by B. Celeste
Within minutes, she’s writhing under me and gasping out choked noises as I slide my hand under her waistband and am greeted by naked skin. Moving closer to the trimmed curls lining her wet slit, I draw out her loud moans as I play with the bundle of nerves until she’s saying my name in ways I want to hear on repeat for the rest of my goddam life.
My cock grows painfully hard in my jeans and only gets worse when I feel her tighten around my finger as I play with her soaked pussy.
“That’s it,” I coax, fingers paying special attention to where she needs me most as I work a digit in and out of her slowly, then carefully add another. She’s so tight I worry I’m hurting her, but the way her hips lift to meet my hand as she holds onto my shoulders in a strong grip tells me otherwise.
“Garrick—” Her breath hitches as I quicken my pace, hooking my fingers and finding the perfect spot. “Oh God.”
Needing the pressure in my groin to ease, I turn her on her side and tuck myself behind her so we’re spooning. Pulling her toward me so we’re as close as we can be, I start grinding myself against her pert ass until I hear her gasp and clench the two fingers I’ve managed to ease inside her.
I don’t want to make her feel like she has to do anything more, but if I don’t cum—whether in my fucking jeans while listening to her noises, or with my cock in my hand in the bathroom replaying every second of what just happened—I’m going to fucking combust.
What does me in is the way her ass keeps the pace with every thrust of my fingers, keeping us in sync as I hear the wet, slapping noises of my hand and digits entering her pussy until she breaks apart in a shattered cry.
The second I hear the drawn out, orgasm-induced way she says “Garrick” has my cock emptying right fucking there along with her like a fourteen-year-old dry humping his first girlfriend.
We lay in silence, my fingers easing out of her and adjusting her pants back into place before my arm curls around her side to keep her against me.
Her body is sated, resting against me as she catches her breath. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I murmur, “I’m looking forward to doing that again. And more.”
“More?”
Smiling against her skin, I press a kiss there and nod. “Definitely more, love. Ever had an Australian kiss before?”
There’s a moment of pause. “I don’t even know what that is.”
So fucking innocent. I swear I’m ready to go again simply from that alone. “It’s like a French kiss—” The tip of my tongue ghosts over the back of her neck and trails over to find the pulse on the side. “—except down under.”
I hold her while a shiver runs down her spine, but don’t push her to reply.
Sometimes the silence says it all.
21
Rylee
Garrick gives me a jacket to put over my head and sandwiches me between him and a beefy officer who’s leading us out of the airport. Hidden away, I see the telltale signs of cameras flashing from my view of the ground as I keep the barrier up to shield me and hear masses of muffled voices that are drowned out by the headphones put on me before we left the plane.
Unlike me, Garrick isn’t covered by anything besides sunglasses and a backwards baseball cap to cover his unruly blond hair. Nothing that conceals his identity. He stays close, always touching me to reassure me he’s there, knowing what he’s doing since I keep stumbling as we rush through the cleared area security prepped in advance of our landing.
We’d made it an hour into the flight before I noticed a cell phone pointed in our direction from the corner of my eye. I’d leaned into Garrick, burrowing into his side, and whispered, “Someone is taking pictures.” He dropped an arm around me, shifted his body to shield me from the people pointing phones at us, and gave me one of his earbuds to watch a movie with him as a distraction.
The protective side of him is still strong, but I know if I look back he’ll have a neutral expression on his face—not smiling or frowning, not paying any attention to the people calling out to him or stopping to sign things and take pictures.
He used to do that.
People applauded him for it, said he was one of the few who happily interacted with fans wherever he went because he was grateful.
Until people like me ruined it for him.
I frown as we stop at a sleek black vehicle, the windows heavily tinted, as the door opens. I slide in first, followed by Garrick, and only lower the jacket when he taps my leg and peels it off me, then moves the headphones to rest around my neck.
My hesitant eyes go to the windows where a huge crowd of people are being kept back by police barriers and officers. Eyes widening at the sight, I slowly shake my head.
