I kiss her again, once, twice, a dozen times, until she’s laughing and squirming on my lap, which is causing other yearnings to stir in my gut, the animal tendencies she brings out in me. But I suppress them, because there’s still one more thing I need to ask her. As much as it scares me, I can tell I have to ask.
“Will you come to the funeral with me?” I grimace, hating how the words sound. Terrified at the idea of her meeting my family—no, not that. I want her to meet them. But I’m afraid they’ll push her away like they do to me. I’m afraid she’ll take one look at them and think, No way I want to date a guy with parents like this.
But Harper only kisses my cheek and brushes my hair back from my forehead. “Of course, Jack. Whatever you need.”
“That’s a pretty long list,” I warn her.
She squirms in my lap again, as though sensing what’s on the top of that list. “I think I’m up to the challenge.”
I run my hands through her hair, savoring the way it feels in between my fingers. I do that again and again, until I notice her staring at me, wide-eyed and worried. Of course she’s worried. After what I just told her is happening, now I’m . . . How do you even act normal after something like that?
“This feels strange,” I admit. The news must not have sunk in yet. This must be what denial feels like. Not thinking about anything but the beautiful girl in my arms. Not wondering what’s going on at home, with the rest of my family in the wake of what’s happened.
But Harper’s hands are already undoing the zip on my jeans. “Then let me take your mind off of it.”
She slides off my lap to kneel between my legs, and, well, no hot-blooded man could stop her at this point. I let my head fall back as she frees me from the confines of my boxers, her hands hot and soft, so fucking soft, as they cup my shaft, one of her knuckles kneading at the spot underneath, making me suck in a quick gasp of air.
Then her lips envelope me, suck me deep into her mouth, and I’m gone, completely lost to Harper Reed.
Harper
I curl in the passenger seat of Jack’s car and watch the scenery fly past the window while he narrates anything of interest we’re passing. So far it hasn’t been much. A few crumbling towers on distant hills, the history of which he recites for me in great detail. And a whole lot of roundabouts, which reminds me of the time my parents took me to Boston on a vacation and I thought I was about to die every time we had to drive through town.
Who invented this idea, of cars all driving in circles at high speeds, everyone trying to exit at different points? Seems like a terrible way to organize a roadway. Not to mention, British roads are narrow and wrong-sided as it is. Every time we turn onto a new street, I flinch in terror, afraid we’re going up the wrong side of the highway.
Luckily we haven’t made any turns in a while, so I can relax for a stretch. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I’m still pleasantly sore from this morning, waking up to Jack behind me, in the spooning position we fell asleep in, only this time with his early morning excitement in evidence. The way he slid into me from behind, both of us curled on our sides, angled him to stroke my G-spot every time.
I shiver, and he catches my eye with a grin. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
Sometimes I hate how perceptive he is. “Sore,” I admit.
“Good.” His smile widens.
“That’s very mean, you know,” I tell him. “Taking enjoyment in other people’s sore spots.”
“Is it wrong to enjoy the fact that you can still feel me inside of you, hours later?” He flashes a wink before his eyes turn back to the road.
Lucky, because I can feel my face flushing. Though, to be honest, I enjoy it too. This physical reminder of how we connect.
Then my eyes catch something outside the window, and I can’t help gaping for real. “What the heck is that?”
An enormous bronze statue appears alongside the road, like a mythic Roman god, only with wings for arms, spread wide and flashing in the Saturday afternoon sun.
“The Angel of the North,” he says, as if that’s self-explanatory.
“Um, the what?”
“It’s a sculpture. Finished a couple decades ago. It’s supposed to represent the coal miners who worked in this area, and our transition from the industrial city that Newcastle used to be, into the bastion for the arts it is now—or it’s trying to be now, I should say.” He glances sideways at the towering statue, which reminds me of something you’d see in pictures of ancient Egypt, like a sphinx or a goddess overseeing her property. “Personally, it just reminds me how badly this city needs a new hobby. I think we used something like enough steel for sixteen buses in that statue?”