16
(Garrett)
Welcome to my very own wretched hell.
Cara’s hand falls to my knee, using the position to urge herself up from where she’s been curled against me for the last few hours, her head resting on my aching shoulder while she works over a red wine buzz and occasionally writhes around when she needs to stretch.
Unfortunately, because this is Cara, I’m willing to subject myself to the torture just to be near her. Torture that also includes Real Housewives. All of whom are fucking terrible. How a woman as smart as Cara finds this bullshit entertaining, I cannot understand. We’re two hours in and I’m about one more Vanderpump away from losing my goddam mind.
As for my shoulder, it’s killing me. Thanks to three dislocations from my high school wrestling days, my right shoulder is already junk. And after humping all those bags of mineral salt into Kenny’s truck yesterday then shooting my bow today, the damn thing feels like it’s about to go out again.
Cara leans up to take a sip from her wineglass, and I seize the opportunity to let out a quiet hiss of discomfort. I close my eyes and slowly adjust the position of my shoulder while twisting my neck to the left, praying that will dampen the worst of the pain before Cara takes up her spot again.
Just as I start to stretch, a heady waft of the Creamsicle scent I associate with Cara hits me.
Jesus. Now what? If I open my eyes, will she be sitting there sucking on a Popsicle?
Slowly, I lift one eyelid and take a cautious look her way. No seductive Popsicle licking, thankfully. Instead, she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small glass bottle in one hand, dribbling some sort of oil into her other palm. After setting the bottle on the coffee table, she rubs the oil between her hands and then extends one leg out, slowly drawing her palms over the smooth, toned skin on her thighs.
Slowly. Like, erotically, painfully, slowly.
Another pour of the oil into her hand. A new episode of those idiot Housewives is playing, and all her attention is on the screen, her eyes wide and her jaw tipsily slack as her hands follow the same slicked-up path, but on her other leg. I roll my shoulder again and consider that it might be better if it did go out. Then I’d be too distracted by the pain to think about the growing ache behind my fly.
Cara turns just as I grit my teeth and one side of my face crinkles up into a grimace.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, that’s a load of bull. Your face is all squished up. Are you sick?”
I shake my head but decide to grab my forearm with the opposite hand and outstretch it across my chest, pressing tentatively to see what happens. What happens is that it hurts even more.
Cara listens to me cuss under my breath, then scoots closer and draws her fingertip over my shoulder. “Here?”
“It’s an old wrestling thing. I’ve dislocated it too many times, and when I was helping Kenny load some bags up the other day, I must have tweaked it or something. Not a big deal; eventually, it’ll calm down.” I release my arms and let them rest on my knees, leaning forward with my head dropped down.
“Take your shirt off.”
My head lifts a little. “Excuse me?”
She grabs the bottle off the table and holds it up, giving it a loose shake in my direction.
“Take your shirt off and I’ll rub your shoulder with this. It’s scented argan oil.” She thrusts the bottle under my nose. “Do you mind the smell?”
Do I mind the smell? No. Does she mind that I’m currently picturing her naked and drenched in this stuff?
I shake my head, answering in a rasp. “I like it.”
“Scoot forward, then. It’ll be easier if I sit behind you.”
Cara wedges herself in behind me and starts to work my T-shirt up, the tips of her nails grazing across the skin on my back, and I try to figure out if what’s happening is Cara’s idea or the wine’s idea. But her eyes aren’t bloodshot, and she isn’t slurring her words or fumbling with the hem of my shirt. She might be riding a decent buzz, but nothing says she’s out of her mind drunk. And what she offered is a shoulder rub, nothing more.
I take over pulling off my shirt and lay it over the arm of the couch. When I turn back to make sure I’m not about to squish her, Cara is chewing on a thumbnail and sneaking a look at my chest. Her eyes tick upward and meet mine, a coy smile curving at her mouth. Shoulder rub, I remind myself, that’s all she’s proposed. But for a woman who a few days ago claimed we couldn’t be together, she’s certainly not shying away with her eyes at the moment.
