17
(Cara)
“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.”
PRO: This does sound simple. Deceptively so.
PRO: I like the idea of making dinner—with Garrett.
PRO: I like the idea of going for drives—with Garrett.
PRO: I like the idea of fucking like rabbits—with Garrett.
There’s a small tear in the collar of Garrett’s T-shirt, near the place where his left collarbone meets the fabric. I’ve stared at it for so long that I’d be surprised if he doesn’t jostle me back to reality soon. Instead, his hands remain pressed gently to my face, thumbs drifting over my cheekbones. He isn’t pushing, or pressing me for an answer. And if he’s still as angry as he was before, he’s damn good at hiding it. Or smothering it, burying it, and forgetting it. Or, as he just pointed out, I’m prone to overthinking things and he expertly isn’t.
I blink twice, then tilt my face to see his.
“Yes. OK.”
His face brightens in a flash, but he tamps it down just as quickly.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, to be safe. After that, we pretend like what happened earlier, didn’t. We move on.” He forces a neutral expression. “Are you sure?”
I give a jerky nod. Garrett replies by kissing me. Slow and teasing, proof of exactly how good he is at pretending and moving on. Because there’s nothing furtive or bitter or hesitant in the teasing play of our lips together, even when what happened ten minutes ago should have inspired all that and more. His hands slip from my face to around my waist when he breaks the kiss and steps back. I remember that I’m still clutching his coat. I press it toward his chest and he tucks me into the crook of his arm.
“What now?” I ask quietly, knowing that no matter the plan we agreed to—the dinner-making, drive-taking, and rabbit-like behaviors—I can’t manage a one-eighty without getting a little dizzy. I need his help to show me how it’s done.
Garrett cuts his eyes skyward with a thoughtful pucker of his lips.
“Well, neither of us is currently at work. We ate popcorn for dinner. And it’s a little late for a drive.” His gaze comes to mine. “That only leaves one thing on the list.”
Fuck like rabbits.
I try to keep everything in check. My erratic heartbeat, the tumble in my belly, the rate at which my lungs want to suck up all the oxygen in the county. We’ve already had sex. That ship has sailed, but even so, this is different. Intentional. Less like falling victim to a weakness for him and more like I’ve been handed a dirty Choose Your Own Adventure book.
If you think more sex with Garrett is the best idea ever, turn to page thirty-nine. If you prefer torturing yourself by staying away from him and watching Real Housewives at night for the next six weeks and never finding out what he was going to do if he’d gotten all of your clothes off, then turn to the last page. The end.
“You aren’t still hungry? We only had popcorn.”
Garrett does what I would have, eventually. He tucks my hair behind my ears.
“I’m not hungry. So, unless you’re hungry, I just want to go inside and be with you.” He pauses, searching my eyes. “Unless you’re not ready. Maybe you need a night to yourself?”
A night to myself? After all the angsty drama of tonight? After I’ve finally come to the conclusion that a not-casual-but-temporary Garrett is better than no Garrett at all? No way. I’m turning to page thirty-nine—and he’s coming with me.
I take his hand and drag him through the front door, which Garrett kicks shut behind us. The house is nearly dark except for the glow of the television lighting the entryway and the stairs leading up to the second floor. My bare feet are silent on the stair treads, but his weight and his boots mean there’s a creak and shuffle behind me as he follows. At the end of the hallway is the bedroom I’ve been sleeping in, the one with big windows that face east and let in the glow of a Hotchkiss sunrise every morning.
Tonight, the only glow is from a yellow-cast light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Garrett scrubs a hand down his face and tosses his coat on the floor next to the bed. His eyes track across the room and he shakes his head languidly. I draw a hand up to faintly touch my lips.
“No. Way.”
He chuckles. “Yes way.”
“This was your room?”
Garrett nods and his eyes tick up to the ceiling with a laugh. “Just for eighteen years or so. Give or take.” He steps close enough that he can slip a hand to my hip, fingers tucking under the hem of my shirt to meet the bare skin above the waist of my shorts. “Why’d you pick it?”
