by Kristen Mae
I woke up with a hangover this morning but forced myself to practice and study anyway. I also played downtown for a couple of hours to replenish my languishing bank account, and stopped by one of the boutiques to splurge on a few thongs. The underwear is just as unwelcome in my ass crack as I suspected it would be, though hopefully it won’t be there for long. The thought makes me blush furiously, and I pull a brush through my hair one more time, tug at the edges of my T-shirt, and lean in to the mirror, trying to find something else I can fix.
“Malory, you are like, so nervous that you’re giving me anxiety. Would you chill?” Over my shoulder in the mirror, Daphne’s laughing at me from behind her laptop.
“I’m trying. I just…shit, I can’t even explain it. He’s not…I’ve never met anyone like him.” I see myself in the water with him, sinking beneath the surface while the manatees circle. And then at his house, on his counter, Come on, Garrett, fuck me, please…Did I seriously say that to him?
“Last week you barely seemed like you cared.”
Last week I hadn’t been destroyed by a couple of fingers and the nasty sound of my own begging. I pick at a strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear, untucking it so it hangs along my cheek, then tucking it behind my ear again.
“Oh…” Daphne’s face lights up with understanding. “Are you guys going to have sex for the first time tonight?”
I visibly convulse at the thought, at the image of Garrett between my legs, sinking into me, and she giggles back.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“Ugh. Fucking hell.” I grab my purse from my bed and sling it over my shoulder, smooth my T-shirt again, adjust the hem of my shorts.
Daphne tilts her head down and gives me a knowing, almost flirtatious smile. “Look, Garrett is probably just more mature than what you’re used to. He’s older. He’s got his shit together. I can understand why that might be a little…intimidating.”
I want to tell her that the way I feel has nothing to do with any of that—it’s what he does to me, it’s the dichotomy of healing and humiliating, of suturing and tearing, how somehow he manages to do both at the same time. She wouldn’t understand. “I’d better go. I don’t want to be rude and make him wait.”
She rolls her eyes and looks back down at her laptop. “Shit, make him wait a little. You don’t have to bend over backward to please him.”
I think bending over for Garrett is precisely what I want to do, but I keep that to myself.
He’s waiting under the oak like the first time we met, when he took me to see the manatees. I’m unsure if I should hug him this time or just take his hand or keep my distance, but he takes charge and slides a hand around my neck, pulling me toward him for a soft kiss. It’s only a peck, so quick, but his lips are parted a little, and behind the gesture there is a subtle suggestion of something…more. Or maybe I just want there to be.
On our way to his house, we chat about the week. He tells me about his Contracts Law course and the mountain of case files he has to read through, and I confess my abysmal grade in Twentieth-Century Europe and the resulting formation of the study group. The contrast in our coursework makes me feel like an idiot.
“I was so sure you’d done better than you thought. Didn’t you study?” he asks.
Yes, but apparently I’m too dumb to absorb it. “I thought I did.” We’re almost to his driveway now. “I’ve heard college can be a rude awakening for some people who had it easy in high school. I guess I’m one of those people.”
“High school was easy for you?”
High school fucking sucked. “The making good grades part was. After my mom died, all I did was study. Well, and practice. I guess it was a distraction. Liza went the other way, reading a lot by herself and rebelling against the institution kind of stuff.”
“Liza is your sister?”
“Yeah, two years younger.”
Garrett unlocks his front door and pushes it open for me. The place is as spotless and freezing as the last time I was here, but my heart accelerates as I step over the threshold. On the other side of the living room wall is the kitchen where I had the most incredible non-sex of my life.
“I wasn’t planning on making a big deal of dinner tonight. Do you mind eating light?” I follow him into the kitchen. “I made a white wine sangria—it’s chilling in the fridge.”
I stupidly scan the floor for the underwear I left behind when I was here last. Garrett peeks back at me, watches my eyes, and I swear he’s reading my mind, trying to see how affected I am. I straighten my shoulders and smile. “Sangria sounds great!”
