I hook my thumb back over my shoulder, holding Callie's gaze. "I gotta go do a football thing." She laughs, nodding. "I'll pick you up in a little while."
And she waves, smiling. So beautiful it almost hurts to look at her.
"I'll be waiting."
Chapter Fourteen
Callie
Back in high school, after good football games--Garrett was always . . . well . . . horny. He was a teenage boy, so horny was pretty much the default setting--but after a big win, he was hotter, hungrier, more aggressive. I could practically smell the testosterone on his skin--which made me horny. I remember, when we'd make the requisite appearance at the after-party, how he'd keep me close, always touching me . . . his hand in mine, his thumb stroking my palm, his arm around my shoulder, rubbing my back. If I had to leave his side, his eyes would follow me around the room, over the rim of his cup of beer, like I was the only person who mattered. Like I was the heart, the center of his whole world.
We would never stay at the after-parties for long.
That same familiar anticipation fills me now, while I wait on my parents' front porch for Garrett to pick me up. I pace, I fidget with the knit cap on my head, and toy with the zipper on my coat. My muscles are strung with excitement, so tight I feel like a rubber band that's ready to snap. A horny rubber band.
I still don't know where this is going with Garrett--and that scares me a little. Because Garrett Daniels is back in my life, in a way I never saw coming . . . winding his way around my heart. And it's like a tragedy--like Romeo and Juliet--we already know how this ends. With goodbye. We both have these great, awesome, separate lives--far, far away from each other. We have careers, friends, homes, and neither one of us is going to turn that upside down. I know I'm being reckless--stupid--I'm going out on that diving board, about to cannonball into the deep end of hurt and heartache. But an ever-growing part of me just doesn't care--and that scares me even more. That part will take what she can get, for as long as she can, heartache be damned.
It's after eleven, late for this neighborhood. The residents on my parents' street have already gone to bed, the windows dark and the air quiet. I hear the Jeep coming down the street before I see it, and by the time it stops at the curb, I'm already running across the lawn to meet him.
I don't wait for Garrett to open the door; I do it myself and climb in. His hair is damp, and the cab is heavy with his clean, ocean, after-shower scent.
Garrett's eyes are black velvet and his voice is dark silk, caressing me. "Your nose is pink. How long were you waiting out there?" He holds my hands in both of his, blowing against them, making my hands warm and my heart trip.
"Not too long. My parents are down for the night . . . and I was excited to see you."
His eyes drift over my face, touching the hat on my head, my eyes, my mouth.
"I couldn't wait to get to you too."
He holds my gaze for another beat, and then nods, dragging his eyes to the road.
"Are you hungry?" Garrett asks as we drive down the empty, street-lamp-lit roads.
"No."
I watch his hands on the steering wheel. Garrett has beautiful hands--strong, graceful--quarterback hands. They hold the leather wheel loosely, and his posture in the seat is relaxed and easy. Confident. Capable. I feel an indescribably calming sensation in the presence of such self-assurance. I always knew, if I were ever unsure or confused, it was okay--because Garrett would know what to do. I could put myself in those skilled hands, follow his lead, and it would all turn out fine.
We pull up to his house and get out of the Jeep without saying a word. Garrett holds my hand on the way up the walk, rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly against my inner wrist. The living room is dim--the light above the clean kitchen sink the only illumination. Snoopy lifts his head from where he's curled up on the recliner, but after a second he lies it back down. Garrett tosses his keys on the corner table, then turns to look at me. His mouth--that gorgeous, mouth that I have dreamed of--settles into a casual smile.
"Do you want something to drink, Callaway?" he asks softly.
My breath catches when he says my name. No one says it like he does--I've dreamed of that too.
"No."
My heart picks up speed, and that full-body tightness that started on the porch pulls at me harder. Like my muscles are thinning, stretching, reaching. For him. Another second ticks by, and Garrett continues looking at me, watching me. He knows what's going to happen; we both do. It's unspoken, but thick in the air between us.