“Make sure you tell me what you need. Harder or softer, OK? I want it to feel good.”
I stifle a groan at all the ways I could interpret what she just said, none of which have anything to do with my stupid shoulder. She settles in and stretches her legs out so they’re positioned to either side of mine. The sound of her dribbling oil into her hands, then rubbing them together is enough to make my cock thicken. And when she places an open hand to each of my shoulders, I have to hold my breath for a second, simply because her slippery, warm palms feel too good.
She starts in with long strokes, using her thumbs when she meets my neck. The scent of the oil wafts up with every pass. My shoulder starts to ease and release under her touch, along with every other inch of my skin she touches. She adds more oil and massages the length of my back, kneading down until her hands are easing under the waist of my jeans a little. I curve forward to encourage her and end up nearly slumped over from the relief. I’m a few minutes away from either moaning loudly or falling asleep, not sure which.
“Sit back,” she whispers. I don’t move. Her arms slither around my waist. “Lean back so I can get the front. I can’t reach with you sitting like that.”
My heartbeat starts to thump wildly because her hands are already exploring my chest and abs, her palms flat and her fingers spread wide. She gives a little tug to encourage me.
Finally, I lean back, trying to figure out how I can relax and still keep from putting all my weight on her. I reach for the edge of the couch cushions, grip my hands there, and let my arms do the work of holding my upper body off of hers.
“Come on, I can take it. Just relax.”
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one who’s trying to forget hearing her say the words “I can take it” and keep his demanding cock in check.
And when her hands start to glide over my pecs, lingering the tips of her fingers over my nipples, I lose the fight with my sanity. When she does it again, but harder, my newfound appreciation for nipple play goes straight to my dick, where we’re both a little surprised at the effect of her deliberate touch there.
She treks downward, over my abs and lower still, until my jeans become a barrier to going any farther. Another pass, abs to chest, chest to abs. This time, her fingers decide that, jeans or not, she’s dipping lower. Her nails tickle the skin when she does. On her third round, she tucks her fingers deep enough that she’s under the waist of my boxers.
My breath slows as my heartbeat continues to hammer. My head is a mess, battling between what I want and what she said couldn’t happen between us again. My hard cock doesn’t care, though, because Cara’s hands are exploring and her body is pulsating with each unsteady breath.
But this was supposed to be a shoulder rub. That was OK. This, whatever the hell it’s turning into, may not be. Not if she gives herself a chance to think beyond the wine.
I grab her hands. “Cara. What are you doing?” She lets out a needy-sounding whimper and does her best to free her hands from my grip. I loosen my hold but don’t let go. “You said we can’t do this.”
Her mouth lands on my shoulder and she kisses a spot there. “What if I changed my mind?” she practically purrs. “What if I’ve second-guessed what I said the other day since the second I said it?”
She tugs free of my grip and puts her hands on my jeans, pressed boldly over my obvious hard-on. My own hands are frozen in midair.
“Are you drunk?” I choke out.
She chuckles softly. “No.”
When she starts to make short work of the button and zipper on my pants, the rest of what I’m worried about comes out in a rush.
“Are you going to regret this? Show up at my work again and say we shouldn’t have? Because I’m not going to be good with that. I’d rather just stop now.”
Her hand slides into my boxers, still a little slippery from the oil. When she grips me and starts to move, I suck in a harsh breath as precum leaks from the tip on the very first stroke.
“Do you want me to stop? Because I don’t. I want this.”
I grit my teeth to keep from thrusting into her hold. “No, I sure as hell don’t want you to stop. I just don’t—”
“Hush, then.” Cara lands her mouth on my earlobe, then kisses down my neck. “Lift up a little.”
First the nipple play, now the neck kissing. All things I think of as more female pleasures, but right now they’re doing it for me in a big way.
I give in. She isn’t drunk, and we both want this. A lift of my hips and she pushes my jeans and boxers down until my cock springs out, bobbing there impatiently. The bottle of oil appears, and as her palm fills, I consider the possibility I might come from sheer anticipation. And when her hands take me, circling the head and slipping one over the other, I remember thinking of this the first day I met her. The totally inappropriate image of her done-up nails and a slow, slippery hand job. If anyone told me then that it was going to be a reality, I’d have said they needed to have their fucking head examined.
