by Elle Kennedy
Immediately, I’m hit with a jolt of panic that spurs me to break the kiss.
I suck in a shaky breath. “There. How was that?” I’m trying to sound unaffected by what just happened, but the slight wobble in my voice betrays me.
Garrett’s eyes are molten. “Not sure. It wasn’t long enough for me to properly judge. I’m gonna need more to go on.”
His big hand cups my cheek.
This should be my cue to leave.
Instead, I lean in for another kiss.
And it’s just as eerily incredible as the first. As his tongue slicks over mine, I stroke his cheek, and God, that’s a big mistake because the scratchy feel of his stubble on my palm intensifies the pleasure already wreaking havoc on my body. His face is strong and masculine and sexy, and the sheer maleness of him triggers another burst of need. I need more. I didn’t expect to, but damn it, I need more.
With an anguished moan, I angle my head to deepen the kiss, and my tongue eagerly explores his mouth. No, not eagerly—hungrily. I’m hungry for him.
Garrett threads his fingers through my hair and tugs me closer, one powerful arm curling around my hip to keep me in place. My breasts are now crushed against his rock-hard chest, and I can feel the wild hammering of his heart. His excitement matches my own. The raw, husky groan he releases tickles my lips and sends my pulse careening.
Something’s happening to me. I can’t stop kissing him. He’s too addictive. And even though this might have started with me somewhat in charge, I’m no longer in control.
Garrett’s mouth moves over mine with skill and confidence that steals the breath from my lungs. When he nibbles on my bottom lip, I feel an answering tug in my nipples, and press one palm to his chest to ground myself, to try to keep from floating away in a mindless cloud of pleasure. His hot lips leave mine and travel along my jaw line, dipping down to my neck, where he plants open-mouthed kisses that leave shivers in their wake.
I hear a tortured whimper, and I’m startled to realize it came from me. I’m desperate to feel his mouth on mine again. I thrust one hand in his hair to bring him back to where I want him, but the dark strands are too short to grab onto. All I can do is pull his head forward, which summons a low chuckle from him.
“Is this what you want?” he rasps, and then his lips find mine, and he thrusts that talented tongue into my mouth again.
A moan leaves my throat at the exact moment the bedroom door swings open.
“Hey, G, I need to borrow a—”
Dean grinds to a halt.
With a squeak of horror, I tear my mouth away from Garrett’s and shoot to my feet.
“Oops. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Dean’s grin takes up his entire face, and his twinkling green eyes make my cheeks scorch.
I snap back to reality faster than you can say biggest mistake ever. Holy shit. I’ve just been caught making out with Garrett Graham.
And I was enjoying it.
“You’re not interrupting,” I blurt out.
Dean looks like he’s fighting back laughter. “No? Because it sure seems like it.”
Despite the tight knot of embarrassment lodged in my throat, I force myself to glance at Garrett, silently pleading for backup, but his expression catches me off guard. Deep intensity and a flash of annoyance, but the latter is directed at Dean. And thrown into the mix is something akin to fascination, as if he can’t believe what he and I just did.
I can’t believe it either.
“So this is what you two do when you’re up here,” Dean drawls. “All that deep, intensive tutoring.” He air-quotes the last word, chuckling in delight.
His teasing irks me. I don’t want him thinking that Garrett and I are…involved. That we’ve been fooling around for the past week behind everyone’s backs.
Which means I have to nip his suspicions in the bud. ASAP.
“Actually, Garrett’s just helping me brush up on my make-out skills,” I tell Dean in the most casual voice I can muster. At this point, telling the truth is far less humiliating than letting his imagination run wild, but the confession sounds insane when I utter it out loud. Yep, just honing my kissing skills with the captain of the hockey team. No biggie.
Dean snickers. “’That so?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I have a date coming up and your friend here thinks I don’t have any moves. Trust me, we’re not into each other. At all.” I realize that Garrett still hasn’t said a single word, and I turn to him for confirmation. “Right, Garrett?” I ask pointedly.