He reaches for me, cupping my cheeks in his two large hands and drawing me closer. I close my eyes and lean against him, nuzzling his throat, feeling the rough scrape of his stubble against my cheek. And I want to feel the scratch of it everywhere . . . my stomach, my breasts, between my legs.
"I missed you, Callie." Garrett kisses my forehead, my temple, my hair, breathing me in. "God, I missed you."
Everything inside me clenches at the need coiled in his confession. And I nod, because it's the same for me.
Garrett slips my hat off my head and unzips my jacket, sliding it down and off to the floor. His hands skim up my arms, and he whispers, "Are you nervous?"
A quick, light laugh bubbles from my lips, and I tilt my head to find his eyes.
"I wasn't nervous the first time; why would I be nervous now?"
I remember that night . . . every detail. It's my favorite memory.
It wasn't planned--there were no candles or flowers. But it was still romantic . . . it was still beautiful. The two of us, in Garrett's Jeep, parked in the still darkness beside the lake. I remember the smell of the leather seats, and the scent of our desire--I felt high on the want for him. For more. I remember the hot, hard press of Garrett's bare cock against my thigh and the raw, scraping sound of his voice against my ear.
"Callie . . ."
It was a prayer and a plea--a question, asking permission. Are you with me? Do you feel this? Do you want this as much as I do?
And I clung to him.
"Yes . . . yes, yes, yes . . ."
He was gentle, slow, so worried about hurting me. But when he was buried deep inside, when we were finally connected and joined, we were too far gone with how good it was to ever go slow. It was unpracticed, wild, and perfect--and I finally understood why they called it making love.
The touch of Garrett's hand brings me back to the moment, back to his eyes.
"You're trembling," he whispers.
And I am.
I lay my hand on the center of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat.
"I just . . . I just want you so much."
And then there are no more words.
Garrett kisses me deeply, hungrily. He lifts me and we fold together, my ankles locking across his lower back. His fingers hold, flex against my ass, greedily clasping me against him, holding me strong and secure as he carries me up the stairs to his bedroom.
Our heads turn, our tongues delve, never breaking the searing kiss as my feet slip down his hips to the floor. I slide both hands under his T-shirt, feeling all that delicious, smooth, hot skin and ridged muscle. He grasps the hem of my shirt, our mouths parting just long enough for him to lift it over my head. My bra falls away next, Garrett's expert fingers effortlessly releasing the back clasp. I tug at his shirt and he yanks it off. And then our bare chests collide and the feeling--the sensation--of our bare skin, my heavy breasts against his hard, hot chest is glorious. Breathtaking.
He pushes at the waist of my leggings, bends to drag them down my legs. My fingers work at the button of his jeans, pulling them down his hips, both of us still kissing and kissing--nibbling and feasting on each other's mouths.
There's no awkwardness, or hesitation. We've been here before. Our lips, our hands, and our hearts remember.
We move together across the room until I feel the bed against the backs of my knees. Garrett's hands knead my breasts, slide down my stomach, slipping between my legs, rubbing and petting my so
ft, slick lips.
"Callie," he groans. "Fuck, you're so wet." He kisses me hard, sipping at my lips, then drinking deep, murmuring. "So hot."
And then my fingers are wrapping around him, sliding and pumping the hot, silken steel of his erection in my hand. He's so hard, so aroused. My thumb caresses the head of his cock, rubbing the fervent moisture at the tip.
And it makes me feel beautiful. Sexy and powerful . . . and wanted.
We fall back on the bed. I spread my legs wide for him, open and offering everything to him.
Take me, love me. Anything he wants . . . it's always been like this between us.
His lips slide down my throat to my nipple and my head digs into the pillow, my back arching, as Garrett suckles me hard. His hair is silk between my fingers as he moves to my other breast, and my head spins with the sensations. My pulse pounds with the weighted pleasure of his hot mouth on me.
My memories of loving Garrett are pale and flimsy compared to this. This is real and solid . . . and us. How did I breathe without this? How will I exist without it?
