Page 52 of A Pack for the Wedding
"God," he says, like I've done something to him and not the other way around.
I'd respond, but I've temporarily lost the capacity for language. My hips chase his hand. I grab his wrist, not to stop him, just to hold on. His mouth finds mine again and I'm shaking, pressing into his touch, his free arm locked around my back keeping me upright because I'm losing the ability to do it myself.
I fumble for him. He hisses when I get my hand around him, and his forehead drops against my shoulder.
"Fuck," he says, voice scraping bottom. I tighten my grip and his hips push up and his fingers press deeper and I'm right there, I'm so close—
BZZZZZZZ.
The apartment intercom screams through the quiet.
We both freeze, my fingers still locked in his hair, his hand still scorching hot against my ribs.
BZZZZZZZ.BZZZZZZZ.BZZZZZZZ.
Arthur lets his head drop forward, resting his forehead against my shoulder. "You've got to be kidding me." He exhales a harsh breath, stepping back and running a hand through his hair to adjust himself. I slide off the granite counter, my legs feeling like overcooked noodles, and hastily yank my shirt down. I grab my water glass again, trying desperately to look like a woman simply hydrating in her kitchen, rather than someone who was just dismantled against the cabinetry.
He walks to the intercom and presses the button. "Yeah?"
The voice that comes through is tinny and frantic.
Arthur's expression changes. He glances back at me.
"Come up," he says into the intercom, and lets go of the button.
15
Arthur
"Harper." Beth holds a mug out to her. "Just take the tea."
"I don't want tea, Beth," she says, pacing in our living room.
"It's chamomile."
"I don't care if it'sliquid Xanax." She pivots at the window, lurches back. "Tea is not going to fix this."
I lean against the kitchen island and cross my arms. Beth leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table. My eyes instantly zoom in to her ass and my length immediately tries to pick up where we left off. I force myself to stare at the ceiling, desperately trying to think about literally anything else.
Cocktails.I can think about making cocktails.
Although shit, there's "cock" in cocktails...
"Okay," Beth says carefully. "Start from the beginning."
Harper stops. Faces her. Takes a breath.
"Ben," she starts, "tried to benice."
This is historically a dangerous way for a sentence about Ben to start.
"He took the crew out to lunch," Harper says. "The volunteer crew. The ten guys who agreed to come in next Saturday morning and set up the VFW hall for our stag and doe party."
"Okay," Beth says. "That sounds—"
"He took them to Hayward's."
I uncross my arms. "I love Hayward's."
