Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Seven*

It takes a delayed moment for her to realize what's happening, but when she does, she doesn't know what to do. He kisses her as a drowning man gasps for air, with his hands snatching her up by her waist and pulling her near with a strength that robs her of her breath.

It clicks with her after the shock wears off that Harry is kissing her, and she's kissing him back.

Alarm bells ring in her head to tell her to stop it, to push him away and ask him if he's lost his mind, but her body is betraying her. Rather than push him away, her arms throw themselves over his broad shoulders to trap him in. They shouldn't be doing this. She knows it's wrong, he knows it's wrong, and anyone with two brain cells to rub together knows it's wrong, so why can't she stop?

Well, if she could think straight, maybe she'd come to the conclusion that kissing her is the most tolerable thing he's done with his mouth thus far. Every other second, he's using it to order her around, but this time he's putting it to good use.

The hands on her waist search around her body to grab, knead, and explore anywhere he pleases, and she lets him do it. He sneaks his hands up the bottom of her skirt to squeeze the soft flesh of her ass and bring her hips forward to press against his, then hoists her up into his arms without a warning. The jarring shift in height as he guides her legs around his waist doesn't last long.

She's suspended in the air for a split second and dropped onto the hood of the car with no care or tenderness. He doesn't kiss, hold, or touch her like a lover. No, this is an argument, a non-verbal screaming match that has come to fruition only because he refuses to fight her the old-fashioned way. Everything they do is tinged by the violence they wish to inflict on each other but can't.

Her elbows ache where they press into the steel hood to remain propped up enough to watch, breathless, as he slips his hands beneath her skirt and tears her panties off of her. The lace rips with little effort on his part. She typically doesn't wear such delicate, thin underthings, but it's laundry day and these were her last pair. In the comfort of her mind, she thanks herself for choosing to put off laundry until tonight. If not, he likely would've been subjected to her ugliest yet most comfortable pair instead.

The torn scrap of lace is discarded somewhere above her head. It's the least of her concerns where that ends up. She'll worry about that later because, right now, Harry's hands find purchase on her thighs and use it as leverage to yank her to the edge of the car.

A soft gasp escapes her parted lips at how he manhandles her. It's clear in how he touches her that he's a man used to getting what he wants, and he decided that it's her for tonight. He hikes the hem of her skirt up as far as it'll go until it's bunched above her hip bones, until—

He stills.

For the first time in the span of the minute and a half since he first kissed her, the breakneck pace they're running at screeches to a halt, and she's about to ask him what happened when it occurs to her before she can ask.

The scabbed cuts decorating her right hip didn't catch his attention until he glanced over her naked lower half a second time. He wanted to revel in the sight of her. Just because he hates her and wishes more than anything that he had a different driver to work with doesn't mean he's blind to his physical attraction to her. He's human, after all. He has eyes and, though he resents himself for it, he can't ignore his body's reaction to hers.

It's difficult to piece together his reaction. His features are hardened, more so than they were while they shouted at one another, and the tip of his thumb grazes over the raised lines of clotted blood in equal parts curiosity and guilt.

He knows. He knows these wouldn't be here if he hadn't jumped in her car last week. He knows he caused this and it stops him in his place.

Harley doesn't let him linger on this for too long.