That dark thought is swept away when Garrett lifts onto his knees, between my thighs. He stretches his long arm to the nightstand, grabbing a condom. I run my hands up and down his torso while he rips open the square foil package--I like the way my hands look on him. Garrett takes his cock in his hand--and I love the look of that too--the way he touches himself, rolling the condom over his thick erection, pinching the latex at the tip and running a hand over his heavy balls. Every movement is sure and confident and so erotically male.
My tongue peeks out to lick my lip--I want him everywhere at once. I want to take him in my mouth, swallow him down, deep in my throat. I want him buried inside me, thrusting hard and rough--I want to feel his hot come on my skin, on my breasts and my stomach and my ass. There is no off-limits, there is no wrong for us--there's only insatiable and desperate, dirty and deeper--more and yes and good.
Garrett grabs my hip, jerking me downwards, and he slides the blunt head of his cock through my lips, where I'm slippery and hot. My muscles clench, feeling empty. He rubs himself against my clit, circling and stroking, sending waves of white bliss screaming up my spine.
I brace my feet on the bed and lift my hips, begging him without words for more.
For him.
"Callie."
His rough voice pulls me through the fog of lust, bringing my eyes to his. His jaw is tight with anticipation and his chest rises and falls in ragged breaths.
"Callie, baby, watch. Watch me . . ."
I nod jerkily. I'll do anything, give him anything he asks, as long as he doesn't stop touching me.
He pushes against my opening and I moan, my knees spreading wider, aching for him deeper. I'm small, narrow, and there's something so mesmerizing about watching Garrett's hands on his big cock--watching him slowly push inside me.
He inhales sharply at the sensations, the feelings.
And, dear God, I feel it too. My tight muscles clench around him, making just enough room as he slides in--so hot and hard. So . . . so good. Our pelvises meet and Garrett's chin drops to his chest as he's nestled, buried fully inside me.
"Fuuuck," he moans. "Fuck me . . ."
And then he's dropping to his elbows on either side of my head, kissing me roughly. He pulls his hips back, then slides all the way back in. And we moan together. He begins a rhythm, a smooth, thrusting glide in and out. A constant forward movement and retreat, fucking me steady.
I breathe jagged, nonsensical words into his open-mouthed kiss.
"Garrett . . . Garrett . . . it's so good."
"I know," he groans, flexing his hips, touching me so deep inside. "I know, baby."
"It's so right." I grasp at the strong, taut muscles of his back, sliding my hands down, pressing against his hard, clenching ass. "So . . . right."
Every touch, every kiss that wasn't his felt . . . different. Not bad, not uncomfortable--but different. Not the same. Not this.
It's only ever felt right with him.
Time ceases to exist. There's only Garrett above me, inside me, surrounding me. My arms stretch up over my head and his fingers wrap around my wrists. I raise my hips, giving myself to him . . . giving myself over to the pleasure that pulses through my body with every thrust of his hips.
Garrett's gaze is hot and heavy-lidded with how good it feels. He moves harder, faster, rougher . . . pushing me higher. It's like my soul is climbing, rising.
"Garrett . . . Garrett . . ." I keen in a whimpering voice I hardly recognize.
And then I'm falling, arching up against him as my orgasm takes me, twists me, and wrings his name from my lips. I contract around his hardness, clenching him inside me, never wanting to let go, never wanting it to end. Garrett's face presses against my neck and he fucks me hard, groaning as he rides through his own pleasure and comes with hot pulsing jerks within me.
For several long moments we stay just like that, chasing our breath, holding each other with heavy, satiated limbs. I run my fingers through his hair, across his back that's damp from exertion. Garrett presses a kiss against my ear, my jaw, my mouth--gentle now--and my heart feels swollen with tenderness for him.
"We're so fucking good at that," he whispers.
"We were always good at that," I tell him.
His lips slide slowly into a cocky, arrogant smile that also happens to be gorgeous.
"We got better at it."
I laugh. He slips his hands beneath my head, cradling me in his arms.
And it's perfect.
