by Sylvia Day
My arms go around his waist before I can stop myself, my hands caressing him through the soft material of his T-shirt. He draws me closer.
It feels so good to be held. To be touched and desired.
I’m going to give in. I want to blame it on him. He’s too good at seduction and too used to getting his way.
But the truth is that when I’m with him, I don’t feel so tired or lonely.
Tilting my head back, I offer him my mouth.
He shakes his head. “Not this time. I’m not sweeping you off your feet again. You’ve got to come to me of your own free will.”
I don’t argue or complain, not even to myself. Instead, I slide a hand around the back of his neck, tug his head down, and press my lips to his.
With a growl, Garrett takes over, his mouth opening, his tongue stroking. He winds my long braid tightly around his hand, easing my head back so that I’m arched over his forearm, taken and possessed. It’s impossibly erotic, the way he savors me, the sense that he’s parched for the taste of me. It turns me on to be caught by him, the power of his grip revealing how much I’m affecting him.
Heat rushes through my veins. My heart pumps faster, sending blood rushing to my head. I sway, feeling dizzy. Garrett shifts, lets go of my braid, scooping me up like a new bride. Flushed and vulnerable, I press my face against his chest, taking a deep breath of his scent.
I feel the flex of his arm as the sliding screen is pushed aside. In seconds, the bed is against my back, cushioning me as he settles his weight over me.
Being in my bedroom changes everything. I’m no longer shy. Anchored by a firmly planted forearm, Garrett knees my legs apart and notches the hard length of his erection against my sex. With a practiced roll of his hips, he has me moaning shamelessly into his kiss.
Pulling back, he watches me when he thrusts again, sees me tense and arch as shocking pleasure spreads through me. I embrace my wantonness, my hips rocking up against the tempting ridge of his cock.
“Teagan.” He says my name in a voice hoarse with desire. “You’re driving me crazy.”
He rears back onto his knees, bringing me up with him. Switching our places, Garrett settles against my headboard, stretched out between my legs like some great lounging beast. His hands cup my thighs, sliding upward until his thumbs graze the place that aches for him.
I grab his wrists, afraid I’ll lose all control.
“You can have it,” he tells me, “but I want to watch you take it.”
There’s no judgment in his expression. No taunting. No triumph. As flushed as he is, as feverish as his gaze is as he watches me, there is patience and acceptance underlying the demand he conveys. And his face . . . that work of art. I see the cracks in the beauty, as if his perfect mask has slipped, revealing something unguarded and agonized and even more beautiful beneath.
I suddenly feel like crying.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
Shaking my head, I resist the comfort he offers, knowing how dangerous it is to become dependent on anyone but myself. Instead, I press my sex against his cock and begin to move.
Defiant, I hold his gaze as I swivel my hips, knowing I have a sensory advantage here. He’s wearing denim. I’m wearing joggers and “invisible” panties of hardly any material at all.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he groans, his neck arching as I ride his erection.
It doesn’t take long. The sight of him splayed for the taking, the smell of his heated skin, the encouraging sounds he makes . . . it’s all too much. I gasp when the first intensely erotic spasm racks my core, my head falling forward as the incredible sensation spreads to my limbs. Quivering violently, I feel my rhythm falter.
Garrett rolls, taking me under him. Spreading his thighs wide, he begins to thrust, forcing the spreading orgasm through me, making me take it. His chest heaves as he dry fucks me with ferocious precision, tightening his grip as I writhe.
“Fuck,” he gasps harshly. “I can’t . . . Fuck.”
He stiffens, his breath hissing out through clenched teeth. His hips jerk against mine, his tempo wavering. I realize he’s coming, too. While fully dressed, boots digging into the white coverlet.
His head drops next to mine, his damp cheek pressed against my own. His breathing is harsh in my ear, his embrace too tight. As if I’m some sort of lifeline.
I don’t know how to feel. How can it seem so intimate when we’re fully clothed?
