Catching Harley - Book cover

Catching Harley

Suzanna A. Levis



I have to get out of here.

For whatever reason, lilies seem to be a standard flower used by hotels, and the moment I stepped into this room I was reminded of the funeral.

Lilies were my mother’s favorite flower, which meant that anyone who knew her brought them. The heap of flowers on her burial place in the cemetery was nothing but pungent lilies.

I should have asked for a no-flower service and had everyone donate to Cancer research or something. But when you’re a son, you don’t think of these things. I never did at least. I thought my mother would live forever.

She’d always been there for me in the past, so death seemed out of character for her. It snuck up on her, jumped out of nowhere, hit her with a motorcycle while she was crossing the street.

I take a quick shower and almost feel human again after that nine-hour flight with only Jack Daniel’s for company. But he’ll be back in a few minutes, sweating out of my pores.

I dress in the running gear I packed in my extremely organized suitcase and head out for a jog, but not before asking the receptionist to have all the flowers removed by the time I get back to my room.

The overly friendly, flirtatious clerk ends our interaction with the standard “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Johannsson?” while batting her eyes.

“No.” I put my earbuds in and get the hell out of there.

I don’t know what it is with women nowadays, but they’re far too forward—and sometimes damn near aggressive—with what they want.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with a woman knowing what she wants. It’s sexy as hell. But when it comes to men, we should be the ones initiating the hunt. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned that way.

I get my music going, then set my maps to plan a route past the café where Jack works so I can scope out the area. I made sure to book a hotel just a few blocks away from the address he gave me, right in the city center.

When he heard the news about my mum’s passing, he reached out. I was in a dark place, so when he mentioned he could use my help with a project, I didn’t hesitate to pack up and leave.

After about ten minutes of running, I slow down to check out the café he works at. I can see Jack through the windows of the busy establishment, but don’t go in just yet. I’ll meet him later after work.

I run for another twenty minutes, and then I see her.

Actually, I’m surprised that I even notice her, since women haven’t exactly been on my radar for the last few years. That and I’m usually so caught up in my own head while running that I’m oblivious to external stimuli.

But there must’ve been something in the way she moved that penetrated my mental shield.

I watch her from behind at first; she’s walking down the street like she owns this whole city, her little white sundress with blue flowers swishing at that perfect length—right under her perfectly formed ass.

I stop running and walk a fair distance behind her, admiring the view, hypnotized by that swish and the bounce of her long, golden hair. I make sure to sear the way she moves into my mind for later use in the shower.

You’re a dog, Erik.

Nearly every man that walks past her looks back to check her out, which piques my curiosity even further. If she’s this magnetic from behind, I need to see the rest of her for myself.

So I do the only logical thing: cross the street, run ahead of her, and cross back and walk straight toward her. I don’t even know what she looks like, and already she has me losing my firm grip on reality.

My suspicions are not only confirmed but blown right out of the water—bombshell. Then I notice she’s not wearing a bra and my brain goes on vacation.

I mean, it must have, because I suddenly get the bright idea to bump into her.

On purpose.


My body doesn’t listen to my brain, and we collide. My hand automatically moves to catch her, but she steadies herself on her own.

For a moment her gorgeous features harden, as if she’s about to explode with violence, but then she softens. The look of pained disappointment on her face when she looks at her box on the ground almost breaks my heart.

That is, until the delightful string of expletives she utters knocks me back into reality.

I scowl, unimpressed by her colorful language. Just another vulgar-mouthed, American girl wrapped in a nice package. How disappointing.

When she looks up at me with those green-brown eyes, I can see her lush pink lips moving but hear very little of what she says. Something about steroids. My mind’s still too confused by how a mouth that beautiful can be so filthy.

It’s when I feel my dick twitching that I realize I need to get away from her, fast. I brush past her, then hear her call after me through my music.

I look back to see her gathering her box off the ground, and then she shouts something about steroids and my perfect ass, and I can’t help but stop in my tracks.

I should at least apologize for bumping into her. It was entirely my fault.

But when I turn around, she’s already walking away with an even more exaggerated swish to her dress.

There’s no doubt I handled that very poorly.

When I replay it over in my head, I can honestly say I have no idea what happened. One look from those eyes and my brain seemed to lose all coherent function.

When I get back to my room, the lilies are gone, replaced with dusty blue peonies and white roses, just like the blue flowers on that woman’s dress.

I’m still thinking about her when I hit the shower, and even after I finish jerking off to her swish and pouty lips, she’s still on my mind.

So I call reception and have them remove all the flowers from the suite, then sleep half the day, dreaming of that filthy mouth.

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