“The windows.”
He tilts his head. “The sunrises?”
I nod and slip my fingers in the soft curls of hair above his ears, and his eyes drift shut. These unruly locks are the ones that always sneak out from around the edges of his ball cap. Most times, when he takes it off, there’s an inevitable bit of hat-head going on, but it never stays that way for long, eventually settling into a pile of messy softness.
“Is this still too weird for you? Do you want to go to your place? The place you live now?”
Garrett shakes his head and his eyes draw open. “I’m fine. I spent a lot of time thinking about getting laid in this room, anyway. Full circle or some shit.”
“But this place—”
“Stop.” Garrett digs his fingers into the bare skin on my hip, hard enough to interrupt my words. “I don’t want to be anywhere but right here, right now. We don’t have to worry about anything else. Just now.”
I find my eyes tracking away from his, guarding the parts of me that will always look to a plan, for answers to my questions, for more. “I’m not so good at that. The now thing. My brain likes jumping ahead.”
Garrett kisses my forehead. “I know. I already figured that out. We’ll practice, OK?” His hands come to toy with the buttons on my shirt. “Tell me exactly what you’re thinking—don’t debate it, just say whatever pops into your head.”
The words are out before I can mull them over into nothing.
“I want my clothes off. But I want you to do it.”
Garrett doesn’t hesitate, undoes the two lone buttons I managed before chasing after him earlier. My shirt hits the floor and he takes my hand, leading us over to the bed. He sits down on the end of it, leaving me to stand in the space between his legs. The bed creaks loudly under his weight and he casts a wary look at the mattress, and then bounces a little to re-create it.
“I’m not sure this bed can withstand what I had in mind; I may have to hold back a little. I thought the guy that bought this place was loaded. Did he end up that way because he’s cheap?”
Another test bounce on the bed and it sounds like a spring somewhere underneath has sprung for the last time.
“He’s not cheap, he just has a wife who’s in charge of all things decorating. But they have seven houses and one of them is always under renovation, so she’s very busy. I’m sure if she knew that Davis paid that real estate agent to cobble together a few things for my stay—and none of it was bespoke or Italian or eighteenth-century something—she’d have a heart attack.”
I start to shimmy my shorts off, because talking about Davis or my life back home isn’t what I want right now. Garrett’s hands latch on to mine, gently shoving them away.
“You said you wanted me to do it.”
“Well, you were too busy bouncing around on the bed. I’m tired of waiting.”
Garrett hooks his fingers to the waistband on my shorts and starts to pull them down. My breath lurches when he has them halfway down, then leans in to blow a soft breath to the space between my legs.
“I’ve wanted to slip these shorts—your jeans, anything—down your legs since the second I met you.”
The shorts hit the floor and I manage to kick them out of the way, even as his hands have started a reverse course. Fingers trailing up the back of my calves, behind my knees, my thighs. He stops where my legs meet my backside and tightens his grip.
“Now what?” Garrett asks. I try to think, but it’s hard. He makes a little scolding sound. “No thinking. Just say it.”
His lips press to my low belly, followed by his tongue tracing a hip bone as his hands continue to curl at the backs of my thighs. Garrett’s hands are big enough that with a turn to move a bit deeper, his fingers nudge against my core, my legs going a little wobbly when he does. That becomes more than enough to declare what I want next.
“I’m naked. I’m wet. Do you need more direction than that?”
Garrett groans. My weak legs and impatience send me toppling into him, until he hits the bed with a thump. I crawl over him and my mouth finds his. We start to fumble, hands trying to cover too much all at once. Garrett suddenly sits up, taking me with him and tossing me to one side, then covers my body with his and shoves one leg between mine so his thigh is pulled up to meet my core. When the denim on his jeans rasps there and the cotton of his T-shirt rubs across my nipples, I drag my mouth away on a gasp. He starts to kiss his way down my neckline, but I push on his chest to stop him. Garrett startles back, and then stiffens. I trace my fingers to the knot of bone tensing under his clenched jaw.
“Your clothes are in my way. I want them off.”
