19. Harvey

19

HARVEY

It's a terrible idea letting this mess of a girl into my life, allowing her chaos to disrupt the very delicate structure I built for myself in order to survive. I see through all her bullshit, because I'm the same way. Two faces on the same coin, just slightly altered from twists of fate. I had to grow up too soon, and someone tried to keep Nia from doing it at all.

Not intentionally maybe, but parental neglect sometimes comes in the form of doing too much just the same as it can be not doing enough.

Where my brain goes off at the speed of light with tumultuous thoughts any time I'm not in control, for her, it's the opposite. It's the need to decide, the need to perform according to expectations, that's drowning her. She's desperate for someone to relieve her of the burden.

Nia's putty in my hands as I run the loofa over her body, and I don't bother to not look. My eyes explore every inch of her just the same as the soap. I scrub her legs, her feet, and then I move up to her arms. She stops breathing when the loofa touches her stomach.

I don't move.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No." Her dark eyes burn into mine.

Dropping the loofa, I reach for her, my hand sprawling across the width of her stomach before I decide If I want to move up or down. Her breasts are small, with perfect brown nipples that I'm aching to touch.

"Please," she whispers when I still haven't moved.

It's just us and the beating of water against the floor.

Slowly, I walk my fingers down her stomach, past her belly button, all the way down to her center. My eyes are on hers, and she knows better than to look away. "Breathe," I remind her, and her chest moves on command when her lungs inflate.

Then, I slip my fingers through her folds. The sticky arousal waiting for me is dripping down her thighs, and she gasps as I make contact with the little rose bud, swollen and coated in her juices. I want to taste her, but I'm already in over my head.

Not tonight.

I squeeze two fingers around her clit and rub them together, an audible squeak falling from her lips as she drops her casted arm over my shoulder. She's tired of holding it up, and it's probably heavy. I walk her into the corner of the shower, getting us out of the spray of water, and when her back touches the wall, I finally push the two fingers inside of her.

"Oh!" She grabs at my shoulder, and though I should have expected it, I'm not prepared; I can't help but tense.

Her face scrunches up like she notices the change, and then her hand is off me.

I focus on her again, rubbing my fingers over the ridged spot inside that has her moaning from the depths of her chest. She's not as quiet anymore, and I'm going faster with each stroke. My fingers don't just move back and forth, but spear inside, stretching her, the base of my palm hitting her clit.

Nia's teeth dig into her bottom lip, the color draining from the spot the harder she bites down, the more I fuck her with my fingers.

I swipe my thumb across that swollen button, pressing down with rough circles while my middle and index finger continue their torture. Deep, methodical strokes have her practically sobbing for release with each movement from me.

Her knees buckle with the climb of her orgasm, and I brace to bear her weight. "You can let go," I tell her, and she accepts permission, collapsing onto me. I'm still stroking her; the pulsing doesn't stop, so I don't either.

She's biting back a moan that sounds almost painful, muffling it with her face on the front of my sports bra until she finally stops. Wave after wave, her body finally gives, and she's limp in my arms. It's a kind of satisfaction I can't explain. I can only appreciate how it makes me feel.

I'm still shouldering her with one arm when I reach for the towel hanging in the rack. I wrap it around her and then carry her to her room. She's burnt out, all the adrenaline from the injury fizzled out of her, nothing but exhaustion and pain taking its place instead.

Her eyes are closed when I get her on the bed, and I hesitate, wondering if I should try to clothe her or not. I'm brushing a wet strand of hair off her face when she lets out a small sound, a hum, something like appreciation.

I grab the brush on her nightstand, pull all her hair over her shoulder, and begin to brush the ends. Working my way up slowly, I detangle the long mess to completion, feeling her stare on me.

I do my best to collect all her hair and divide it into three strands. I haven't braided anything in sixteen years, but I try anyway, crossing the chunks of hair over each other until something is slightly assembled. It's not pretty, but it'll do.

I cover her with the blanket and walk toward the door, flipping the switch to turn the lights off.

"Don't go," she mumbles out exhaustedly.

"I shouldn't stay." I don't owe her anything, but I say it for myself.

"You said you would help me." Her mumbles turn a little more clear, like she's coming back from the high of the orgasm and returning to coherence.

"You need help to sleep?" I toss sarcastically.

But she fucking nods, eyes closed, smile stretching over her face.

Is this girl for fucking real?

And why am I absolutely crazy for it?

"Let me get you water for your medicine." I walk out and grab a glass from the kitchen cabinet, filling it up from the pitcher in the fridge.

She's already asleep when I come back, so I lay the pill on the bedside table and place the water next to it. I close my fist around the prescription bottle. I could take it. She needs me to take it. But I don't.

Because she also needs to want it on her own.

I put the orange plastic bottle next to her glass and go in search of my shirt. It's still damp, but I pull it over my head anyway and ignore the discomfort. Just as I flick the bathroom light off, I feel something, like I'm being watched. I turn to the end of the hallway to see K standing at their open door, too dark to make out any expression on their face.

I throw them an awkward wave that they don't return before I head for the door and leave.

Staying here would be a mistake.

Because if I stay, she'll think I can offer far more than I truly can.