Page 76 of Never Been Worse

Wes needs to let me fall.

“God, my little wife is such a good girl, isn’t she? Waiting for me to let her come,” he croons from behind me.

“Wes,” I whisper, unable to say any other word.

“Remember that name, baby. Scream it when you come.”

And then he’s fucking me fast and hard, his thumb rolling over my rolling over my clit as he does, and I’m falling, calling out his name as I do. His arm keeps me from falling to the ground as the pleasure pummels me, washing over me and leaving me what feels like a new person and basking in the aftershocks of my orgasm.

We sit there, panting for long minutes as I try and come back to my body, Wes’s fingers having slid out of me, his hands lifted and rearranged me at some point so I’m on his lap, limp and content, nuzzling into his neck.

Then his phone goes off, and he groans. “I hate to do this,” he says, voice low and filled with genuine regret. “But I’ve gotta get going to Riggs’s.”

“What about you?” I say, then blush because God, could Ibeless cool?

He looks at me, smiling wide and devious as he helps us stand, making sure my legs are settled before he presses his lips to mine, kissing me hard and deep.

Like a promise.

“When I come, it’s going to be inside you, Harper. But we don’t have time for me to do that right now, so it’s going to have to wait.” I pout—I actuallypoutat that—and he laughs, shifting and holding my chin in his hand, forcing his eyes to me.

“I won’t be home until late.” I nod, already knowing this to be the case. “Thank you,” he says against my lips.

“Thankme?” I say, aghast. “I’m the one who came so hard I saw stars.”

His smile goes wide and boyish and proud. “And I promise you, I enjoyed it more than you could ever imagine.” Then he steps back and slaps my ass before grabbing my hand. “Come on. Upstairs. I gotta go.”

TWENTY-NINE

HARPER

Jeremy

You need to come get your things.

The text comes before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee, before Wes has been able to convince me to roll out of our warm bed, so I see it while I’m still lying on his chest, my hand ungracefully batting at the side table to grab my phone. Then I’m squinting at the screen with half confusion, half all-consuming irritation.

It’s been nearly two months since we broke up, and he’s justnowasking me to get the few things I left at his house? Most of which I’ve already replaced or forgotten about, so unwilling to talk to the man who fucked me over, I decided they just didn’t matter enough.

“Is it from him?” Wes asks, looking at my phone over my shoulder, his voice a soothing, deep rumble against me. I’ve read that the purring of a cat has been proven to ease anxiety, but I think they should do a study on Wes’s morning voice because some of my irritation eases just with those words. “I wasn’t looking, but you got all tight and annoyed, so—” he starts to explain, but I shake my head, quickly putting him at ease.

“It’s fine. I have nothing to hide from you. But yeah. It’s him. He wants me to pick up my things.”

“You have stuff at his house?” I shrug.

“I grabbed what I wanted most when I left and found it wasn’t that much. I replaced a lot of things when I left because it wasn’t worth dealing with him to get it.”

Wes shrugs behind me. “Then tell him to toss it. If none of it has sentimental value and can’t be replaced, tell him to go fuck himself.”

Another message comes in, a photo of a beat-up brown box on the kitchen table piled high with my things, and then another text.

Leave your key when you leave. I’ll be gone until five today. If anything else is missing, I will be filing a police report.

My molars grind when another comes through.

I don’t think they’ll let you off so easily a second time.

I prepare to tell him to go fuck himself as Wes suggested when something catches my eye in the box.

---