What You Leave Behind (10 page)

“No, keep it,” he tells her, folding her fingers into a fist over the key. His hand, warm and steady, remains around hers as he tells her, “I like the idea of you having a place to go, if you need to. No more alleyways, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods at her assent and steps out of her way, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He’s stripped down to flannel lounge pants, and the jut of his hipbones just over the waistband of them makes her feet slow to move, as she stares openly at his torso. “Were you—uh—did you want to—were you going to sleep?”

“Well, that was the original plan—ice cream, mindless television, and maybe some sleep.” He crooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the living room where the television glows in the corner, quietly hocking some vacuum-mop hybrid for only eight payments of $19.95. “I’m happy to give up paid programming for you, though. So, uh, did you want to come in?”

“I promise I won’t keep you long. I know it’s late,” she says as she moves to stand just far enough inside the doorway for him to close it behind her. “I just needed to—”

“It’s okay,” Austin says earnestly. “I’m all yours.”

“Funny you should mention that.”

“Oh,” Austin says as her words hang somewhere in the two feet of space between them. He looks down and away as his mouth twists into some obscure version of a frown. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop,” Harper cuts him off as she steps closer, reducing the space by half. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Harp,” he says. “Anything.”

“This,” she moves a hand back and forth between them, bringing it just close enough for the backs of her fingers to feel the warmth of his abdomen, “is this because he left? Am I something to—am I filling some void for you?”

“Am I?” Austin counters, sounding wounded.

“Answer me.”

“Not having him here definitely allowed this, whatever this is, but this—God.” He thinks for a long while. Not about his answer, but how to phrase it. “No, you aren’t filling any void he left behind. I’m not looking for a new best friend. And all of this—I meant it when I said always, Harp.” He says the words with such stark honesty in his voice, such a sad softness, and she believes every last word he’s said. As she nods slowly, Austin hesitantly repeats, “Am I?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” she tells him gently, finding it difficult to admit the doubt she’s feeling, but owing him the same sincerity. “I drove for a while after I left here, ended up on I-5. The scene of the crime and all. Being there, at that place, I just felt… empty. Like there’s a void to fill, like I’m still hollow—how I’ve felt since he left. And I think that if I were over him, I wouldn’t feel that. It would feel like a clean slate, a new beginning. Not like something less than, like something’s still missing. I’m still—I know that I’m not over him.” Though Austin has, of course, suspected this, it still hurts to hear the words, and he can’t stop himself from flinching at her admission. “I know,” she says around a frown, instantly ashamed of herself when she sees the way he reacts, that it seemingly causes him physical pain. “That’s not what you wanted to hear. And it’s not what I wanted to say—not what I want to feel. But it’s the truth.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” he tells her and it’s genuine, but somber.

“But I do—I do feel something here, Aus. Something… intense. I really do.” She leans forward, brushes the backs of her fingers against the fair hairs that run downward from his navel, sweeps her knuckles up and down against the skin there, as if she needs a reminder of the feeling she speaks of. He looks at the spot where they meet, at the way his muscles tense in reaction to her touch. She watches him as he watches her lay her hand flat over his stomach and drag it up to where his heart thuds in his chest, watches the way his eyes fall closed at the feel of it. “I don’t know why or how or when—how I didn’t before now,” she whispers, “but I do.”

Austin slowly brings his hands up to cover Harper’s on his chest from where they’ve sat obediently at his sides. Her touch and her words have his heart racing and he takes a few steadying breaths before he wills himself to open his eyes. When he does, he doesn’t see the Harper he’s always seen. He sees one that looks at him the same way he’s always looked at her—with wanting.

“How…” she whispers, the remainder of any number of hows unspoken and ricocheting in her head.
How is this possible? How do I feel this way? How did I not know? How did I not even notice? How long? How?
“How,” she says. The word floats in limbo between them, small yet weighted with implication, until she adds, “…do you want me?”

