Page 14 of Harrison's Wedding

She gasps when I reach between us so that I can rub her clit, and when she bites her lip at the pleasure I’m giving her, I think that I might come. I want her to have another orgasm first, though, so I focus on what I’m doing for her.

I stroke her clit until she moans my name in ecstasy and her pussy clamps onto me while her body shakes. I lean down to kiss her, continuing to move in and out until my own orgasm hits, and I groan loudly as I come inside of her. I’m thrilled when her body shakes again as I do, and she moans my name softly.

I collapse onto her, trying to hold my weight as much as I can while I try to catch my breath. I kiss her lips softly before I climb off her and head to the bathroom. I take another shower to quickly clean up before I head back into the bedroom.

Heather is lying where I left her, staring blindly at the ceiling with a smile on her face. I pick our clothes up off the floor and take them with me to the closet. I put Heather’s clothes that she’s been wearing all day in the hamper and pull my clothes back on before I head out to see Heather.

“Have a shower, angel. I’ll get you food,” I tell her as I re-enter the room.

She nods, and I smile at her before I make my way to the kitchen. I pull out a plate and put some crackers, different cheeses, and a small selection of deli meats on it. They’re all things that should give Heather some energy to help her get through to dinner. I get a glass and put some ice in it before pouring cold water into it.

I take the plate and glass to the kitchen bench, set them in front of one of the stools and sit on the one next to it. I’m reading a news article about a political coup in a European country when Heather slides onto the seat next to me.

I turn to look at her as she does, and I frown at her appearance. She’s brushed her hair out and left it loose, and she’s put on some red lipstick. It’s her favorite color to wear. She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a long, blue collared shirt with some blue boots. She does look refreshed and better than before, but she still looks tired. She’s been working herself to the bone on her collection for Fashion Week, and it concerns me.

“Thanks, honey.” She leans over to kiss me on the cheek.

“Any time, angel. I worry about you. You’re working too hard.”

“I know,” she admits. “It’s just until Fashion Week is done; I need everything to be perfect.”

I’m honestly not sure she’s going to make it to September at the rate she’s going, and I can’t wipe the frown from my face as I say, “I’m worried you’re going to collapse from exhaustion before then.”

She finishes her mouthful of food and takes a sip of water before saying, “I’ll take care of myself, Harrison, I promise.”

“I’m glad. If you don’t want to come tonight, you don’t have to,” I offer.

“No, it’ll be good. I haven’t seen the guys in ages, as you said.”

I don’t comment on the fact that she purposely left Ariana out of that statement. Instead, I change the topic and ask her about the designs she was working on today while she finishes eating. When she’s done, I take her plate and glass to rinse off before putting them in the dishwasher, and we head out.

We take an Uber to Sebastian’s high-rise apartment building, which is only about ten minutes from ours. We get in the elevator to go upstairs, and I swipe the key tag Sebastian gave us so we can take it up to his penthouse.

When the doors open, we walk into his entry hall. Music is playing from a sound system near a massive entertainment set-up as we walk into his living room, and Sebastian’s sitting on the sofa with his head leaning against the back of it. His eyes are closed, and he has a glass of what I would bet my bank account is whisky in his hand.

He opens his eyes and smiles at us as we approach him. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Seb,” I say as I drop onto the sofa.

“Hi, darling,” Heather says, giving him a hug before she sits down between us.

“You guys want anything to drink?” he asks.

“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.” I smile at him.

“Sure. Heather?”

“Same, I’m not picky.”

Sebastian puts his glass down on the coffee table, heads over to the bar, and pours us both a drink. He hands them out before he sits down again.

I take a sip, and as I suspected, it’s whisky, and I’m guessing Glenfiddich, but it’s smoother than I’m used to.

“Oh, this is good. What is it?” I ask.

“Forty-year-old Glenfiddich,” he tells me, sounding pleased with my reaction.

“Ah, makes sense. Tasty.” I nod my head.

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