As if I even know what sangria is.
“Excellent.” He opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a pitcher of sparkling liquid filled with a rainbow of fruits and herbs, then a serving tray covered in Saran Wrap. The tray is loaded with thin cuts of what looks like mozzarella, along with slices of bright, juicy-looking tomatoes, thin-sliced ham, and leaves of some herb I don’t recognize but am too embarrassed to ask Garrett about.
“Do you always eat this well?” I ask instead, leaning against the counter and picking at my cuticles. I have no idea where to put my hands, but I don’t want to cross my arms because I read somewhere that in body language it means “I don’t want to be here.”
Garrett produces two wine glasses and fills them halfway. He is so modest with his pouring—I never get the feeling he’s trying to make me drunk. “How do you normally eat?” He holds out one of the glasses.
“Oh, I usually…it’s kind of sad compared to this.” I accept the wine glass but hold off on sipping.
He takes a sip. His dimple appears with his grin, and he raises an eyebrow, encouraging me to go on.
“I eat a lot of ramen noodles. And cereal. And boxed macaroni and cheese.”
He chuckles. “Hang out with me and I’ll make sure you eat well.” He lifts his glass and I do the same with mine, clinking it against his before taking a sip.
Now that I think of it, he lives a fairly lavish lifestyle for a student. I remember the FJ Cruiser under the carport. “Do you work?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“I sell insurance.”
I laugh, because I’m sure he’s joking, but when his face remains serious, I say, “Oh, really? I guess that’s…good? You mean like life insurance? How does one go about that?”
He leans against the counter. “Licensing is as easy as taking an exam. I sell life insurance, long-term care, annuities…do you know what those are?”
“Not really,” I admit. I try to remember the little I’ve learned so far in my macroeconomics class, but we’ve only covered more general functions of the market. “I think my mother had an annuity; I remember looking through the statements. Are they kind of like…mutual funds?”
Garrett smiles like he’s impressed. “That’s basically it. Very much like mutual funds, but you typically hold them longer.”
He opens a drawer and pulls out two forks. “Let’s take this food to the living room.”
I wish I’d thought to bring a hoodie or something to wear over my T-shirt—my arms are covered in goose bumps. I follow him to the other room and sit next to him on the couch, sliding my feet out of my flip-flops and tucking my legs underneath me to try to get warm. He sets the tray on the coffee table and hands me a fork.
“God,” I say around a bite of mozzarella. “This is like heaven on my tongue.”
He snickers. “Taste the prosciutto.”
He means the stuff that looks like ham. I taste it, and it’s delicious—everything is. We chat while we eat and sip, bantering about the differences between growing up in New York and growing up in Florida. “Summers would have been easier if we’d had air conditioning, I guess,” I say, finishing my sangria.
“You didn’t have AC? In Florida?” He sets his empty glass on the coffee table.
“Well, until I was…hmm, maybe ten, we did. It was around then that things started to go bad.”
“What happened?”
&n
bsp; I rub at the gooseflesh on my arms. “My dad lost his job. He blamed his bosses, said there was a conspiracy to get rid of him, that the management was laundering money and they were mad that my dad was trying to expose it.”
Garrett frowns, waits for me to continue.
“And…well, I don’t know the whole truth because I was just a kid and it’s been so long, but now I sort of suspect that it was my dad who was laundering money. Or trying to.”
“Damn.” He settles back into the couch.
“We lost our house, and my dad just…got depressed, I guess, and was angry a lot. It sucked.” I shrug and smile, trying to lighten the moment. I hate even thinking about these things. It makes me hear the sounds again—my dad yelling, the crash of something thrown against the wall, the bump bump bump of Liza and I scooting backward under the bed.
“And your mom?”
My throat tightens again. I can’t seem to maintain control of my emotions when I’m around Garrett. I shake my head and hug my arms around myself, the cold suddenly too much. She never yelled. She took the blows and never yelled. “I’d…rather not…” I feel stiff, like I’m petrifying.
