Teach Me (14 page)

For
a few minutes, we’re
both quiet, eating our sandwiches and sipping the rest of our single
glasses of wine in silence. Eventually, one of the cows in the field
breaks the quiet with a long lowing sound, and we both break into
laughter.

“Come
on,” he says. “We’ve
still got some riverbeds to explore.”

We
pass the rest of the afternoon picking blackberries alongside one of
the streams that trickles along the outskirts of town, and taking
turns mashing them into one another’s
cheeks on the pretenses of feeding them to each other. After a
blackberry brawl that ends up with my whole face dyed purple, I take
a break to strip down to my tank top and splash the juice off in the
stream.

Of
course, Jack takes this opportunity to shove me from behind, so hard
I stumble into the (luckily only two-foot-deep) stream, screeching
the whole way. Not one to let him get away with that so easily, I
race back to the bank and grab his arm, dragging him in alongside me,
both of us tripping over each other and kicking waves at one
another’s faces
until we’re both
drenched from head to toe.

It’s
cool enough that I’m
shivering in my thin tank top, though he looks fine, still dressed in
his thick woolen sweater, which aside from being a little damp, seems
no worse for the wear. I slosh through a foot of water to reach his
side, and tug at the hem. “This
seems an unfair advantage.”

“Do
you need my sweater?”
he asks, pulling it over his head. To my disappointment, he’s
still wearing a thin undershirt beneath. Though, on the bright side,
it’s damp enough
that it clings to his muscles, and where I hit him with a
particularly big splash on his stomach, the white fabric is
see-through, revealing his chiseled abs. They look even more
perfectly formed in daylight than when I ran my hands over them the
other night, on his darkened couch.

He’s
still holding the sweater, extended toward me like an offering. I
take it from him and toss it onto the far bank beside my own. “You
won’t be needing
that.” I grin.

He
steps closer to me, closing the final gap between us. We stand
face-to-face now, my head tilted back so I can stare up at him, as
the steam eddies around our knees, the current gentle, the water just
cold enough to make my nipples stand at attention, and goosebumps
prickle my skin. His arms wrap around my waist so my stomach presses
against his belt buckle.

 . . . Oh.
That’s not his belt
buckle.

My
grin widens. “You
know,” I say,
conversationally, “I
never did get revenge for the confessional booth.”

His
eyes go wide, before they dart around us, taking in what I’ve
already noticed. A copse of autumn trees shields us from view of the
only road nearby, a low footbridge that passes over the stream. We
haven’t seen another
hiker for almost an hour.

But
there are still the houses behind the stream, their windows lined up
at just the right angle to see us.
If
anyone happened to be looking outside at this hour of the day, which,
come on, who would be at home moping at a window on a day like today?

“It’s
broad daylight,” he
hisses. “Anyone
could walk past us right now.”
But I’m already
pushing him backwards, both hands on his chest. He stumbles out of
the stream onto the bank, and I drop to my knees before him, my hands
fumbling at the zipper on his jeans.

“This
is a terrible idea, Harper,”
he says, louder this time. But he doesn’t
try to stop me as I draw open his fly and push his pants around his
knees.

He’s
rock hard already; I let my fingers drift over him, through the thin
fabric of his boxers, toying with him while I catch his eyes and
smile. Without warning, I yank his boxers down too, keeping my eyes
on his.

“Christ,”
he hisses.

Protests
aside, he can’t help
the spark that flares in his eyes, or the telltale part of his lips,
anticipating what I’m
about to do to him. I savor holding the power this time, as I dip my
head to trace my tongue around the base of his cock, letting his
shaft brush my cheek, tickling him with my hair.

I
keep going like that until he’s
nearly panting, his hands fisted in my hair, clenching when I lick
all the way up his shaft to flick my tongue across his tip.
God
he tastes good.
Like
salt and musk.

Then
I draw back, just enough to let him feel the cool fall air on the
spot I’ve just
tasted.

“Harper . . . ”
His eyes have gone dark, feral.

I
love making him do that. My smile widens. “Beg,”
I say.

