I punch him in the shoulder. "Oh my God, you're such a jerk. I will never, ever say those words."
"Sure you will." He smirks at me. "Once I'm through with you, you'll be shouting those words out from the rooftops."
"You know what I think?"
"Women aren't supposed to think, Wellsy. That's why your brains are smaller. Science proves it."
I slug him again, and a howl of laughter flies out of his mouth. "Jeez. I'm kidding. You know I don't actually believe that. I worship at the shrine of womanhood." He dons a solemn face. "Okay, tell me what you think."
"I think it's time I shut you up."
He snickers. "Yeah? How do you plan on-" He hisses when I cup his package and give it a hearty squeeze. "You're evil."
"And you're a cocky jerk, so I guess we both just have to deal."
"Aw, thanks for noticing how cocky I am." He smiles innocently, but there's nothing innocent about the way he thrusts his erection into my hand.
Suddenly I don't feel like teasing him anymore. I just want to see him come apart. I haven't stopped thinking about the way he looked last night when he …
My sex clenches at the memory.
I tackle his belt buckle, and this time, he lets me undo it. In fact, he falls onto his back and lets me do whatever the heck I want.
I undress him as if I'm unwrapping a shiny gift, and once I have him naked, I take a moment to admire my prize. His body is long and sleek, boasting a golden skin tone instead of the pasty white you see on so many of the guys at Briar. I run my fingers over his rock-hard abs, smiling when his muscles quiver beneath my touch. Then I trace the tattoo on his left arm and ask, "Why flames?"
He shrugs. "I like fire. And I think flames look cool."
The response amuses me, but it also impresses me. "Wow. I was expecting to hear about the bullshit meaning behind it. I swear, every time you ask someone about their tattoo, they tell you it means "courage" in Taiwanese or something, when we both know it probably means "potato" or "shoe" or "stupidly intoxicated." Or they give you a whole spiel about how they hit rock bottom x many years ago but worked their way through it and this is why they have a phoenix rising from the ashes tattooed on their back."
Garrett laughs before going serious. "I guess this isn't the time to tell you about the tribal tattoo on my shin. It means eternal optimist."
"Oh God. Really?"
"Nope. Totally lying. But it'd serve you right for getting all judgy about people's ink."
"Hey, sometimes it's nice to hear that someone got a tattoo just because they like it. I was complimenting you, dumbass." I lean forward and kiss the flames circling his biceps, which, I have to admit, do look pretty cool.
"Hell yeah, keep complimenting me then," he drawls. "But make sure to use your tongue when you do it."
I roll my eyes, but I don't stop what I'm doing. I drag my tongue over the black flames, then kiss my way to his chest. He tastes like soap and salt and man, and I love it. So much that I can't stop licking every frickin' inch of him.
I know he's enjoying my very thorough exploration as much as I am because his breathing becomes ragged, and I can feel the tension rippling through his muscles. When my mouth concludes its journey by brushing against the tip of his penis, Garrett's entire body goes rigid.
I look up and find glazed gray eyes peering back at me. "You don't have to … do that … if you don't want to," he says gruffly.
"Huh. Then it's a good thing I want to, isn't it?"
"Some girls don't like to."
"Some girls are idiots."
My tongue touches his hard flesh, and his hips snap off the bed. I lick his smooth, engorged head, savoring the taste of him, learning his texture with my tongue. When I draw the tip into my mouth and suck gently, he makes a tortured noise deep in his throat.
"Jesus, Wellsy. That feels … "
"It feels what?" I tease, looking up at him.
"Un-fucking-believable," he croaks. "Don't ever stop. I mean it. I want you to keep blowing me for the rest of your life."
Is his growly request good for my ego?
Naah.
It's great for my ego.
Since he's too big to take all the way in my mouth, and I'm not a deep-throat expert, I wrap my fingers around the base of him, sucking and pumping in unison, my pace alternating between slow and teasing and fast and urgent. Garrett's breathing grows more and more labored, his groans growing more and more desperate.
