Excerpt from When the Harvest Comes by Denne Michele Norris, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

One

Davis Josiah Freeman is perfectly safe.

He lies flat on his back, legs spread, ankles in the air, sweating from the heat of Everett's body on top of his. He revels in Everett's power—¬the strength of his arms, the hardness of his chest, and the tuft of dark hair that fans out from his navel. Davis loves the softness of that hair against the hardness of Everett's body, like a window through which he could almost touch Everett's soul.

Davis aches when Everett pushes deeper; he whimpers, then opens. He would be willingly consumed by Everett, swallowed whole, if it were possible. He places one hand on Everett's chest, the other gently on his neck, and pulls him down. Eyes meeting eyes, lips parting for lips. When Everett is inside him, Davis becomes another thing, a being both powerful and delicate, animal yet celestial. Everett is uncomplicated in his manliness: the depth of his voice, his penchant for bourbon and stout, the sheer size of him—¬both height and broadness. He becomes beastly during sex, and with any other man, it would scare Davis. But with Everett, he need not be fearful. Davis looks up at the way Everett's eyes have gone slack, almost milky white—¬his pupils having rolled to the back of his head.

In some ways Davis envies Everett this existence: moving through the world with the easy confidence of a man who is always in charge, always sure of himself. He is passionate and unafraid of a fight. Davis knows that with Everett by his side, he gets to live a particular kind of freedom. He can be silly. He can be naïve. He can have a tank full of sugar, as he'd once heard the Reverend say.

Davis can do this because he is loved and desired, which means he is protected.

His breath catches when Everett takes his wrists, pulls them up over his head, and brings them together, binding him to the bed. Everett lowers his chest until their torsos meet. He buries his lips in Davis's neck, breathing in the perfume with which Davis carefully dabbed himself that evening. He nibbles, Davis moans, and Everett thrusts deeper, rougher, his body now slapping hard against Davis, who shudders, then whimpers again, his voice turning up on the final syllable as though the name—¬Everett—¬is a discovery, both question and answer. He arches his back, opening himself more fully. Everett peers into his eyes, then spits into his mouth. Davis feels his flesh come alive; the tips of his fingers burn—¬trees turned to ash. Everett is anywhere, everywhere, his presence heard and felt with the matter-¬of-¬factness of air, trees, and water.

He fills Davis, and he fills the room.

With every movement more frenzied than the last, he drives Davis to bite his bottom lip, to clench the sheets. Davis convulses, and when he comes, fingernails digging into Everett's back, he considers this: He could not escape this man if he needed to. He is not strong enough to fight Everett off, not quick enough to move from underneath him. He loves the vulnerability of this, the theoretical danger in their union. He thinks, all the time, of that vulnerability—¬in a way it turns him on. It's an illusion, of course. Everett would never harm him. But he loves it nonetheless, and he knows Everett loves it, too.


In twenty-¬four hours, they will be married.

Davis wants to stay right where he is; he wants to remain under Everett, held by Everett for as long as possible. He wants to revolve around this beastly man like he is the sun. After Everett comes—¬groaning, panting, the hair on his body slick with sweat—¬he lowers himself down to the bed, arms encircling Davis, lips breathing warm air along Davis's neck, where he rests.

"Stay inside me," Davis whispers. His voice is shaky, his body still trembling. He closes his eyes and turns to his side. Everett nods and continues kissing his neck and shoulder. He loves the way Davis fits so easily in his arms—¬body short and slight, golden skin soft and clean, and so damn pretty. He runs a hand up and down Davis's leg.

Excerpted from When the Harvest Comes by William Norris. Copyright © 2025 by William Norris. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.