His fingers bruise my flesh, pinning me against the cold tile as he pounds deeper, his cock stretching me to my limits. “Come all over my cock, Harper,” he growls, his voice guttural with so many years of pent-up need. “Give me everything. I need you. All of you.”
The raw possession in his command, the feral hunger in his eyes, the exquisite fullness of his thick shaft splitting me open, it detonates inside me. I convulse around him, moaning his name as pleasure tears through me like a hurricane. My pussy spasms wildly, gripping him in rhythmic pulses as tears stream down my face, overwhelmed by the realization that this—us, our finite connection—is what I’ve been missing all these years.
Harrison breaks seconds later, his powerful body shuddering against mine as he slams into the hilt. “Harper—fuck—God, I love you,” he chokes out, his forehead pressed to mine as hot spurts of his release flood me, marking me from the inside as his. His hips jerk helplessly with each pulse, his breath ragged against my lips as he whispers, “Always you, Harp. Only you.”
For several long moments, we stay like that, locked together under the now-cooling spray, our breathing ragged, our bodies trembling from exertion.
“I’ve never stopped loving you,” I confess against his neck. “Not for a single day.”
Harrison’s arms tighten around me. “I know,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. “I know that now.”
He carefully sets me down, my legs wobbly beneath me as we stand completely exposed in every way that matters. He reaches behind me to turn off the shower, and suddenly the silence feels deafening.
“We should get dried off,” he says softly, pushing wet hair from my face with such tenderness my heart aches.
I nod, unable to form words as the reality of everything crashes back down. Our son is asleep in the other room, emotionally exhausted, and we just had sex in the shower while processing the most intense moment of our lives.
Harrison wraps a towel around my shoulders, his movements gentle as he rubs warmth back into my skin. “I need to check on Connor,” he says, his eyes searching mine for permission.
“Go,” I tell him, my heart swelling at the way he says our son’s name. Connor. Our son. “Check on him.”
Harrison wraps a towel around his waist, his movements careful and deliberate like he’s trying to steady himself. He looks back at me once more before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints behind him.
I dry off slowly, my body still humming from our connection, my mind racing with everything that’s happened today. The accidental revelation. Connor’s heartbreak. Harrison’s devastation in the shower. The way we came together when everything felt like it was falling apart.
I find one of Harrison’s T-shirts in the guest bathroom closet and slip it on, the soft fabric falling to mid-thigh. My clothes are soaked through, so I leave them in a heap on the floor along with his, promising myself I’ll clean up later.
When I pad down the hallway, I find Harrison standing in the doorway of the second guest bedroom, just watching. He’s changed into sweatpants, his chest still bare, hair damp and disheveled. I move beside him, following his gaze to where Connor lies curled on his side, face peaceful in sleep, his cheeks still flushed from crying, the photo album clutched to his chest even in slumber.
“I wanted him to be able to sleep as long as he wants so I carried him in here,” he explains. “I hope that’s okay.”
My chest tightens at the sight. Connor looks so small, so vulnerable, yet so fiercely determined even in sleep, holding onto that album like it’s the most precious thing he owns. Like he’s afraid someone might take it away.
I slip my hand into Harrison’s, my fingers threading through his. “He took it with him,” I whisper.
Harrison nods, his throat working as he swallows. “Yeah.”
We stand there watching our son sleep, the weight of the day pressing down on us both. I lean my head against Harrison’s shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence beside me.
“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” I ask, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since Connor’s tears first started falling.
Harrison’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. “He will,” he says with quiet certainty. “He’s hurt and he’s processing, but he loves you, Harp. That doesn’t just disappear.”
“I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARRISON
Iwake up before the sun, not because of any alarm but because of the thoughts running wild through my mind that just won’t stop. The way my night ended may have been blissful as I buried myself in Harper twice more before we finally fell asleep, but that doesn’t change the fact that yesterday still happened.
Connor was given news he wasn’t quite ready for…or maybe he was ready—isready—but the way it was presented was shit. Either way, the emotions of last evening still haunt me, as does the vision of my son’s face as he tried to process everything in front of us. I guess I can’t blame him for being overly emotional about the whole thing. I probably would’ve been too.
I lie here for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the city lights dance through the window. And then I hear them, soft footsteps. Careful ones. Like someone trying not to wake the whole world. I listen a little more knowing Connor must be up but wait to see if he’s just using the restroom and going back to bed or if he’s awake and needs…well, me.
I hear a cabinet door opening and then closing followed by the faint clink of a glass.
He’s in the kitchen.
