But before either of us can move, we hear the sound of wheels crunching on gravel, loud and far too close.
Shit. One of the houses has a driveway alongside it. Down which a compact car is slowly meandering.
Harper dives for her sweater while I fumble with the clasp of my jeans, both of us barely managing to cover ourselves decently before we hear car doors slamming, and the voice of a man and woman arguing, just on the other side of the bush behind which we’re crouching.
Our gazes meet, which is a bad idea, as neither one of us is able to stop grinning. Soon we’re both shaking with silent laughter, which turns into loud, real laughter the moment we hear the house door slam.
We grab the rest of our things, and as we stride across the grass toward the town, my hand catches hers, intertwines her small, delicate fingers between my strong ones.
I can’t remember ever feeling quite like this. The buzz of happiness between my ears, the skip in my chest when she glances over her shoulder at me, winking, as we pass the house where we narrowly escaped detection.
What is she doing to me?
#
We settle into a booth at a quiet little Italian restaurant. She orders the carbonara, and I get spaghetti, though by halfway through the meal, we’ve traded so many bites we might as well have just shared both dinners.
Under the table, I brush my hand over her knees, tickle the inside of her thighs just enough to make her glare and kick me in the shins. Her look says, Stop it, but the way she squirms in her seat makes me think she doesn’t mind so very much.
“You still owe me, you know,” I tell her as she accepts a bite of meatball from the tines of my fork. I love the way her lips close around the metal. I can still feel them wrapped around my cock, taking every inch I gave her.
“Owe you what?” She lifts an eyebrow.
“You promised to read me one of your poems.”
Those beautiful blue eyes of hers narrow to slits. “You weren’t serious.”
“Oh, but I was. Come on, now’s as good a time as any.” I rap the table with one knuckle. “Let’s hear one.”
She’s silent for a long moment, clearly weighing her options.
“I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” I add with a grin, which seems to tip the scales in my favor.
She sighs, but she reaches into her bag for the notepad I spotted in there earlier today, all the same. “You have to promise not to judge me too harshly,” she says. “Or at least lie to me if you think it totally sucks.”
“I can promise no such thing. But I can’t imagine anything you write would turn out badly.”
I lean back in my seat, at just the right angle to press my leg against hers, and close my eyes to listen. She reads beautifully, the words flowing from her lips as easily as a conversation. Not everyone can read poetry, even if they write it well—and write it, she can. Her words, her phrasing, her cadence all have a unique flow to them, a pattern that’s at once lovely, arresting, and so very Harper.
She finishes the poem all too soon, and I keep my eyes shut for another moment, just letting the meaning sink in, savoring the experience.
When I open my eyes once more, she has hers closed, her mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. “Okay, out with it,” she says. “Get the criticism over with first.”
I laugh, softly, unable to help myself. That only makes her wince harder. “Harper.” I reach across the table to rest my hand on hers, and just the touch of her skin to mine feels like a flint striking fire. “You are incredibly talented.”
Those baby blues snap open, full of disbelief. “You’re just saying that to get into my pants.”
I snort. “Clearly I don’t need any such help to get inside your pants.” My hand flexes around hers, draws her arm across the table so I can trace my fingertips up the inside of her wrist. She shivers, which makes me smile. “But you don’t need my reassurance, either. You’re too good not to already know it.”
Her cheeks flush, for a very different reason than they did earlier today. I enjoy it just as much. “I guess I know I don’t suck,” she admits. “I’m still allowed to think you’re just saying it, though,” she adds, stubborn as ever.
“This is my job, Harper. I’ve read enough shitty poetry, and enough stellar work, in my time to know when someone has it and when they don’t. You’ve got it, in spades.” I trail my fingernail along her veins, just to make her shiver again. “Now, your assignment, Ms. Reed, is to not let all that talent go to waste. I expect you to write something new every week, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming on inspirational trips every weekend.”