His big body shakes with laughter. “My God. That is not how I intended to show you what you’ve been missing.”
It startles me to realize I’m smiling. And I’m so relaxed and warm. Boneless almost, all the knots in my shoulders and back melted away. “I got the gist of it.”
Garrett lifts his head to look down at me, his hand coming up to brush stray strands of hair off my face. “I swear I didn’t have a hair trigger like that even as a teenager.”
“Of course not. Gorgeous guy like you? You smile, and panties get wet.”
His face lights up. “Is that what happens when I smile at you?”
“Pfft. As if.”
He gives me a quick, hard kiss on the mouth. “Got any condoms?”
The question throws me off. It’s been a long time since I worried about prophylactics. “No.”
He gifts me with that high-wattage smile. “Good. But we’ll need to get some.”
My brows lift. I try to sound nonchalant when I ask, “Studly guy like you doesn’t have a condom in his pocket?”
“I wish.” The twinkle in his eyes tells me he’s well aware I’m fishing. “I don’t even have any in my house or my car. But I’m going to fix that before you come over for dinner tonight.”
“I don’t think I said I was coming.” I’m teasing and he knows it, but it’s fun to play the game and keep things light after an experience that broke down a lot of barriers I’m used to hiding behind.
“Aww . . . don’t be like that, Doc. I really want you there. I even picked up some sparkling apple cider for you.”
I can’t say why that makes me laugh. Maybe because sparkling cider is so often a children’s drink.
“That sound.” Garrett nuzzles his nose against mine. “You’ve got the best laugh.”
I smile ruefully, knowing the guilt will come later. I haven’t laughed in so long, and I can’t look back to the times when I last did. It would hurt too much.
“You’ve got to let me make you dinner,” he presses. “I can’t give you an orgasm and not feed you.”
“See?” I pout. “You’re making up rules as you go again.”
“I’m also making sushi.”
“I love sushi.” Then my eyes narrow. “Isn’t that risky, though? Doing it yourself?”
“Doc, I buy sashimi-grade fish, I promise.” His hair has fallen across his brow. There’s still a flush to his cheeks and lips and a light in his stunning eyes. He looks younger, happier, even handsomer.
“Okay, okay.” I heave an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I’ll come over, then.”
Garrett winks. “I knew you would.”
6
“I completely forgot you have mile-long legs for someone so short,” Roxy says from her seat in the aqua Bertoia Bird Chair in my bedroom. “One: you need to wear dresses more often. And two: you need to wear that dress tonight.”
“I just don’t know.” I’m lamenting the fact that I’m completely out of touch with both my femininity and sexuality. “I don’t want to be overdressed.”
“I’ll put on a dress, too, okay? Will that make it easier?”
“It’ll help.” I turn from side to side. Problem is, my everyday wear is comfortable but not exactly fashionable or even flattering, and the clothes I have for work aren’t casual enough for dinner with friends at home.
I own one dress that could pass for casual. It’s black with a sheer cherry-embroidered overlay atop an opaque black underskirt. The sheer black takes over from a sweetheart bodice, climbing up and over my shoulders, before d
ipping down my back in a deep V. When worn with a red or black blazer, it’s modest. Alone, it’s impossible to hide a bra, and I don’t own any bras cute enough to be exposed. I could wear my hair down for cover, but I’m worried that would be letting too much down at once.
“That dress is it,” Roxy insists. “I love the way it swings when you move.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror.
She stands and walks over. “I’m glad you’re giving Garrett another shot.”
“It’s not like he knows how to take no for an answer.”
“Good for him. And for you, too.” She smiles at my scowl. “Think of it this way: seeing you in this dress is going to throw him for a loop. He won’t know what hit him.”
“Gah. That makes me think it’s the wrong thing to wear.”
She wags a finger at me. “If you’re not wearing that dress when I see you next, I’m going to tell him how you tortured yourself trying to dress up for him.”