“I love your cock. The way you get so hard. How this part”—Cara traces two fingers gently to the underside of the head—“is so smooth.”
Is she trying for a record? The world’s shortest hand job? Because those words coming out of her mouth are a surefire way to earn a medal.
Cara tightens her grasp, and my lungs cease to function for a moment. She’s just discovered my favorite grip, something shy of painful but so good for me. Most women don’t know how hard they can work your cock and they’d never guess the abuse a guy sometimes inflicts on his dick when he’s jacking off. But Cara found what I need without anything but her instincts.
Only one thing could make this better.
I’m so close that if I want to put a big cherry on top of this hand job, I need to take it now. Another minute or so, and this will be over.
Fuck it. I put my hands to hers and widen the spread between my legs. I draw one of her hands down. She cups my balls and holds there.
“How should I . . .” Her words trail off.
I take a labored breath in. “Tug or squeeze, anything you’re comfortable with. Don’t be shy, though. I need to feel it.”
She starts with a squeeze. It’s good, but not near what I need. A roll, then a little tug. My chest starts to heave. “Harder.”
Cara moans, then grabs on and goes for it. Those mind-blowing instincts of hers do the rest. I groan long and loud—because I want to be sure she knows how perfect this is. Before I know it, she’s doing everything all at once, jacking my cock and tugging on my balls in a perfect rhythm. I cast one look at her hands, knowing that’s all it’s going to take. Seeing the glisten of oil is enough and I spill into her hands with a near shout. She doesn’t stop, only slows her strokes until I can’t take it anymore. With a grunt, I grab for her hands with my own trembling pair, forcing her to stop before she kills me.
Cara tucks her head into the crook of my neck and lets out a murmuring exhale. Her teeth nip a tiny spot on my neck and my skin erupts under another wave of satisfaction. “Jesus. That was so hot.”
If I ever figure out how to speak again, I’ll tell her exactly how much I’m with her on that. For now, I’m going to stay here and try not to pass out.
After a few minutes, Cara’s arms start to tremble a little, from where they’re still around my waist. Our bodies are slightly damp against each other from exertion and my low back is cradled to her pussy, but my instincts tell me that the heat there isn’t just because we’re nested together. I sort out our limbs from each other and start to tug up my boxers and jeans a bit.
“Now you,” I say, sliding off the couch and onto the floor on my knees.
Cara has her hands up in front of her, looking confused when I turn around and grab her legs so I can pull her toward me. “What?”
“Now. You.”
Cara lets out a squeak when I make for her shirt, growling as I yank on the buttons with stupidly unsmooth fingers. When the last button comes free, I pull her shirt back and groan.
No bra. Just Cara and her small, firm tits on display, tipped with rosy, rock-hard nipples. I go straight for her, taking one between my lips and using my fingers to roll the other. Cara arches her back and I switch my hold, tweaking the first one, now slippery from my mouth, until she gives up a moan.
She’s slumped down into the couch cushions so my abs are pressed between her legs, and when she tilts her ass up, she hits the wall of my body and grinds herself there with a few twists of her hips. Even if I’d like a little more time with her tits, we can come back to that later. The urgent press of her pussy against me is too much to ignore. Pulling her shirt off her shoulders, I toss it to the far side of the couch and start to work on getting these shorts off of her, curling my fingers at the waist and tugging them down over her hips. Cara’s eyes flip open and we lock gazes. For a moment, everything feels weighted in that look, the two of us trying to decide if this—the chemistry, the heat, the way we can’t stay away—is more than what it seems.
A few seconds pass, my hands still gripping the material of her shorts and hoping she’ll lift her hips so I can finish this task. Instead, she locks her strong quads in place and tries to snap her knees together, but my body is in the way. Still, the message is clear. We are a no-go here.
My hands freeze. “What’s wrong?”