The sudden crush of Austin’s weight against hers as he presses her up against the door feels like begging and the way she tilts her mouth up toward his feels like permission. Even still, against the scream of his body’s yearning, he refuses her lips and presses his mouth hungrily to her neck. She moans at the feel of it and he echoes out his own at the sound, as one of her hands moves into his hair and the other against his hip. Both hands guide him—mouth toward collarbone, hips pressing closer—and she arches toward him, driven by longing.

“Please,” she begs, losing herself in the feel of his mouth on her skin. “I need you.”

“You have me,” he sighs against her throat and pulls her as close as he can.

Greed settles into Austin’s bones and he tries to stop it, but her hands are soft and they keep pressing into his skin, and he’s a fool for her. They stumble up the stairs and through the hall to his bedroom with clumsy feet, with hands all over, and all he can think of is
more
. When Harper stands before him beside his bed, her eyes cast down at the wooden floor, and removes her T-shirt, she gives him precisely the more that he craves. But she wants more, too. She fits herself to him as soon as she can, moving them onto the bed, and he turns her, pulls her back against him as he leans against the headboard. When she aligns herself with him and his mouth finds her neck once more, it feels as though their skin has always been meant to intersect like this, touch and press.

They connect at places and points, all of which feel vibrant, wholly alive. Her back, bare aside from the thin material and eyehooks of her bra, rests against the muscled planes of his chest, but not fully, the space between her shoulder blades untouched. Her legs, too, are neglected, jean-clad and fitted as a lowercase V against the larger flannel patterned V of his own spread legs—he can feel their warmth, but not the skin. He can’t touch or hold all of her, but his arms fit kindly around her middle, hands splayed over her naked abdomen. He rests his chin in the groove that her collarbone makes and wondrously stares down at the sight of his hands on her. Harper stares down too, at the way his tanned hands and forearms cover nearly all of her middle, and she tries not to breathe too deeply as she watches his hands rise and fall with her every breath. She fears, however irrationally, that a breath too deep will push him too far away. He holds her tightly for the same reasons, and pulls her closer to let his mouth linger on her neck.

“Austin,” she whispers, a hand reaching up to palm his cheek. One small turn and they’re breathing each other’s air. She guides him closer with the gentle pressure of her hand as it slips down along his jawline, fits her mouth deliberately to his, and slides her tongue along his lower lip as if asking for approval.

“Your neck is one thing—” Austin sighs, denying himself as he denies her, and moves his mouth away. He reveals the pale skin of her neck as he draws the curtain of her hair aside and presses his mouth to it again. Savoring the sweet scent and salty flavor of her, he languishes at the moan that sounds in her throat, at the way her fingertips flex against his cheek. “If you give me your mouth, I won’t be able to stop this time,” he warns quietly, promises. “I won’t.”

Harper twists, turns, pushes, and settles atop him, her flat stomach pressing down against his toned one as his hands fist into the twisted sheets beneath them. She settles onto one arm, most of her weight deliberately balanced against his hips, and uses her other hand to lace her fingers together with his in the sheets. As she grips his hand beneath hers, she anchors him down, despite her small frame, and purposefully shifts her weight again—forward, this time. She hovers above him, her hair falling around them as she leans down to brush his lips softly with her own. It’s the most polite kiss, sweet and kind, but then it’s anything but, and Austin makes good on his word. His lips are relentless, hard and soft, fast and slow, and Harper accommodates him and his needs, her mouth mimicking every motion, because she needs the same things. The hand that isn’t beneath hers is drawn to her skin, and he grabs hold of any flesh he can find. His long fingers dent into her shoulder, slide along her ribs, then down over her hip, and she moans into his mouth as his tongue slips past her lips.

Austin realizes it’s happening before she does—the patter of hot teardrops fall against his cheeks and roll down into his mouth, and pass into Harper’s with a swipe of his tongue. Bitter saltiness, not the savory sort on her skin, cuts through the sweetness and his touch changes instantly. His fingertips stroke softly down the bare skin of her back as she realizes what’s happening, and her hands press hard against his chest. She moves back to sit up, her head hung low. Austin knows what it is—the way her head is bent, her kiss-bruised lower lip quivering, eyes not willing to meet his as they seep tears—and he is understanding, but also entirely fearful. The gentle up and down of her shoulders as her body quakes beneath the burden of sobs calls to him and scares him in equal measure. He places a tentative hand on her shoulder. She bends into the touch, turns her head to press her lips to the backside of his thumb.