“Roxy! You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Girl, I am. That’s why I’m making sure you hang on to Mr. Hunkalicious next door.” She starts walking out. “I’ve got to get ready myself. Don’t wait for us. Head over now and have him to yourself for a bit.”
“That’s asking for trouble,” I call after her.
“Ask away! And remember, I’ll want all the details later.”
I hear the front door close behind her. I stare at the mirror for another long minute, debating my options. I end up back in my closet, looking for shoes. In the end, I go with a pair of black ballet flats. I twist my hair up in a knot. I also decide against jewelry or makeup to avoid looking like I tried to impress him. Garrett’s too confident. There’s absolutely no need for further encouragement.
“Screw it.” I leave my bedroom before I change my mind. I grab my keys, phone, and the bag I decided on earlier, then head out the front door. I lock the dead bolt behind me and arm the security system app as I walk over to Garrett’s house.
I try to slow down when I realize I’m walking fast. Still, I get to his porch too soon. I avoid looking through the big arched window by the front door, in case he catches me doing it.
My foot taps after I ring the doorbell, my nerves taut. When the door swings open, I straighten and attempt a smile but feel like it freezes along with my brain at the sight of Garrett.
His hair is still wet from a shower. He’s dressed in head-to-toe black: untucked Henley top and slacks. The color suits him, plays off his dark hair and highlights those golden-green eyes. He is devastatingly handsome. The force of his attractiveness hits me dead center of my chest. The air between us charges with electricity.
It’s not until my gaze makes it back up to his handsome face that I realize he hasn’t moved or said a word.
“Hi,” I greet him.
“Hi yourself,” he says gruffly, leaning casually against the doorjamb and letting his gaze roam my body from head to toe.
It’s disconcerting to feel so exposed, so seen. I’ve managed to measure what I share and what I keep private. Garrett has irrevocably changed that. Moving forward, I’m going to remember him like this, as well as in my house and on the street where I live.
“I’m the luckiest, dumbest son of a bitch on earth.”
Startled, I blink. “What?”
“Doc, you take a man’s breath away.” He gives me a big, slow grin. “I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself right now.”
“Of course you are,” I say dryly.
Laughing, Garrett straightens. “And I’m an ass for keeping you on the porch. Come in.”
I walk past him, setting my bag on the console in the entryway. When I turn back to him, Garrett catches me deftly around the waist, pulling me in as his head lowers to mine. It’s like a dance, the way he claims me for a kiss, leading me so effortlessly, it’s as if I spun intentionally into the embrace.
Maybe I did.
A soft sigh escapes me the moment our lips meet; then my eyes drift shut as I open to him, my hands clutching his waistband and my head tilting back. With a subtle shift, he aligns us perfectly and settles in, his lips soft and cajoling, his tongue a velvet lash. He savors me with deep, slow licks, and my core tightens in appreciation. His hands slide from my shoulders down my back, caressing me. My body arches into his, silently asking for more.
It always stuns me how quickly and easily he inspires my lust. My thumbs curl into his waistband, my pulse leaping when he stiffens and groans into my mouth. His fingers circle my wrists and pull my hands free, spurring me to make a soft noise of protest.
Pulling back, he looks down at me with heavy-lidded eyes, the gold so bright it’s like they glow from within.
“Careful,” he warns, his voice husky. “The next time you make me come, I’m going to be inside you. Most important, it’s going to last a hell of a lot longer. Maybe a couple of days.”
“Days?” A shiver runs through me at the thought.
His gaze darkens. “Dare me to prove it.”
“I . . . I just . . .” Unable to find words, I shrug helplessly.
He grabs my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m good. Uh, I brought something. For you and for the party.”
“Oh?” His smile makes my heart flutter.
I reach into my bag and pull out the box inside. He takes it from me, noting the kanji characters on the exterior packaging.