He
scowls at me, but I am unmoved. This is payback for the confessional.
For all the times he’s
driven me completely wild.

He’s
got more patience than I do, though. Or he’s
more stubborn. Same thing. He clenches his jaw, and even though I can
tell it’s driving
him nuts, he doesn’t
say anything, just watches me watching him. “All
you have to do is ask nicely,”
I say, letting my lips brush his shaft as I talk.

His
throat constricts as he swallows hard. “Please,”
he breathes out, like a surrender.

Good
enough for me. I swallow him whole.

The
moment she takes me into her mouth, I’m
gone. Her tongue circles my cock, her warm hands cup my balls,
squeeze them hard enough that I grunt. Without thinking, I fist my
hand in her hair and thrust into her mouth. She swallows me without
protest, so deep I can feel the back of her throat before she pulls
away, almost completely releasing me, then sucks me deep into her
mouth again.

We
move like that, the burning heat of her mouth a sharp contrast to the
freezing cold water still dripping down my chest and the sharp breeze
picking up around us, until I can’t
take it any longer. I groan her name through my teeth as I finish,
and she keeps her lips tight around me, sucking every last ounce from
me.

When
she finally pulls back, I drop to my knees beside her. Looking at her
like this, her cheeks flushed, hair mussed from where I couldn’t
help gripping it, her eyes alight with pleasure, clearly savoring
what she just did to me, I want to shove her into the grass and fuck
her again right here. I pull her shirt up, ready to bend down and
suck her nipple into my mouth. My cock already starts to twitch
again, as the blood flows back into it.

But
before either of us can move, we hear the sound of wheels crunching
on gravel, loud and far too close.

Shit
.
One of the houses has a driveway alongside it. Down which a compact
car is slowly meandering.

Harper
dives for her sweater while I fumble with the clasp of my jeans, both
of us barely managing to cover ourselves decently before we hear car
doors slamming, and the voice of a man and woman arguing, just on the
other side of the bush behind which we’re
crouching.

Our
gazes meet, which is a bad idea, as neither one of us is able to stop
grinning. Soon we’re
both shaking with silent laughter, which turns into loud, real
laughter the moment we hear the house door slam.

We
grab the rest of our things, and as we stride across the grass toward
the town, my hand catches hers, intertwines her small, delicate
fingers between my strong ones.

I
can’t remember ever
feeling quite like this. The buzz of happiness between my ears, the
skip in my chest when she glances over her shoulder at me, winking,
as we pass the house where we narrowly escaped detection.

What
is she doing to me?

#

We
settle into a booth at a quiet little Italian restaurant. She orders
the carbonara, and I get spaghetti, though by halfway through the
meal, we’ve traded
so many bites we might as well have just shared both dinners.

Under
the table, I brush my hand over her knees, tickle the inside of her
thighs just enough to make her glare and kick me in the shins. Her
look says,
Stop it,
but the way she squirms in her seat makes me think she doesn’t
mind so very much.

“You
still owe me, you know,”
I tell her as she accepts a bite of meatball from the tines of my
fork. I love the way her lips close around the metal. I can still
feel them wrapped around my cock, taking every inch I gave her.

“Owe
you what?” She lifts
an eyebrow.

“You
promised to read me one of your poems.”

Those
beautiful blue eyes of hers narrow to slits. “You
weren’t serious.”

“Oh,
but I was. Come on, now’s
as good a time as any.”
I rap the table with one knuckle. “Let’s
hear one.”

She’s
silent for a long moment, clearly weighing her options.

“I
promise I’ll make it
worth your while,” I
add with a grin, which seems to tip the scales in my favor.

She
sighs, but she reaches into her bag for the notepad I spotted in
there earlier today, all the same. “You
have to promise not to judge me too harshly,”
she says. “Or at
least lie to me if you think it totally sucks.”

“I
can promise no such thing. But I can’t
imagine anything you write would turn out badly.”

