Page 20 of Wicked

“Harper.” I groan. Look elsewhere.

“Behave, Ryker. Everything isn’t about the next lay, the next copulation. Show some respect.”

This girl is quiet strength and restrained fire. I can’t decide whether I should walk away—she’s trouble, I’m certain—or jump feet first into her flames. I’m curious to know who Harper Garrix is beyond the black clothes, the kids she hangs with, and this “complicated” Shephard friend.

I glance at the bed. Return my attention to her. I can do this. Sweet Jesus, I have restraint and can respect the boundaries Harper set forth.

I yank my shirt over my head. Pull at the button of my jeans. Drag the zipper down. Take off my pants. Her eyes don’t widen in surprise at seeing the thick outline of my erection under my boxers.

She doesn’t lick her lips in anticipation of taking my dick in her mouth. Doesn’t smile coyly at me or crook her finger for me to come closer. That she wants a taste of me, from my mouth to my . . . cock.

Instead, she lifts her chin and crawls under the covers. What the? Is seeing a man’s erect junk an everyday occurrence for her? I’m on fire down there, hot with desire, and she doesn’t spare my wide shoulders, broad chest, chiseled abs, and thick thighs a robust checking out? Not to mention, she isn’t begging to touch my cock or insisting to go down on me.

I slide under the covers, and this strange feeling settles on my chest. What the hell is it? I think hard. Finally, I put my finger on what it is. Harper’s rejection of the temptation of my body is . . . humbling.

My randy beast not so randy, I scoot close. My chest presses up against her back. My legs nudge the back of hers. Every fiber of her body stills, and thick silence envelopes the room.

Did I do something wrong?

“Harper?”

I don’t breathe or make a move.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what?”

“Get so close.”

“But at the skating rink, you let me put my arms around you.” I’m confused as all get out.

“I could see you. Like this, I’m vulnerable. Please, move.”

Vulnerable. That’s a strong word.

I edge back. If I wasn’t a douchebag, my feelings would be stomped on. But my heart is made of steel and protected by steel armor.

“I’m sorry, Harper.”

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling with an arm tucked under my head. The silence stretches on. When she speaks again, her voice is soft.

“I should be the one apologizing for giving you mixed messages. I asked you to comfort me, and when you did, I pushed you away and made you feel like crap. I’m sorry, Ryker.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Why wouldn’t you be all sorts of mixed up after losing your father?”

I could see you. Like this, I’m vulnerable.

What shithead hurt her? Or was there more than one? What did they do to make her feel less than safe around a guy?

“Ryker?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you hold me again if I can look at you?”

I don’t hesitate. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll lose my chance to prove she can be all sorts of vulnerable when around me.

“Anything for you, Harper.”

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