When he opens it, his smile widens. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The sake set features a serving vessel and four small cups made of black porcelain with pure-gold interiors. The modern lines struck me as both masculine and elegant. I reach back into the bag. “I also brought a bottle of sake, in case you don’t have any. And I got you some arnica cream. It’s a homeopathic remedy for muscle soreness and bruising, for those days when you overdo it.”
Garrett tucks the sake into the crook of his arm and accepts the tube. He glances at it, grinning, then meets my gaze. The way he looks at me makes me shift on my feet. “You worry about me. I’m taking that as a good sign.”
“Don’t get cocky, Frost.” I turn away from him to take in what he’s done to the house.
“Not cocky. Just hopeful.”
My steps take me into the living room, which boasts the sweeping view of Puget Sound that most of the neighborhood has . . . and the sapphire velvet sectional sofa of my dreams. “Oh!”
Garrett’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “What?”
“It’s the sofa I wanted!”
“Is that so? Well, now you know where to find it. We can also do more than sit on it.”
I look at him through the pass-through. “Do you think of anything other than sex?”
“You’ll have to forgive me.” His gaze is on the food he’s chopping, and his voice is anything but apologetic. “It’s been a while, and you’re sexy as hell.”
I almost ask him how long it’s been, but I stop myself. After all, it’s none of my business and isn’t relevant in any case.
Instead, I look around the rest of the room. Marge and Les had filled it with a motley assortment of furniture upholstered in gold-and-tan plaid that didn’t quite match their beige love seat. Garrett, on the other hand, has the show-stopping sofa and not much else. The coffee table is a beat-up trunk. There are no end tables, no lamps, no rug. A large TV sits on a shagreen console angled in the corner.
But what really dominates the room—overshadowing even the sofa—is the painting on the wall. I stand in front of it, so moved by the sight of it that my throat tightens and my eyes sting. I suddenly understand what he meant about the art I chose to decorate my home with. The designer had suggested mostly white abstracts, with pops of color that are aesthetically pleasing and enhance my overall palette. But I don’t feel anything when I look at any of it. It simply finishes the space.
The doorbell rings. I tear my gaze away from the painting, feeling unsettled, needing a few moments to co
mpose myself before Roxy and Mike join us. I turn to face the view of the Sound.
I register the pleasure in all three voices as they greet each other. How strange it is to adjust to this blending of the old and the new. How quickly Garrett has made a place for himself here, so unexpectedly.
“There’s the pretty lady,” Mike says, the register of his voice telling me he’s entered the room.
“And there’s a pretty couch!” Roxy exclaims. I turn in time to see her settle gracefully onto it. She changed into a floor-length caftan in the colors of sunset and looks like a queen on a jeweled throne. “It’s so comfortable, too.”
Stepping into Mike’s hug, I manage to smile at her over his shoulder by rising onto my tiptoes.
“Wow! Would you look at that.” Mike releases me and goes to stand in front of the large canvas. “I saw a photo of this online, but it’s really something in person.”
Garrett stands on the other side of the pass-through, opening a bottle of wine. His gaze is on me, serious and intent.
Can he see what the painting has done to me? How emotional it has made me?
“Do you paint every day, Garrett?” Roxy asks.
“I used to. I started a new piece a couple of days ago, but it’s been a year since I last felt inspired enough to work. I was beginning to think I’d lost the creative spark entirely.”
“Like writer’s block?” Mike queries, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Painter’s block?”
“Something like that.” Garrett comes into the living room, carrying two glasses of red wine so dark it seems almost black.
“Creativity in general can become blocked,” Roxy says, accepting the glass Garrett hands her with a smile of gratitude. “You’ve got to be in the right headspace to feel creative.”
“That’s very true,” Garrett agrees.
“Well, as Roxy can tell you, I’m no expert on art,” Mike says, studying the canvas, “but for what it’s worth, I really like your stuff. I think it’s cool how your paintings don’t look like the photos that inspired them, but I can feel what you were feeling when you took the photo. If that makes sense. I never understood abstract art, but I can understand this.”
