Strings Attached

Harrison was just that kind of man. He would have done it for any friend.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Incredible. My room will get hot, so I’ll need some fans…and also a couple of bookcases and a million other things I don’t want to think about, but it’s mine, Harrison. It’s where I’ll teach. I can’t get over it. That I’m a teacher. And most everyone was really nice. I’m clearly the baby on campus, but I mostly don’t even care about that. Oh, I rearranged the desks and hung stuff up and—why are you smiling like that?”

“I like to see you happy. You’re so passionate and take so much joy in things. It’s contagious. My heart’s racing, and nothing even happened to me.”

“Oh.” How did one reply to that? No one had ever told me they liked seeing me happy. I thought maybe it was the best compliment there was. “Thank you…?”

“Is that a question?”

“Yes.”

We both laughed before he teasingly shoved his gift at me. “Open it, and then tell me about the rest of your day.”

I took it from him but didn’t speak as I tore the wrapping paper with shaky fingers. I laid the pieces of paper on the counter before opening the box, my stomach doing unexpected flip-flops. When I pulled out the customized nameplate for a desk, my heart climbed into my throat. A stack of books was engraved on one side, and on the other, a lined notebook. Tucked between the two, it read: Mr. Wescott.

My trembling picked up, so much so that I almost fumbled it.

“Hey, are you okay?” Harrison placed a hand on my wrist. He used the other to gently take the gift from my fingers and set it on the counter. “Did I do something wrong?”

It was one thing to think of myself as Mr. Wescott, to buy myself something with my name or for the school to give me papers that said it, but this was from Harrison…a friend. Someone on the outside, who wasn’t attached to my work, and…I didn’t think anyone had ever done something so nice for me. Not unless you counted my mom, but she was a mom. That was her job. But then, he was a dad too…my best friend’s dad.

I shook my head, unable to find my words. I looked up at him, our gazes snagging, and instead of trying to figure out what to say, I lunged at him instead. Harrison caught me, his arms encircling my waist just as my mouth crashed down on his.

It wasn’t a soft or gentle kiss. It was urgent, needy. His hold on me tightened as I pushed my tongue between his lips. Harrison stumbled backward, me following, until the wall stopped us, his back pressed against it.

I moaned into his mouth, my thoughts spinning—Ross, Harrison, school, the gift, all twisting and turning, creating a storm inside my brain.

When my lips trailed down his throat, Harrison dropped his head back to give me access. “I thought we weren’t going to do this again.”

“I didn’t think we were either.” I traced his left collarbone with my tongue. “We can stop. Do you want to stop?” Please don’t want to stop. Because it felt good. He felt good. I wanted to let go of everything else and just focus on his touch, on pleasure.

Harrison’s arms dropped away, but then he reached up, held my face in his hands. For a second I thought he was going to say yes, that we should stop, but instead he asked, “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “God yes.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“Um…are you trying to get Christian Grey on me?”

“Who?” His brows drew together.

God, he was sexy. “Nothing.” I leaned in close to his ear, nipped his lobe. “I want to fuck.”

Harrison quivered against me before our mouths slammed together for the second time today. We kissed and stumbled our way down the hallway to my bedroom. My back collided with the door, Harrison’s thigh shoving between mine. I rode it while we kissed some more—hot, hard, devouring sweeps of tongue that burned through the pent-up energy inside me and helped relieve my stress.

I managed to twist the knob. If Harrison hadn’t been holding me, I would have fallen backward when it opened. I tugged at his shirt, pulling it up as we staggered inside. He pulled back enough so I could rip it over his head, then got rid of mine. He closed the door, then ran a finger along my collarbone, the way I’d done with my tongue, then down my chest, circling a nipple and making shivers race down my spine. “Jesus, your body. You’re like a work of art.”

“Like?”

“Cocky little brat,” he said playfully. “You are one.” His hand was flat against my chest, then traveled down my abs to palm my hard, aching cock. “A perk of being young, I guess.”