“Don’t do that, if you can’t.” The words are soft and calm, composed, though he feels the furthest thing from it. He wants to fix his mouth to hers again and never release it, live there, make a home against her lips. Now that he’s had them, tasted her, he cannot bear to have her lips on his skin again if he can’t have them as he wants them. “If you don’t want to, don’t.”

Harper is silent a long while, her hands folded between her legs, knuckles barely resting upon the pale hairs that dot his stomach. She absently toys with them, watches his eyes as they close at the sensation, and tries to find the words, but none come. The hair, the skin, all of him feels right against the pads of her fingers, against her palms, and the crackling heat she feels is enough to keep her there, keep her hands stroking his skin and making his lashes flutter. She could have him, as he is hers, but it is a constant back and forth of past versus present and what the future holds.

“Always” she whispers as her hands still. “How long, Austin? How long has it been?”

“Does it matter?” A thickness settles into Austin’s throat as the question leaves him. Around it, he chokes out a defeated, “It doesn’t matter.”

“But, it does,” Harper tells him. There’s a tenderness in her voice even she didn’t anticipate, and it only supports her sentiment. “To me, it does. It matters.” Her hands flatten on his chest and press him down onto the mattress once more. He’s hesitant, the muscles in his stomach flexing to keep him partially upright, but she’s insistent, and he will always give in to her. She bends over him, the ends of hair swaying down against his neck and shoulders, and asks him once more, “How long, Austin?”

“Longer than he has,” is all Austin can say, the welt in his throat overwhelming his ability to speak. He needs to be away from her once the words fall away and a mangled sob sneaks free of his mouth, and he moves her off of him with quick hands on her hips. Instead of turning her onto her back and covering her with himself, as he’s wanted to over and over, he only moves her aside and gets to his feet.

It’s just too much—having her and not having her, feeling responsible for what’s happened to her. Since Liam left, Austin has often wondered if she’d be in ruins now, if he had talked to her before Liam had all those years ago. And to have her now, broken, but still so beautiful, he doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, or if it’s too late for it to not be both.

Harper watches from the bed as Austin begins to pace the length of his bedroom, his hands groping a cigarette from the pack on the table by his bed. As she follows the shadow of his frame back and forth in the darkness, his words ring in her ears.

She pulls a cigarette from his pack after fetching it from where he’s discarded it at the foot of the bed, and counts it as a ploy to get him to come back to her, even if she knows she’s not fighting fair. She knows that Austin knows her well enough to know how her father died—lung cancer. And she also knows that Austin, her seemingly self-appointed protector, wouldn’t dare let her do herself harm. As she hoped and half expected, he stills when he sees the flicker of a flame, an orange blur in the corner of his wet vision. He’s quick to get to her, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and covering her lips with his. He holds her against him with his forearm braced across her back, both of their cigarettes mingling lit in his other hand, as he fumbles blindly for a cup, a can, anything to snuff them out in. When he does, she wraps her arms around his neck and hoists herself up onto her knees to match his half-bent frame, leaving his other hand to tangle in her hair.

Frantic to have him all over her, Harper wraps her legs around his hips as he groans. He sees white behind his eyes, a heat so intense that it’s blinding in the darkness, and he wants to be within her, inside of her, and more—a symbiotic part of the whole of her. Austin restrains himself though, stops his hips from shifting against her, stops them from begging her for more, and fills his hands with her skin, taking fistfuls of it at a time, as she clings to him. He tears his mouth from hers to kiss the skin of her throat, an area he’s come to know well, before moving to her sternum, outward to her shoulders and arms, anywhere he can reach. She moves with him in a sort of slow dance to give him better access to all of her parts. Her hands find his hair and tug, needy, guiding him around her body until he is willing to return to her mouth. When he does, they change from quick to slow, and he licks across her lower lip as her throat releases a sigh.