I give him a shove and Garrett all but leaps off the bed, yanking the back of his collar to strip his shirt off, attempts to toe off his boots at the same time, growling when he realizes it won’t work. I drop a hand between my legs to keep myself occupied. A moan comes out when I do and my eyes drift closed.
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t do that.” Garrett’s boots thump when he tosses them across the room somewhere.
I hear the jangle of his belt coming undone, a zipper lowering, and the tear of a condom wrapper. The sounds only heighten everything I’m feeling: the anticipation, knowing I don’t need to back off or hold back, the way my body is more than ready for this. My fingers start to work in tight circles, with a light touch that’s what I need but not quite what I truly want.
“Fucking wait. Wait for me, Cara. That’s my job now; getting you wet and primed is what I do while we’re together. I’ll do it, just give me ten seconds to get my damn jeans off.”
I sigh softly and still my motion, but keep my hand exactly where I want it.
Garrett nearly launches onto the bed once his jeans find the bedroom floor, immediately dragging my hand away, but not replacing it with his own. Instead, it’s a slip of latex, his cock head working circles where my fingers just were. My back arches and my legs drop open, hoping for more as quickly as possible. He takes himself in hand and thumps himself to my clit, his own personal reflex test on my body, because my knees shoot up and a lurid groan leaves my throat. Garrett chuckles, dark and wicked, him asking, Did you like that?—without saying a word.
When his body comes to lie on mine, I realize I was too busy touching myself to see him naked. And that’s not OK. I’ve thought about him stripped down far too many times to miss the show tonight. I give a shove to his abs and he lets out an oof.
“What? Condom’s on. We’re fine.”
“Stand up.”
He freezes in confusion, then drops his head to my collarbone and rocks it there.
“No. Why? Christ, you’re killing me, Cara.”
“I didn’t get to see you naked.”
“Look later. I’ll strut a catwalk for you, if you want. After.”
“Now.”
A growl—half annoyed, half crazed. He puts a hand on either side of my head and pushes up, his overachieving biceps flexing. I stop myself from demanding he complete twenty push-ups over me first. Or plank himself there until I say stop. That might be a bit more than he can take.
Garrett stands at the foot of the bed, puts his hands to his hips, and cocks one knee out. I lift up enough that I can rest back on my forearms.
Hello, Garrett. This was worth testing his patience. In fact, the frustration on his face merely adds to the view. He’s hard everywhere. Abs and arms, pecs and legs. And his cock. His cock is very hard. As in, angry and annoyed, hard.
He throws his arms wide. “I’m a hell of a specimen, yeah? This work for you?”
I grin, lips pursed shut.
“So we’re good?” A jerky nod from me and Garrett exhales. “Thank Christ. Then spread your legs, please.”
My legs are wide in an instant. Garrett seats the head of his cock and pushes inside. And maybe it’s because he’s on top of me, his body and weight adding to the experience, but it feels like more. More to handle—or simply more of him.
“Fuck. Wrap your legs around me.” Garrett thrusts deep when I do, just once. “Tighter. I know those pretty legs are stronger than that.”
I put my arms around his neck for leverage, giving everything I can—and he takes it. The bed is creaking loudly and squeaking like something important could come loose at any second. And if this is Garrett holding back to save the furniture . . . then, ohmyGod.
When his voice falters into him groaning in my ear, I focus on the sound of Garrett working hard, taking everything, and giving more than I knew was possible. His pace starts to turn jerky, but his sounds and every thrust are enough. When he hears me come, his body presses harder to mine, taking two more punishing thrusts before going still. A low curse rumbles into my ear.
After that it’s quiet. Nothing said until he comes back from the bathroom after taking care of the condom and slips under the covers with me. I move over to give him room.
“Don’t even think about it.” A big arm circles my waist, yanks me closer, drawing my back to his front. “I sleep naked. Hope that’s OK.”
With the length of his body to mine, still half-hard and nestled between my legs, I decide it’s more than OK. Pretty sure this arrangement of ours is going to work out just fine.