Cara starts to mumble under her breath, then slaps her hands over her face and goes entirely still, quiet except for the sound of her shuddering breath.
Does she not want me to go down on her? Is that the problem? Some women aren’t comfortable—I get that—especially not at first. So no pussy eating tonight? Fine. I can deal with that, even if I’m thinking I could spend a few hours down there and still not get enough.
“I am so sorry.” Cara draws her hands down and peeks my way from over the tips of her fingers. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I catch up quickly. Fast enough that I feel my entire face go slack.
Holy. Fuck. Not this again.
Cara starts to rattle on about me being shirtless, how that caused a case of brain freeze, how much she wishes this were different. All I hear is an enormous load of bullshit.
“Stop.” I grit my teeth together. “Just . . . don’t. Please.”
I remove my hands from her body and set back on my heels, taking a good long look at her lying there, nearly naked and throwing a regretful gaze my way that does nothing but piss me off more.
I just let her stroke me off and came in her hands while she had ahold of my balls—in more ways than one. I came harder than I have in years, soaking up the entire experience, so weak and vulnerable that she got the best of me. Because this girl thinks I’m her dumb-ass redneck plaything. Some guy she can tow around by the dick and act like he’s not worthy of licking her pussy. And I let her do it.
Grabbing my shirt off the couch arm, I yank it over my head and zip up my jeans. Cara dives for her own shirt and fumbles it on.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—well, fuck that.
“Garrett, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad. Please, just—”
I stand and put both my hands up in front of me until she shuts up. She’s using one hand to keep her unbuttoned shirt closed with her feet tucked up under her. She looks tiny sitting there with me looming over her, which is what I need at the moment. If she stood up and our perfectly matched bodies came closer, it would be impossible for me to believe I have some power here.
“The first time you pulled this stunt, I took it. I didn’t understand it, I didn’t like it—but I took it.” My jaw flexes tightly as I choose my next words carefully, knowing I’m about to draw a line between us. “Not this time. You might think I’m some stupid country boy you can fuck with, but I’m not. We’re done here.”
I don’t wait for her to respond or question me, or hear her out when she starts in on a new round of apologies. I’m out the door and climbing in my truck before she can do or say anything else. My hands shake as I jam the key in the ignition and cold air rushes out of the vents when the engine turns over, sending it coasting over my bare arms.
Great. I forgot my coat in there. And my ball cap. Also—and this seems like the biggest problem of all—I left three beers in the fridge. Beers I could use right now.
Fuck it. I’ll buy another coat, another hat. And a whole new case of beer, too.
A rough shove puts the truck in gear, but before my foot makes it from the brake to the gas pedal, the front door to the house swings open. Cara steps out onto the porch with my jacket, clutching it close to her chest. She halts there, barefoot and wearing tiny shorts, with her shirt now buttoned—but barely.
In the dark. In February. In Colorado.
And as much as I wish I didn’t give a damn that she has to be freezing her ass off—I do.
I should drive away. Drive away at a clip that sets gravel spinning, leaving Cara on her own to figure out how stupid it is to stand out there in the middle of winter. That’s what I should do.
But I can’t. I can’t because I’m a moron. Because I hate the sight of her looking lost. Because I hate feeling this way—pissed off and out of control—but when it comes at the cost of something, anything, with Cara, it’s worse.
I throw a closed fist into the door trim panel and let the pain seep up before cutting the engine and returning to the porch. Stepping onto the second porch riser, I extend my arm, palm open, to retrieve my jacket. “Thank you. Go back inside.”
Cara clutches the coat tighter to her chest and shakes her head. I flick my hand, silently demanding that she hand over my damn coat.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“Too bad. I told you, we’re done here. I’d like my coat, but I’m happy to leave without it.”
“Garrett . . .” Her head tilts to one side, with a plea in her eyes that sets me off.
“Fucking hell. What do you want from me? I let you jerk me off on the couch, then send me packing, just like you did last time. It’s just my dick was in your hands, instead of inside you. Is that not enough humiliation for you?”
Cara’s entire body seems to deflate. She shakes her head.