He clears his throat, but his voice is still gravelly as hell when he speaks. “Right.”
“Okay…” Dean’s eyes gleam. “Then I’m calling your bluff, baby doll. Show me your moves.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“If a doctor told you you’ve got ten days to live, you’d go for a second opinion, wouldn’t you? Well, if you’re worried about being a crappy kisser, you can’t just take G’s word for it. You need a second opinion.” His brows lift in challenge. “Let me see what you’ve got.”
“Stop being a jackass,” Garrett mutters.
“No, he has a point,” I answer awkwardly, and my brain screams, What?
He has a point? Apparently Garrett’s body-melting kisses have turned me into a crazy person. I’m shaken up and confused, and most of all, I’m worried. Worried that Garrett will know I…what? That I’d never been so turned on from a kiss before? That I loved every second of it?
Yes, and yes. That’s precisely what I don’t want him to know.
So I saunter over to Dean and say, “Give me a second opinion.”
He seems startled for a second, before breaking out in another grin. He rubs his hands together, then cracks his knuckles as if he’s preparing for a fight, and the ridiculous gesture makes me laugh.
When I reach him, his bravado falters. “I was just kidding, Wellsy. You don’t have to—”
I cut him off by leaning on my tiptoes and pressing my mouth to his.
Yep, that’s me, just another college coed kissing one guy after the other.
This time, there’s no heat. No tingles. No sense of overpowering desperation. Kissing Dean is nothing compared to the way it felt kissing Garrett, but Dean seems to enjoy it, because he lets out a groan when I part my lips. His tongue enters my mouth, and I let it. Only for a few seconds, and then I step back and put on my most nonchalant face.
“Well?” I prompt.
His eyes are completely glazed over. “Uh.” He clears his throat. “Uh…yeah…I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
He looks so stunned that I can’t help but smile, but my humor dissolves when I turn to see Garrett rising from the bed, his chiseled face darker than a thundercloud.
“Hannah,” he starts roughly.
But I can’t listen to the rest. I don’t want to think about that kiss anymore. Or ever. The mere memory of it makes my head spin and my heart pound.
“Good luck on the makeup tomorrow.” The words rush out in a fast stream of nervousness. “I’ve gotta take off now, but let me know how it goes, ’kay?”
Then I quickly gather up my things and hurry out of the room.
17
Hannah
“You lost a bet,” Allie says dubiously.
“Yep.” I sit at the edge of the bed and lean over to zip up my left boot, deliberately avoiding my roommate’s gaze.
“And now you’re going out with him.”
“Uh-huh.” I rub my thumb over the side of the boot and pretend I’m wiping away a smudge on the leather.
“You’re going out with Garrett Graham.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“I call shenanigans.”
Of course she does. A date with Garrett Graham? I might as well have announced I’m marrying Chris Hemsworth.
So no, I don’t blame Allie for looking so flabbergasted. The I lost a bet excuse was the best one I’d been able to come up with, and it’s feeble at best. Now I’m wondering if I should ju
st fess up and tell her about Justin.
Or better yet, if I should cancel the date altogether.
I haven’t seen Garrett since…the big mistake…as I’m now referring to the kiss. He texted me yesterday after he wrote the makeup exam. Four measly words, two of which aren’t even real: “easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
I won’t lie, I was thrilled to hear it had gone well. But not thrilled enough to initiate an actual conversation, so I simply sent back one word—“nice”—and that was the only contact we had up until twenty minutes ago, when he messaged to say he was on his way to pick me up for the party.
As far as I’m concerned, the kiss didn’t happen. Our lips didn’t touch, and my body didn’t ache. He didn’t groan when my tongue filled his mouth, and I didn’t whimper when his lips latched onto that sensitive spot on my neck.
It didn’t happen.
