmed up to-go, then head back to our hotel. Sawyer gives me the keycard to my room as we part ways in the lobby.

“Hey, Harper,” he says as I’m walking away.

I turn to face him.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s off with you.” He shrugs. “You’ve been quieter than usual. Don’t seem like yourself.”

“Stuff on my mind, I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Thanks, Sawyer. Get some sleep, huh?”

“Night, Harp,” he says, ambling down the hallway to his room.

Am I okay?

I slide the keycard over the reader and step into my room.

Am I okay?

I set the pizza box down on the bureau and toss my backpack on the bed.

Am I okay?

I lie down on my back and stare up at the ceiling.

No, I think, I’m not remotely okay.

It’s been six days since I left Joe’s house the morning after our “one night.”

Six days, during which I’ve thought of him in every quiet moment, remembering every touch, every look, every mind-scrambling, heart-stopping orgasm, every touch of his fingers, every swipe of his tongue, every whispered word of love as hemoved inside of me, our fingers braided together, our skin slick with sweat.

We barely made it inside his house before round one—quick and dirty, with his pants around his knees and my panties ripped in half—against the back of his front door. We needed no foreplay, no petting, no preparation. It was urgent and animalistic. Frantic and rushed. He came quickly. I didn’t come at all, but I didn’t care either. I savored being connected to him, the feeling of him filling me, his grunts and my moans, the guttural call of his orgasm, and the long sigh of breath against my neck as he came back down to earth.

I’d been deprived of Joe for a third of my life.

I’d missed him fiercely, and if all I had for the rest of my life was this one night, then I wanted it all. Every second we were stealing was precious to me.

As we showered together soon after, he’d turned me to face the wall, planting his palms over mine. With my breasts flush against the glistening tiles and his strong arm around my waist, his cock had filled me from behind, bigger and thicker than I remembered it. Sliding his other hand around my body, he’d found the pebbled nub of nerves hidden inside my pussy folds, circling it with his slick middle finger until I’d shattered in his arms. Only then did he groan his own relief.

He’d washed me slowly and reverently, touching every plain and every crevasse, before carrying me to the side of his bed. As I stood like a goddess in the lavender haze of midnight sun streaming through the windows, he’d dried my body with a soft towel, then leaned me back on the bed and kneeled between my legs. After placing my legs over his shoulders, he’d buried his face between my thighs.

Joe had learned a few things in the years we’d been apart—he’d always been good with his tongue, but a decade of experience had made him more confident. He’d licked andsucked, kissed and lapped at the tender, sensitive bud of my sex. Writhing beneath him, I whimpered, then moaned, then cried out his name. My back had arched off the bed as fireworks flashed behind my eyes. With my hands fisted in his wild, black hair, I’d come against his mouth in wave after wave of unimaginable pleasure.

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