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"Harper and Kent are hooking up," Julian reveals.
Maybe he thinks that information will make me go gentle on her. "I know," I reply, shaking my head.
"What about Poppy’s phone?" Julian's voice drops, signaling his concern. "I want to make sure Andrew can't reach her."
"I’m on it. No one will text, call, or email Poppy without it going through us first."
His silence is telling, heavy with unvoiced thoughts. There used to be a time when it was just the three of us at boarding school. Julian would tell me everything. We waited till Kent was asleep, always trying to protect him from our grief.
"Thank you," Julian finally whispers.
"You don't have to thank me," I respond, taking a deep breath. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll call you later." Hanging up, I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders. When I left for college, I left my brothers behind, a decision that has gnawed at me with guilt. I was too wrapped up in my issues to see they needed me, and my leaving felt like another loss to them. I'm determined to right those wrongs, unsure if I ever will, but I'll die trying.
Chapter 25
Kent
I've never met a woman like Harper. She looks like a supermodel, talks without a filter, thinks like a genius, and has a sexual appetite matching mine. She's my dream, and I never want to wake up to find her gone.
The distant sound of her fingers gliding over a keyboard has become the soundtrack to my life. Consider me the 'Swiftie' version of Harper's biggest fan.
She's turned my dining room into her makeshift office, a fact my Uncle Dan has no idea of. He has a portable office for them to work in, but Harper doesn’t seem to understand work hours, especially when it pertains to Poppy. I respect that.
Harper's been working around the clock. As soon as she comes home, she sits at the computer here and starts again. The only way I've been able to get her to sleep is after I've fucked her senseless. I run my hand through my hair; saying we "fuck" has lost its appeal; it sounds sour, and that’s because sometimes we are not just fucking.
I'm eating crow, trying to swallow down the bones and feathers. I made fun of Julian for saying he "makes love" to Poppy when, in reality, I feel like I’m making love to Harper sometimes... OK, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent is pure carnal need.
I hear the turn of the key; she's the only woman with a key to my Dallas penthouse. She's also the only one who initially tossed the key into the trash when I gave it to her. When I fished it out, she declared she was "going to shove it up my ass." My joke about shoving my cock inside of her to return the favor only made her snatch the key back, toss it into her bag, and then strip me bare. What followed wastwo hours of hate-fucking/ making love to each other.
I grin as the door swings open, then I grab the bottle of wine and pour her a glass. Unlike my brother, I don’t try to cook. Much like Harper, me in a kitchen is a scary sight. Unless I was naked, that and the meal was my body. Actually, that's a good idea. Every woman loves a naked chef serving up a hard cock.
I snicker.
Thank God I was born in this era when I could simply open an app and place an order. I do that every night. Tonight, we have a good old Texas BBQ.
Harper comes in the door, her long blonde hair cascading down as she bends to take her shoes off. Jesus, the way she bends…she doesn’t slump but keeps her legs perfectly straight, making sure her backside is high and jutting out.
I glance from the food to her.
To hell with dinner. We’ll make love first and eat later.
Yeah, I said it, 'make love'. I want to savor her body like a bottle of fine wine.
I set the wine down and close the distance. As soon as she stands, my lips are on hers, kissing and provoking. I never know what version of her I’m going to get when I kiss her. Sometimes, she's feisty; sometimes, she likes to lead, and other times, she melts in my arms and lets me take over.
I pull back and look at her. Tonight, there's a new version of her. It's lackluster, not just from working all day, but something else.
“What’s the matter, Siren?” I ask her as I push her hair back, the strands as smooth as silk under my fingers. I inch my fingers into her hair and begin to massage her scalp, one of her melting points. It usually bends her to my will.
“I'm a goat,” she replies.
I snort a laugh.“I know that.”
Her forehead furrows.“You know?”
“Of course, I know you’re the goat,” I drop my hands to her hips and lift her. The way her legs effortlessly wrap around my waist makes me swell with desire. I begin to walk her to my bedroom.“Why do you look so glum?”
“Glum, what are you, a seventy-year-old man? Who says glum?” she jokes as she rests her cheek against my chest.
