After (The After Series)

want to spend it. I keep telling myself that. I can behave however I want tonight
with Hardin because when the daylight comes, I am going to tell him never to
come near me again, and he will oblige. It’s for the best, and I know that is what
he will want when he isn’t intoxicated. In my defense, I am just as intoxicated by
Hardin as he is by the bottle of scotch he consumed. I keep telling myself that,
too.
As Hardin continues to stare into my eyes, I begin to feel nervous. What

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should I do next? I have no idea where he wants to take this and I don’t want to
make a fool out of myself by trying to do something first.
He seems to notice my uncomfortable expression.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and brings a hand to my face. His finger traces over
my cheekbone and my eyes involuntarily close at his surprisingly gentle touch.
“Nothing . . . I just don’t know what to do,” I admit and look down.
“Do whatever you want to do, Tess. Don’t overthink it.”
I lean back a little to create about a foot of space between our torsos and bring
my hand up to his bare chest. I look at him for permission and he nods. I press
both hands against his chest softly and he closes his eyes. My fingers trace the
birds on his chest and down to the dead tree on his stomach. His eyelashes flutter
as I trace the scripture on his ribs. His expression is so calm, but his chest is
moving up and down quicker than it was a few moments ago. I’m unable to
control myself as I bring my hand down and run my index finger along the
waistband of his boxers. His eyes shoot open and he looks nervous. Hardin,
nervous?
“Can I . . . um . . . touch you?” I ask with the hope that he gets what I mean
without me having to say it. I feel detached from myself. Who is this girl
straddling this punk boy and asking to touch him . . . down there? I think back to
what Hardin said earlier about me being my true self with him. Maybe he is
right. I love the way I feel right now. I love the electricity shooting through my
body when we’re like this.
He nods. “Please.”
So I lower my hand, keeping it on top of his boxers, and slowly I reach the
slight bulge in the fabric. He sucks in a breath as I graze my hand over him. I
don’t know what to do, so I just keep touching it, running my fingers up and
down. I am too nervous to look up at him, so I keep my eyes on his growing
crotch.
“Do you want me to show you what to do?” he asks quietly, his voice shaky.
The usual cocky demeanor has shifted into something mysterious.
I nod and he puts his hand over mine, bringing it down to touch him again. He
opens my hand and makes my fingers cup around his length. When he sucks a
breath between his lips, I look up at him through my lashes. He takes his hand
off mine, giving me full control.
“Fuck, Tessa, don’t do that,” he growls. Confused, I still my hand and am
about to jerk it away when he speaks up. “No, no, not that. Keep doing that—I
mean don’t look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“That innocent way—that look that makes me want to do so many dirty things

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to you.”
I want to throw myself back onto the bed and let him do whatever he wants. I
want to be his—to be freed for a moment from whatever it is that makes me so
scared sometimes. I give him a small smile and begin to move my hand again. I
want to take his boxers off, but I’m afraid to. A moan escapes his lips and I
tighten my grip; I want to hear that sound again. I don’t know if I should move
my hand faster or not, so I keep my movements slow and tight, and he seems to
like it. I lean in and press my lips against the clammy skin of his neck, causing
him to moan again.
“Fuck, Tess, your hand feels so good wrapped around me.” I give him a little
tighter squeeze and he winces. “Not that hard, baby,” he says in a voice that’s
soft and sounds like it could never be the same one that mocked me before.
“Sorry,” I say and kiss his neck again. My tongue runs over the skin beneath
his ear and his body jumps. His hands go to my chest and he cups my breasts
beneath his hands.
“Can I. Take. Off. Your . . . bra?”
His voice is so uncontrolled and raspy; I’m amazed by the effect I am having
on him. I nod and his eyes light up in excitement. His hands are shaky as he
reaches under the shirt and up my back, unclasping my bra as soon as his fingers
touch the strap with a dexterity that makes me think for a minute about how
many times he has done this before. I force the thoughts to the back of my mind,
and Hardin slides the straps down my arms, making me let go of him. Tossing
my bra off the bed, he returns his hands up under my shirt and grabs hold of my
breasts again. His fingers lightly pinch my nipples as he leans forward to kiss
me. I moan into his mouth and reach down and grab his length again.
“Oh, Tessa, I’m going to come,” he says, and I feel the wetness growing in my
panties even though he is only touching my chest. I feel like I may come, too,
from his moans and his gentle assault against my breasts alone. His legs tense
under me and his kiss becomes sloppier. His hands drop down by his sides, and I
feel a wetness spread through his boxers and pull my hand away. I have never
made anyone else come before. My chest heats, filling with a strange new sense
that I’m now one step closer to being a woman. Staring down at the wet spot on
Hardin’s boxers, I love the control I feel over him. I love that I could bring his
body pleasure the way he does mine.
Hardin’s head rolls back and he takes a few deep breaths while I sit on his
thighs, unsure what to do. After a moment, his eyes open and he lifts his head
back up to look at me. A lazy smile crosses his face and he leans forward to kiss
me on my forehead.
“I have never come like that before,” he says, and I am back to being

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embarrassed.
“It was that bad?” I ask and try to move off his legs. He stops me.
“What? No, you were that good. It usually takes more than someone just
grabbing me through my boxers.”
A pang of jealousy hits me. I don’t want to think about all the other girls that
have made Hardin feel this way. He takes in my silence and cups my cheek,
brushing his thumb along my temple. I am comforted by the fact that the others
had to do more than I did, but I still wish there weren’t any others. I don’t know
why I bother to feel this way; Hardin and I are still unresolved. We are never
going to date or be anything other than this, but right now, I just want to live in
the moment, just the two of us. I laugh a little as the thought crosses my mind. I
am not a “live in the moment” type of person at all.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, but I shake my head. I don’t want to tell
him about my jealous thoughts. It’s not fair, and I don’t want that conversation.
“Oh come on, Tessa, just tell me,” he says, and I shake my head again. In a
very un-Hardin move he grabs hold of my hips and begins to tickle me. I scream
with laughter and fall off him and onto the soft bed. He continues to tickle me
until I can’t breathe. His laughter booms through the room—and it’s the most
beautiful sound I have ever heard. I have never heard him laugh this way, and
something tells me hardly anyone has. Despite his flaws, his many flaws, I
consider myself lucky to see him in this moment.
“Okay . . . okay! I will tell you!” I screech and he stops.
“Good choice,” he says. But looking down, he adds, “But hold that thought. I
need to change my boxers.”
I blush.

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chapter thirty-four
H
ardin goes over to his dresser and opens the top drawer, pulling out a pair of
blue-and-white plaid boxers, and holds them up in the air with a disgusted look
on his face.
“What?” I ask, and prop my head up on my elbow and look at him.
“These are hideous,” he says.
I laugh, but I’m also pleased that the earlier secret about whether or not there
were clothes in the dresser is now settled at least. Landon’s mother or Hardin’s
father must have purchased all the clothes in the room for Hardin. Which is sad,
really, that they would buy clothes and fill the dresser in hopes that Hardin
would come around sometime.
“They aren’t so bad,” I tell him, and he rolls his eyes. I doubt anything will
look as good as Hardin’s usual black boxer briefs, but then again I can’t imagine
anything looking actually bad on him.
“Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Back in a minute,” he says and walks out of
the room wearing only his wet boxers.