“I never wanted to humiliate you, Garrett. Never. But I didn’t plan on this—meeting you and feeling all . . . like this. It’s confusing. And I know that this doesn’t have to be a big deal, but I suck at casual. I keep telling myself to let you do your thing and I’ll do mine, but it’s not working.”
She drops her chin with a slow exhale, and almost looks near tears for a moment.
God. Why is this so complicated? Why are we fighting about this shit? What does she think is going to happen if she stops putting up roadblocks between us? She’ll fall in love with me? That I’m such a primo catch she’ll cast off her writing, her career, and her dreams? Come the fuck on. I’m not a primo catch, and she’s not the type to give up on her dreams. Take it from someone who knows how it’s done. There’s a way to do it right, and you eventually learn to take today as it comes, forget tomorrow or next week or next year, because you’re not counting on anything anyway. I’ve known Cara for two weeks, and I already know that way of life isn’t for her.
So, honestly, she has nothing to lose. I’m not going to try to keep her, because she doesn’t belong in a place like this, living a life like mine. I’m far more likely to end up gutted over losing a girl like her, not the other way around. She won’t lose her mind over me, because her mind is too great a thing—it will remind her, always, of a greater goal.
I take a second to be sure I’ve evaluated this situation correctly, that it isn’t my always-interested-in-Cara dick that’s doing the thinking here. Cara’s gaze has dipped to the ground, and her mouth is turned down at the corners. When I step up one riser, her eyes drift upward slowly and meet mine. I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m not going to pull any punches here, because we’re past that at this point. You’re only here for a few more weeks. After that you go back to your life in Chicago.” I tip my chin to be sure we’re as eye to eye as possible. “And us fucking each other until you do won’t change any of that. I think half of what you’re worried about is because you’re fighting this. But we both know you have things you came here to do and you’re bound to end up back where you belong. Am I right?”
Cara shrugs. I run a hand through my hair with a huff.
“That isn’t an answer. You doing this”—I repeat what she just did—“isn’t an answer. Come on, be honest. Tell me where you live. Where you get your mail, the address you write down when someone asks. Where. Do. You. Live?”
She straightens up a bit. “Chicago.”
“Yes. Now tell me what you’re here to do.”
“Write.”
“Exactly.” I lean in toward her. “And I won’t get in the way of that, Cara. I promise. You keep saying you want this, so stop getting in the way of what’s going on between us and trust that in the end, you’ll still have your story. Stop overthinking this and just let it happen; then you don’t have to worry about wanting it, because you have it.”
Cara’s eyebrows rise up. “But how would that work? Letting this happen?”
“It means we’re together while you’re here. We hang out, we go to dinner. We stay in and watch your shitty reality shows. We have sex. But you don’t push this fuck-and-run thing on me afterward; I stay the night. You suck at casual? Fine. While you’re here we won’t be casual; it’ll be you and me, together, every day.”
Her head rears back a few inches. “Every day? All day? But I have work to do. I can’t just laze around all day and have sex with you. That’s what I’m struggling with. Getting caught up in this.”
A tired laugh escapes me. I take the final step toward her, clasping my hands to her face.
“Relax. I work fifty hours a week at the co-op, which means I can’t stay here and be your personal sex toy, either. This is simple. I work, you work. After work, we do other stuff. Like, I don’t know, make dinner. Go for a drive. Fuck like rabbits.”
“Oh.” Cara’s gaze falls so that she’s staring at my shirt collar and worrying her bottom lip, clearly mulling over my proposal in her brilliantly overactive mind. I could kiss her or keep talking, but neither of those seems like the right thing to do. It’s better to give her some breathing room and let her debate the details for a minute.
So I wait.
One minute turns to two.
Another minute and my arms start to get tired from clasping her face. I start to wonder if she’s reciting multiplication tables in her head. Silently singing her own opera renditions. Rehashing the latest Housewives episode or wondering how many different ways those women can find to waste good money.
Beautiful mind or not, if Cara doesn’t speak soon, I’m going to kiss her. Maybe that’ll remind her what’s at stake here.