"Hannah," he chokes out, and I feel his thighs tighten and know he's about to climax.
I've never swallowed before, and I'm not brave enough to try it now, so my hand takes over as I stroke him to release. With a husky grunt, Garrett arches his spine, and wetness spurts onto my fingers and his stomach. His face is mesmerizing and I can't tear my gaze off it. His lips are parted, cheeks taut. His eyes are a hazy swirl of gray, like a thick mass of clouds gathering before an impending storm.
Several seconds later, his body relaxes, practically sinking into the mattress as a sated sigh rumbles from his mouth. I love seeing him like this. Limp and spent and still having trouble breathing.
I grab some tissues from the box on the nightstand and wipe him up, but when I try to get up to throw out the tissues, he yanks me down and kisses me hard. "Jesus … that was incredible."
"Does that mean we get to have sex now?"
"Ha. You wish." He wags a finger at me. "Baby steps, Wellsy. Remember?"
I pout like a six-year-old. "But we know I can have an orgasm. You just saw it."
"Actually, I felt it on my tongue."
My heart skips a beat at his crude description. I fall silent for a moment, and then I let out a defeated breath. "Will this change your mind?" I scowl at him, then begin the reluctant recitation. "Garrett Graham, you are a sex god. You have achieved what no other man ever has. You are … insert more glowing reviews here." I lift one eyebrow. "Now can we have sex?"
"Absolutely not," he says cheerfully.
Then, to my sheer and total dismay, he hops off the bed and picks up his discarded jeans.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
"Getting dressed. I have practice in thirty minutes."
As if on cue, someone pounds loudly against Garrett's door. "Yo, G, we've gotta take off!" Tucker calls.
I snatch the blanket in a panic, desperate to cover myself up, but Tucker's footsteps are already retreating.
"If you want, you can hang out here until we get back," Garrett offers as he pulls his shirt on. "I'll only be gone a few hours."
I hesitate.
"Come on, stay," he begs. "I'm sure Tucker will be cooking up something good for dinner, so you can stick around and I'll drive you home afterward."
The idea of being alone in his house is … weird. But the idea of eating a home-cooked dinner instead of hitting up the dining hall sounds pretty damn tempting. "Okay," I finally relent. "I guess I can do that. I'll put on a movie or something while you're gone. Or maybe take a nap."
"I will allow either of those options." He glares at me. "But you are not, under any circumstances, allowed to watch Breaking Bad without me."
"Fine, I won't."
"Promise … "
I roll my eyes. "I promise."
"G! Move your ass!"
In the blink of an eye, Garrett walks over and plants a quick kiss on my lips. "I've gotta go. See you later."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in Garrett Graham's bedroom, which is, well, I'll just say it-it's surreal as hell. I never even spoke to the guy before midterms, and now I'm sitting naked on his bed. Figure that one out.
I'm surprised he's not worried about me snooping around and finding his porn stash, but when I stop to think about it, I realize it's not that surprising at all. Garrett is the most honest, straightforward person I've ever met. If he has porn, he probably doesn't bother hiding it. I bet it's all neatly organized in a clearly labeled folder right on his computer desktop.
I hear voices and footsteps downstairs, and then the front door creaks open and slams shut. After a few seconds, I get up and put my clothes back on, because I'm not comfortable walking around naked in a room that's not my own.
I opt against taking a nap, because I feel oddly energized after that orgasm. And that's more surreal than everything else, the knowledge that I actually had an orgasm with a guy.
Devon and I tried to make that happen for eight long months.
Garrett did it after two hookup sessions.
Does this mean I'm fixed?
That question is way too philosophical to be pondering in the middle of the afternoon, so I push it aside and go downstairs to get a drink. But once I enter the kitchen, inspiration strikes. Garrett and his teammates are probably going to be exhausted when they get home. Why let Tucker slave over the stove when I'm already in the kitchen with nothing but time on my hands?