Page 39 of Mile High Coach

“Fuck, Lovie,” he says, leaning down, driving into me again, holding that position as he takes my mouth with his. He kisses me deeply, so my hands are trapped between us, his cock deep inside me, my legs starting to shake from everything—the intimacy of it, how intense it feels to be with him, the pleasure building inside me like pressing on a loose tooth.

When he pulls back, Harrison growls, “Hottest goddamned thing I’ve ever seen.”

And I come around him, walls pulling tight, blacking out from the sensation. He matches his rhythm to the pulsing of my orgasm, and a moment later I feel it once more—the release of it, warm and filling, his cum inside me foreign and familiar all at once.

Harrison falls over me like a warm blanket, and I know that he must be holding at least part of his weight up, because I don’t feel crushed. His skin is slightly damp, and when I drag my nails gently over his back, he shivers, turning his head and placing a kiss on the crook of my neck, which makes me shiver, too.

Logically, I know there should be no neck kisses. No lying together and shivering. No Harrison eating me out—but I can’t help it. There’s something soft and comforting about him, a quiet kind of strength that I want to sink into. It allows me to turn off my brain for a moment.

“Here,” he says with a jolt, as though remembering something, and he pulls back, grabbing my legs and tucking them to my chest. I blink, realizing I’d forgotten what we were doing here—what the point of this was.

Moving with a grace I can’t imagine I would achieve fully naked, Harrison grabs a blanket, throwing it over me. Hedisappears around the corner and returns a moment later wearing a loose pair of gray sweatpants, holding my tea.

“Here,” he says, his voice rough as he sits on the ground by my head, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. “Think if you drink it at the same time, it’ll increase your odds?”

I laugh, looking up at the ceiling, closing my eyes. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Would it help if I said you look hot?”

I laugh again, turning my head to face him and finding him close—close enough that I’d only have to move slightly, push my head forward and toward him, to kiss him. The urge rolls through me like something natural—go to the bathroom, get something to drink, kiss Harrison Clark.

But we shouldn’t be kissing. I should not have the urge to kiss him.

Pushing the thought away, I shake my head and look to the ceiling again, saying, “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know.”

“What kind of host would I be if I left you to percolate on your own?”

“Oh, God,” I sputter, hating how easily he can make me laugh, a fresh flush rising on my cheeks. “Don’t use that word again, please.”

He’s laughing, too, and I force myself not to look at him. If I do, I’m going to have to face the ever-increasing softness inside me, the familiarity with him that makes me want to be close to him.

Harrison and I are barely even friends. We’re legal acquaintances. Bound together by the contract. That’s all.

I tell him that he can leave again, but he refuses, making himself comfortable on the floor and leaning against the couch, playing with the tips of my hair as we talk. Harrison gets a texton his phone, and when he checks it, I catch a glimpse and laugh out loud.

“What?” he pulls it back, clearly defensive.

“I didn’t figure you for an organic turkey kind of man,” I say, nodding at his phone. The text was from a local turkey farm, letting him know his bird would be ready for pickup in just a few days.

His face goes hilariously serious. “Cooking a turkey is an undertaking, Waters. You plan to spend ten hours working on it, you want good material to work with.”

“Fine, that’s fair. It just changes my perspective of you, that’s all.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Lovie. It’s just too bad you won’t be able to try some of my turkey—people here in Baltimore would fight for an honor like that.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I roll my eyes. “I’m not getting any turkey this year.”

“You’re not…a vegetarian, are you?” He says vegetarian like flat-earther, and I laugh again.

“No, I’m not—not that there would be anything wrong with that—but I’m just not going to cook a whole thing when it’s just me.”

“You’re not going home?”

I shrug, clearing away the sadness that coats my throat, “Well, now that there’s no IVF appointment, I can’t really justify it.”

It’s also due to the huge medical bills piling up, but I don’t need to tell Harrison about that. A beat passes, and I realize he’s looking at me with a thoughtful expression.

“Come to my place.”

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