~
There's something so incredibly sexy about watching a man walk naked across a room. Especially a man like Garrett Daniels--with his self-possession, his control of every long, sinewy movement. A man who knows his body--knows what it's capable of and just how to use it.
I roll on my side and enjoy the view of Garrett's hard, sculpted ass when he walks to his adjoining bathroom and takes care of the condom. And I enjoy the show even more on his way back. He's still semi-hard--his cock a stunning spike of thick flesh against a bed of dark hair. I want to kiss him there, lick every inch. My eyes trail down his legs, to the wide, white scar that's slashed across his knee. I want to kiss him there too--thousands of kisses--one for every day I missed from when that scar was made.
Garrett rolls onto his back on the bed next to me--a graceful lion returning to the pride. He tugs me against him, his arm around my shoulder, my chin on his chest, our damp skin molding and our bodies aligned. We don't stop touching each other--caressing with fingertips, sliding palms and brushing lips. We talk in hushed, secret, sacred tones.
"What's your favorite memory?" I ask him. "Something I don't know about yet."
Garrett squints at the ceiling as he thinks.
"One year, when I was . . . twenty-seven, it was the last game of the season, we didn't go to the playoffs . . . and Bailey Fowler, a senior with Down syndrome, was on the team. He'd only gotten a few seconds of field time all year--I treated him like any other third string player. I thought it was important to treat him the same. Anyway, the last play of the game, Bailey was in and . . . James Thompson, our quarterback, passed him the ball. They must've worked it out with the other team, because a few of the kids went after him, but nobody touched him. And he ran that ball all the way to the end zone. Bailey was so frigging happy; everyone in the stands was cheering. It was such a good moment."
He glances down at me. "What about you?"
Mine isn't as uplifting, but it's a joyful memory. I tell him about Twelfth Night, the first production I was involved in after graduation, with the Fountain Theater. How I'd prepped for the audition, wanted it so badly . . . and got the part.
"I finally got to play Viola."
"That was your dream role."
I tilt my head, looking up at him. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything, Callie." He picks up a strand of my hair, brushing it with his fingers. "Every one of your dreams . . . your laughs"--he cups
my cheek--"and the tears too."
A memory rises in my head--a rainy day, senior year, in Garrett's bedroom--when he held me, rocked me in his arms, and I soaked his skin with tears.
I close my eyes, brush it away. I don't want to go down that road, not when we're making this new, precious, happy memory. I turn the corner instead.
"What's your favorite song?" I ask, wanting to absorb every detail of him.
"'Undone--The Sweater Song'--by Weezer is still my favorite. It was our song."
My face scrunches. "Ah . . . that wasn't our song, Garrett."
"Sure it was. It came on in my Jeep, right before the first time we had sex. We discussed it afterwards. Totally our song."
I roll my eyes. "Nooo . . . our song was 'Heaven' by Bryan Adams. It was our Junior Prom song."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
I laugh, teasing him. "I thought you remembered everything?"
"I do. And I can't believe you had our song wrong all these years. It commemorated a fantastic fucking moment in our relationship."
I bite his chest. "I can't believe you had our song wrong."
He moves quick, making me gasp--flipping me onto my back, hovering over me with a wicked look in his eyes.
"Your memory needs refreshing, babe. Let's retrace our mouths."
"Our mouths? I think we're supposed to retrace our steps."
"Nope." Garrett glides his wet mouth across my neck, over my breasts, licking his way down my stomach, settling his dark head between my thighs. "When our song was on in the Jeep . . . I was doing this with my mouth . . ."
He drags the tip of his tongue through my slit, circling my clit, sending a jolt of simmering heat through my body.
"And your mouth was busy moaning."
He laps at me, laves me with the flat of his wet tongue. And I moan.
"Yep, just like that. Ring any bells?"
"No." I manage to shake my head, my heart racing.
"Hmm." He hums against me and I see stars. "Guess I'll have to try harder."
He kisses me between my legs--wet, searing, open-mouthed kisses. He eats me, devours me, worships me. He groans against me, telling me how good I taste, how hard I make him.