I
lean back in my seat, at just the right angle to press my leg against
hers, and close my eyes to listen. She reads beautifully, the words
flowing from her lips as easily as a conversation. Not everyone can
read poetry, even if they write it well—and
write it, she can. Her words, her phrasing, her cadence all have a
unique flow to them, a pattern that’s
at once lovely, arresting, and so very Harper.

She
finishes the poem all too soon, and I keep my eyes shut for another
moment, just letting the meaning sink in, savoring the experience.

When
I open my eyes once more, she has hers closed, her mouth pressed into
a thin, grim line. “Okay,
out with it,” she
says. “Get the
criticism over with first.”

I
laugh, softly, unable to help myself. That only makes her wince
harder. “Harper.”
I reach across the table to rest my hand on hers, and just the touch
of her skin to mine feels like a flint striking fire. “You
are incredibly talented.”

Those
baby blues snap open, full of disbelief. “You’re
just saying that to get into my pants.”

I
snort. “Clearly I
don’t need any such
help to get inside your pants.”
My hand flexes around hers, draws her arm across the table so I can
trace my fingertips up the inside of her wrist. She shivers, which
makes me smile. “But
you don’t need my
reassurance, either. You’re
too good not to already know it.”

Her
cheeks flush, for a very different reason than they did earlier
today. I enjoy it just as much. “I
guess I know I don’t
suck,” she admits.
“I’m
still allowed to think you’re
just saying it, though,”
she adds, stubborn as ever.

“This
is my job, Harper. I’ve
read enough shitty poetry, and enough stellar work, in my time to
know when someone has it and when they don’t.
You’ve got it, in
spades.” I trail my
fingernail along her veins, just to make her shiver again. “Now,
your assignment, Ms. Reed, is to not let all that talent go to waste.
I expect you to write something new every week, even if I have to
drag you kicking and screaming on inspirational trips every weekend.”

She
laughs and rolls her eyes. “Easy
for you to say. Inspiration doesn’t
just happen when summoned.”

I
tap the center of her palm, and her hand closes around mine to
squeeze back. “It
does if you give yourself permission to take your own writing every
bit as seriously as you take your course work. You don’t
fail to turn in an essay on time just because you weren’t
inspired at the right moment. Do the same thing for your poetry, or
you’re doing
yourself a huge disservice.”

She
bites her lip, but she doesn’t
protest. I can tell from the solemn look in her eye that she knows
I’m right.

Then,
of course, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. Reluctantly, I slide
my hand from her grasp and peek at the caller ID.

Kat.

Crap.
Kat never calls. She’s
a texter all the way. “I’ll
be right back,” I
say to Harper, who still seems off in her own dream world anyway,
mulling over what I just said.

I
slip out to the front of the restaurant, answering just as the
now-cold night air hits me in the chest. “What’s
up?” I say.

For
a moment, there’s
only silence. Then I hear a long sniffle, followed by a muffled sob.
My heart sinks to the floor. I’ve
never heard Kat cry. Never, not even when . . . 

“What’s
wrong, what happened?”
I ask, my throat threatening to clench so tight I won’t
be able to force words out.

In
the background, I can hear Mum’s
voice too, telling Kat something, her tone shrill and panicked.
That’s when I know,
even before Kat says anything else, even before she elaborates.

But
some part of me still needs to hear her say it before I do anything.

On
the other end, I hear my sister suck in a deep breath and clear her
throat hard. “It’s
Dad,” she says. “The
cancer is back.”

I
will never understand this man.

One
minute he’s
laughing, acting sweet, giving me (all too sensible) advice on my
writing, tickling my wrists like he’s
thinking about later tonight, too, about all the things we can do to
each other when we get back to his place.

Instead,
he takes one phone call outside the restaurant and comes back inside
a couple minutes later asking the waiter for the check and to-go
boxes. Something was clearly wrong—he
wasn’t smiling
anymore, and the closed-off, sharp-eyebrowed jerkface was back—but
he hasn’t exactly
been forthcoming about what’s
going on either.

“Is
everything okay?” I
ask for the third time in our so far otherwise silent car ride back
toward Oxford.