“That’s all right, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. Why don’t we watch a movie? It’s still early.”
I inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly, grateful he took the hint. “A movie would be great. I haven’t watched anything since I got to school.”
“What do you like? Romance? Drama? Action?”
I smile coyly, still trying to lighten the mood. “What do you think?”
He considers me a moment. “Sci-fi?”
“You’re good,” I say. “I also like superhero movies.” I’ll watch anything that’s not a reproduction of reality.
“Got a thing for Superman, do you?”
I blush.
“I actually have the latest Superman. Or would you prefer Avengers?”
“Ah, yeah,” I say, wriggling in my seat like an excited kid. “I haven’t seen the new Avengers movie.”
“Perfect. I’ll make popcorn.”
“Awesome. But can I just ask one little favor?” I’ve been hugging myself since I got here—has he honestly not noticed?
He leans in close with that smooth-faced smirk. “Anything.”
“Can I have a blanket?”
Chapter Twelve
I’m snuggled under a blanket on the couch, my head in Garrett’s lap, and he’s playing with my hair, brushing strands back from my forehead in a repetitive movement that has me drifting toward sleep as the movie credits roll. The roaring nerves from before have subsided to a dull hum in my chest. I’m warm, and I don’t ever want to move again.
He points the remote at the TV, and the room goes dark and silent. I wait for him to say something, to give me some indication that he wants me to stay, but he remains quiet, even stops stroking my hair. I sit up hesitantly, the couch leather protesting against my movement with a rubbery sound. “Well…thanks for dinner again,” I say, sliding my feet back into my flip-flops. I don’t want to appear eager, or like I’m overstaying my welcome.
His angular profile is silhouetted against the dim light of the street lamp shining through the curtained window behind him. He shifts toward me in the dark, and then I feel the feathery touch of his hand on my thigh. I gasp like he’s shocked me—and maybe he has, a little—and then cringe at the sound; I hate what it tells him, hate that I’m as easy to read as a picture book.
He moves closer. His lips touch my neck. The minty clean scent hovers about him as though he’s fresh out of the shower, and I hold my breath and try not to gasp again, try not to show him just how desperate I am for him to want me. I feel like my arms are pinned again, but really I’m just frozen, unable to give more than a silent offering of myself.
“Relax,” he whispers against my neck, and the tickle of his breath unfurls me, melts me backward until my head is resting on the plush arm of the couch. He melts with me, his lips brushing my skin, and it’s so simple the way he’s touching me, his fingers in my hair and his mouth on my neck, little unhurried caresses—simple, but nerve endings are lighting up all the way down to my toes.
I reach my hands around his neck, tentative and uncertain. He kisses me on the mouth with the same dry, open-lipped kiss from before, and again I want to snake my tongue between his lips. I’m panting so hard I might as well be screaming at him to fuck me. I can control what my tongue does, but the panting can’t be helped.
He pulls his thigh up between my legs as he’s kissing me, and the pressure of his leg there—it’s such a nothing move, but it’s killing me, the subtlety of it, just his leg pressed between mine while he brushes his lips against my lips and lets me pant into his mouth. Other guys I’ve slept with were too eager, only in it for themselves, rubbing their hardness right into my crotch, frantic for contact. But Garrett…well, that’s just it: he doesn’t need me. He knows where to touch me, how to touch me, how to make me beg, for fuck’s sake, but he could just as easily do without me.
I widen my legs for him.
“Did I give you something to think about last week?” he murmurs. His lips bend into a smile against my mouth.
I move my hands over his muscled back, pulling him closer. “You know damn well you did.” I mean it to come out full voice, I mean it to sound sexy, but my words are timid, barely a whisper. My arms, draped around his neck, have already begun shaking.
