After (The After Series)

Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come . . .
And then he’s standing over me, looking down at where I sit on my bed. He
grabs my Literature notes and turns them over a couple of times exaggeratedly
like he’s staring at a rare artifact. I reach up for them but—like the annoying jerk
he is—he lifts them higher, so I stand and swipe at them. But he tosses them in
the air and they fall to the ground in a scattered mess.
“Pick those up!” I demand.
He smirks and says, “Okay, okay,” but just grabs my Sociology notes and does
the same thing to them. I scramble to pick them up before he steps on them, but
that’s only funny to him.
“Hardin, stop!” I yell, just as he does the same with the next stack. Infuriated,
I stand up and shove him away from my bed.
“You mean, someone doesn’t like their stuff being messed with?” he asks, still
laughing. Why must he always laugh at me?
“No! I don’t!” I yell and go to shove him again. He steps toward me and grabs
my wrists, pushing me back against the wall. His face is inches from mine, and
suddenly I’m aware I’m breathing way too hard. I want to scream at him to get
off me, to let me go, and demand that he put my work back. I want to slap him,
to make him leave. But I can’t. I’m frozen against the wall and mesmerized by
his green eyes burning into mine. “Hardin, please,” are the only words I finally
find. But they are soft. And I’m not sure if I am begging him to let me go, or kiss
me. My breathing still hasn’t slowed; I can feel his increasing, the way his chest
rises powerfully. Seconds feel like hours, and finally he removes one hand from
my wrists, but the other is large enough to hold both.
For a second, I think he might slap me. But his hand moves up to my
cheekbone and then he gently tucks my hair behind my ear. I swear I can hear
his pulse as he brings his lips to mine—and the fire crackles under my skin.
This is what I have been longing for since Saturday night. If I could only feel
one thing for the rest of my life, this would be it.
I don’t let myself think about why I am kissing him again or what terrible

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thing he will say afterward. All I want to focus on is the way he presses his body
against mine when he lets go of my wrists, pinning me to the wall, and the way
his mouth tastes like mint again. The way my tongue somehow follows his, and
the way my hands slide over his broad shoulders. His hands grip the backs of my
thighs and he lifts me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and
I’m amazed at the way my body somehow knows how to respond to him. I bury
my fingers in his hair, gently tugging at it while he walks back toward my bed,
his lips still molded to mine.
The responsible voice inside my head finds her way in, reminding me that this
is a terrible idea—but I push her back. I am not stopping this time. I pull
Hardin’s hair harder, earning a moan from him. The sound elicits one of my
own, the two mixing in the most heavenly way. It is the hottest sound I have ever
heard and I want to do anything I can to hear it again. He sits back on my bed,
pulling me so I’m on his lap. His long fingers dig into my skin, but the pain is
wonderful. My body begins gently rocking back and forth on his lap, and his
grip tightens.
“Fuck,” he breathes into my mouth, and I experience a sensation I have never
felt before as I feel him harden against me.
How far will I let this go? I ask myself, but I don’t have an answer.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he tugs at it, pulling it up. I can’t
believe I’m letting him, but I don’t want to stop. He pulls away from our heated
kiss to get the shirt over my head. His eyes meet mine, then go down to my chest
as he takes his lip between his teeth.
“You’re so sexy, Tess.”
The idea of dirty talk never appealed to me, but somehow Hardin saying those
words becomes the most sensual thing I have ever heard. I never buy any fancy
underwear because no one, literally no one, ever sees them, but right now I wish
I had something besides this plain black bra. He’s probably seen every type of