Page 18 of Dear Hattie

The Harriet of a month ago would never admit such a vulnerable thing to me. We’ve come a long way. I play with her hair, so fond, as she works my pants open and draws out my hard length. “Me too.”

As if the ruddy head and aching hardness didn’t give me away. I buck into her hold with a hiss, legs trembling at the feel of her small, soft palm. Her hand looks so delicate wrapped around my shaft, and I stare down without blinking, committing the sight to memory.

Harriet Fry—touching me. Squeezing and teasing and pumping her fist. Rubbing her thumb across my slit, smearing the bead of moisture gathered there. Touching me like she owns me, because yeah. She does.

“I’m not… uh. Experienced.” Her words are quiet in the padded room, but there’s no doubt in her voice. No fear of rejection, and I’m so fucking pleased about that, because it means we’re past that now. Settled and sure. “So this might suck for the first few times, but you’ll get over it.”

“It won’t suck,” I tell her, bending down to lift her by the thighs. Soft bare legs wrap around my waist, and my undone belt buckle clinks as I lean us against the wall. “That is literally impossible.”

“You say that, but—”

Harriet cuts off with a breathy moan as the first inch pushes inside her. She’s already slick and swollen from where I brought her off with my mouth, her channel fluttering around the intrusion. So hot, so slippery, sogood.

“Literally impossible,” I repeat, gritting the words between my teeth, and then I’m sinking deeper. Sliding home. I kiss her once, twice, my movements made clumsy by the fireworks happening below the belt. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re sinking into pure bliss.

“Mmph,” Harriet says, kissing me desperately as her hips twitch up, coaxing me deeper and deeper anddeeper.

I hold back, muscles straining. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. “Does it hurt? You need to tell me if it hurts.”

But she shakes her head and digs her heels into my ass.

I twitch inside her.

Harriet groans.

Every muscle in my back screams as I draw out, then thrust back in. Out, then back in, and it’s a blur. A hot, sweaty blur of movement and sensation, her body sucking me deeper, my gut twisting with pleasure that feels so sharp, it’s almost painful.

And she’s moaning loud and long, scratching at my shoulders, my back, her hips rocking up to meet my every thrust. Her eyes are half-lidded, and her cheeks are bright red.

So fucking perfect. Harriet Fry is a work of art.

No one else comes close—and she’smine.

When I kiss her hard, she gives as good as she gets. I straighten up and lick the coppery tang of blood off my bottom lip where she nipped it, and we’re so in sync right now, weaving these sensations together. Climbing toward her peak.

Harriet’s breath stutters, and she tightens on me, strangling my shaft—then looks at me with alarm. “Wesley.”

“I’ve got you.” Christ, I’ve never felt anything better than the sweet heat between her thighs. Every muscle in my body burns, but I’d drag this out forever if I could. “You can let go,” I say, balancing her against the wall so I can reach one hand between us. A few circles on her nub, and she locks up and pants through her nose.Yes.“Come for me, Harriet. Show me how it feels.”

She falls apart with the world’s cutest squeak.

And I imagined this so many times, but this unexpected detail is my favorite: the way she trembles and buries her face in my throat; the way her hair tickles my nose as she comes and comes and comes.

I last for two breaths after that. Maybe three.

Then I’m wedging deep inside my girl, and pouring out my whole goddamn soul.

Eleven

Dear Hattie

Dear Hattie,

Congrats on your new column! I heard you set up your own thing, and started a podcast too. So cool. My second cousin from out west used to work for Pretzel Media and she said it was weird as hell. I’m sure glad you’re out of there.

My question is… kinda a funny one. See, I’ve got this boss. He’s a big, gruff, scary-looking fella and everyone says we should steer well clear. That he’snotthe kind of man a good girl should get mixed up with. He’s got these scarred knuckles, and he rides a motorbike, and he did time in prison once and everything. The whole nine yards, you know?

Except my boss says he’s ready to settle down. Ready to find a nice girl. And that he wants to practice his husband skills onme.

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