But…well, if it didn’t happen, then there’s no reason for me to bail on the party, now is there? Because no matter how confused and stricken the ki—the big mistake had left me, I’m still eager for a chance to see Justin outside of class.
I can’t bring myself to tell Allie the truth, though. I’m usually so confident in other areas of my life. Singing, schoolwork, friends. When it comes to relationships, I revert back to that traumatized fifteen-year-old who required three years of therapy before she was able to feel normal again. I know Allie would disapprove if she knew I was using Garrett to get to Justin, and right now, I’m not in the mood to be lectured.
“Trust me, shenanigans are Garrett’s middle name,” I say dryly. “The guy treats life like a game.”
“And you, Hannah Wells, are playing along?” She shakes her head, incredulous. “Are you sure you don’t have a thing for this guy?”
“Garrett? No way,” I say immediately.
Uh-huh. Because you alwaaaaaays make out with guys you don’t like.
I banish the internal taunt. Nope, I didn’t make out with Garrett. I was simply meeting a challenge.
The mocking voice rears its head again. And you felt absolutely nothing, right?
Argh, why isn’t there an off switch for that sarcastic part of your brain? Except I know that doing that won’t erase the truth. I did feel something when we kissed. Those tingles that Justin evokes in me? I felt them the other night with Garrett. They were different, though. The butterflies didn’t just float around in my belly—they took flight and raced through my entire body, making every inch of me pulse with pleasure.
But it meant nothing. In the span of ten days, Garrett went from being a stranger to a nuisance to a friend, but that’s as far as I’m willing to take it. I don’t want to date him, no matter how good a kisser he is.
Before Allie can grill me further, Garrett texts to inform me he’s here. I’m about to tell him to wait in the car, but I guess we have different definitions of here, because a loud knock sounds on the door a second later.
I sigh. “That’s Garrett. Can you let him in? I just want to put my hair up.”
Allie grins and disappears. As I run a brush through my hair, I hear voices in the living area, followed by a squeaky protest and then heavy footsteps heading to my bedroom.
Garrett appears in the doorway wearing dark blue jeans and a black sweater, and something terrible happens. My heart turns into a dolphin and does a stupid little flip of excitement.
Excitement, for fuck’s sake.
God, that ki—mistake really messed with my head.
He scrutinizes my clothes before raising one eyebrow. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Yes.” I bristle. “Got a problem with that?”
He tilts his head to the side like he’s Tim fucking Gunn judging an outfit on Project Runway. “I’m totally digging the jeans and boots, but the shirt has gotta go.”
I examine my loose blue-and-white striped sweater but I honestly don’t see the issue. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s too baggy. I thought we talked about how you need to show off your stripper tits.”
A strangled cough comes from behind him. “Stripper tits?” Allie echoes as she steps into the room.
“Ignore him,” I tell her. “He’s a chauvinist.”
“No, I’m a guy,” he corrects, then proceeds to flash his trademark grin. “I want to see some cleavage.”
“I like this sweater,” I protest.
Garrett glances at Allie. “Hi, I’m Garrett. What’s your name again?”
“Allie. Hannah’s roommate and BFF.”
“Great. Well, can you tell your roomie and BFF that she looks like a reject from a sailing show?”
She laughs, and then, to my horror—Benedict Arnold!—she agrees with him. “It wouldn’t hurt to wear something more form-fitting,” she says tactfully.
I scowl at her.
Garrett beams. “See? We’re all in agreement. Go big or go home, Wellsy.”
Allie looks from me to Garrett, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. But she’s wrong. We’re not into each other, and we’re certainly not dating. But I suppose it’s better she think that than know I’m going out with him to impress someone else.
Garrett strides to my closet like he owns it. When he pokes his dark head inside, Allie shoots me a grin. She seems highly entertained by all this.
He flips through the hangers to examine my wardrobe, then pulls out a sheer black top. “How about this?”
“No way. It’s see-through.”
“Then why do you own it?”
Good question.