“Excellent.” He pulls my T-shirt over my head and lowers himself to me, kissing my neck again, kissing down my chest and then pulling the cups of my bra down until my breasts are bared. His mouth is on my nipple then, sucking in a way that awakens a throbbing in my groin. God, he’s going to kill me. I moan, arch into him, and once more I feel him smiling against my skin, reveling in my arousal.
He reaches a hand between my legs and slides a finger up under the hem of my shorts, and then he’s inside me. “You want me?” he whispers, and I almost scream Yes!, but I grit my teeth around the word and it comes out as a hiss.
He pulls his finger out of me and kisses my stomach, then abruptly stands and scoops me up in his arms, bride-over-the-threshold style, and carries me down the hallway to his room. I’m curious what his room looks like, but I can’t see anything but shadows in the gloom. He lowers me until I feel the bed against my backside and he’s over me again with his mouth on my neck and chest. He’s kissing and licking above my bra cups where my breasts are crudely exposed, and then my hands are reaching for him, tugging and grabbing, and he helps me pull his shirt over his head. I run my fingers all over his chiseled chest and stomach, this perfect statue of a man. How is it possible that he sees something in me? That he wants me? Does he want me? He brought you to his room, idiot. Yes, he wants you.
He takes a minute to undo my shorts and slide them off along with my thong, then pulls off his own pants and underwear. I reach down and take his hardness in my hand, amazed at how he is simultaneously rock hard but also so smooth, how even the skin of his genitals, like everything else about him, is so clean. He really is like Superman, made of steel, right down to his manhood. But, also like Superman, there is a pureness about him. I try to guide him inside of me but he says, “Wait, slow,” and I flush all over, embarrassed again about moving too fast.
He lowers his pelvis until he is between my legs, the length of him pressed against my wetness, but still he moves without penetrating, back and forth, dragging himself along my clitoris until I’m trembling and whimpering, ready to come. I spread my legs wider, inviting him, pleading with my body. Eager. Too Eager. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness I can see him hovering over me, watching me with such intensity it makes me dizzy. I’m overwhelmed by him, every part of him. I’m sure it must be written all over my face.
“Beg,” he says, and I think Can’t you see I’m begging already? but I understand now that this is how it will be with Garrett. He’ll drive me half mad with desire and make me grovel every time. I don’t think I’m supposed to b
e aroused by this, yet I am—and the throb between my legs is stronger than it was when Garrett had me up on his counter.
“Please,” I say, but the word comes out shy, stifled by the weight of my vulnerability.
“That’s it?” He stops moving against me, and I have to take a few breaths to gather my courage.
“Please don’t stop. Please.” My voice sounds desperate now, breathy and shrill, on the verge of whining. What can I say to get him to give me more? “I want your cock,” I say, experimenting with words I’ve never said to anyone despite all my sleeping around. “I want it. I want you inside me.” My words are sex—I’m practically fucking myself with my own voice. I reach down to grab Garrett, to guide him, but he catches me by the wrist and pins my arm over my head. My nipples shrivel in response to my defenselessness, tightening and tingling the skin of my chest. “Please, fuck me, Garrett. I need to feel your cock inside me.”
Holy fuck, my voice.
He gives me a satisfied smile and then releases me. I start to grab for him, to pull him back to me, but I hear a drawer opening, a tearing sound that tells me he’s putting on a condom, and now I feel stupid, because aren’t I supposed to insist on that? I’d gotten so heated I wasn’t even thinking about protection. Even now I’m pawing at his arms, impatient to have him inside me. Then he’s over me again, finally, and I feel him pressing against my opening, but he’s going slow, so agonizingly slow. Goddammit. I lift my hips, trying to take him into me, but he resists, always so…controlled.
“Please,” I beg again. “Fuck me.” I’m breaking apart. I think I’m really going to break apart, I’m going to lose it, I’m going to cry. “Give me your cock, please,” I try one last time, and the words stumble from my mouth in a breathless whisper, my face—every inch of my skin—smoldering at my shameless desperation. One hot little tear escapes the corner of my eye. This is too much. Too much.