He holds up another hanger, this time a red sweater with a gaping V-neck. “This one,” he says with a nod. “You look great in red.”
Allie’s eyebrows hit the ceiling, and I curse Garrett for putting all these unnecessary ideas in her head. But at the same time, my chest goes warm and gooey, because…he thinks I look great in red? As in, he’s actually noticed what I’ve worn in the past?
Garrett tosses me the shirt. “Okay, get changed. We want to be fashionably late, not asshole late.”
Allie snickers.
I glare at them both. “Can I please have some privacy?”
They’re either oblivious to my annoyance or they’re choosing to ignore it, because I hear them chatting easily in the living room. I suspect Allie is grilling him about our “date,” and I hope to God that Garrett sticks to the bet story. When his husky laughter floats into my bedroom, an involuntary shiver skitters up my spine.
What is happening to me? I’m losing sight of what I want. No, of who I want. Justin. Justin frickin’ Kohl. I shouldn’t be kissing Garrett—or Dean, for that matter—and getting distracted by the strange rush of heat he unleashes inside me.
It’s time to get my head on straight and remember why I agreed to this charade in the first place.
Starting right now.
*
Garrett
Beau Maxwell lives off campus with four of his teammates. Their house is only a few blocks from mine, but a helluva lot bigger, and it’s packed like a hockey arena on game night when Hannah and I walk inside. Deafening hip-hop blasts from the speaker system, and several warm, sweaty bodies jostle us as we venture deeper into the house. All I can smell is alcohol, sweat, and cologne.
I pat myself on the back for convincing Hannah to wear that red top, because holy fucking hell, it looks amazing on her. The material is so thin it outlines every sweet curve of her chest, and that neckline…Sweet Jesus. Her tits are practically pouring out of it, like they’re trying to pop out and say hello. I don’t know if she’s wearing a pushup bra or if her breasts are really that big, but either way, they’re bouncing like crazy with every step she takes.
Several people wander over to say hello to me and there’s a shit ton of curious stares in Hannah’s direction. She fidgets at my side, clearly feeling out of place. My chest goes softer than butter when I glimpse the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.
I reach for her hand, which prompts her gaze to fly up to mine in surprise.
<
br /> Bringing my lips close to her ear, I murmur, “Relax.”
Leaning in is a big mistake, because she smells fantastic. That sweet, familiar cherry fragrance mingles with the faint hint of lavender and something uniquely feminine. It takes a serious amount of willpower not to press my nose into her neck and inhale her. Or taste her with my tongue. Lick and kiss the hot flesh of her throat until she moans.
Oh man. I’m in big trouble. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. Every time the memory floats into my head, my pulse races and my balls tighten, and all I want to do is kiss the crap out of her again.
The overpowering lust, however, is accompanied by a sense of crushing rejection. Because, clearly, I was the only one affected by that damn kiss. If Hannah had felt something, even in the slightest, she wouldn’t have stuck her tongue down Dean’s throat two seconds later. Dean. One of my best friends.
But she’s not here with Dean tonight, now is she? Nope, she’s my date, and we’re here to make another guy jealous—why can’t I give in to temptation? This might be the only chance I get.
So I plant a soft kiss on the side of her throat before whispering, “You’re gonna be the center of attention tonight, babe. Smile and pretend you’re enjoying it.”
I steal another kiss, this time on the corner of her jaw, and she sucks in a breath. Her eyes widen, and either I’m imagining it, or there’s a glimmer of heat there.
Before I can interpret what I’m seeing, one of the linebackers interrupts us. “Graham! Yo, good to see you, man!” Ollie Jankowitz lumbers over and slaps my back, and the contact jars my entire body because the dude is monster-sized.
“Hey, Ollie,” I say before nodding at Hannah. “Do you know Hannah?”
He wears a blank look for a second. Then his eyes dip to her chest, and a slow smile stretches across his bearded face. “I do now.” He sticks out one meaty paw. “Hey, I’m Oliver.”