The car starts moving a few moments after someone puts our bags in the back, and I find myself moving toward Garrick until our sides are pressed against each other.
He puts my seatbelt on as I lose myself in my surroundings, then takes my hand, threads our fingers, and squeezes my palm once. “It’s a lot to take in.”
That’s an understatement.
He says something to the driver before we make our way through the crowds, a sheriff’s vehicle leading with its lights on, and a regular cruiser tailing close behind.
It’s only then I say, “I’m sorry.”
I don’t tell him why.
But he understands. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have.” The crowd of people seems endless, and the idea of everyone being here because of him…us…seems unbelievable to me.
Suffocating.
Sarina used to say that the repercussions of our work doesn’t matter as long as the job is done, and our purses are padded. For a while, I pretended I was okay with that.
But this…
“I should have,” I repeated in a whisper, more to myself than him.
He squeezes our fingers together again as his only reply, and I’m glad. I’m not sure I want his forgiveness.
Not yet.
I’m dreading the moment we pull up to my parents’ house, taking a roundabout way to ensure nobody followed us. I asked Garrick if we could stop at a hotel first, the nearest one being half an hour away from my hometown, but he simply looked at me and said, “Rip the Band-Aid off, Rylee.”
The fact he knows I’d make a million excuses not to go right to their house tells me he’s a little too perceptive. Even if I hadn’t texted Mom to let them know when we’d landed, she would have found out. She lives for gossip sites like TMZ, usually filling me in on the latest celebrity news whenever we talk. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Garrick and I are plastered on the tabloid’s homepage as we speak.
Blowing out a breath, I sink into my seat and stare at the rustic blue farmhouse style home. Everything is the same as it always has been minus the few little renovations Dad worked on inside. The windowpanes and shutters are still white, the flowerbeds are empty from the cold season taking over the pretty greenery, and there’s still a large dent in the corner of the enclosed porch from where a FedEx driver backed into it when I was in high school.
I’m not sure when, but Garrick had pulled his hand away from mine. Maybe it just happened, maybe it happened as soon as we left the airport parking lot. He undoes my seatbelt since I haven’t made a move to and turns to me, knee brushing mine. “They love you,” he reminds me, a fact I’ve known my whole life.
That doesn’t make this any easier. Any time I’ve done something wrong, I always think they’ll hold onto a grudge. Like the time I washed all our colored and white laundry together and turned everything pink. Dad had to go to work in a pink polo because they didn’t have time to go to the store to buy new ones for him, and his coworkers gave him flack for weeks.
Or the time I accidently scratched their car during my first three months of driving and made it worse by trying to get an old high school crush to buff it out before they noticed.
There have been countless times when I messed up and was terrified of letting them down, and all those incidents were
nothing I should have wasted my anxiety on. Puny compared to the one I’m freaking out over now.
I look to Garrick. “How can you face this like you’re not scared? You’re about to meet two complete strangers who won’t be happy with either of us.”
I swear he smiles, but masks it. “I have to deal with strangers all the time, including angry ones. Plus, I’ve done drugs.”
“Okay, first, what does that have to do with anything? And second, please don’t let that be your icebreaker when you meet them. They’re, er, conservative. Sort of.”
He snorts. “I’m sure they’ve done their research on me already, Rylee. I married their daughter, they’re going to want to know who I am and what I’ve done, and all my little rehab stories and pictures from back then are still plastered everywhere online. Everything they need to know about my past is one Google search away. But, if it makes you feel better, I won’t outwardly introduce myself as the former addict who loves giving their daughter orgasms.”
Oh my God. I’m not sure how he can joke about this, even if he’s had plenty of practice dealing with unhappy people. “These aren’t just any other strangers you’ve met, Garrick. They’re my parents.”
He nods, seriousness washing away the playful nature of his expression. “I know. They mean a lot to you, just like my mother means a lot to me. And you did well in that situation, like I’ll do here. I can’t promise they’ll like me, but I won’t give them any reason not to. But they’re going to forge their own opinions about me on their own if they haven’t already, and neither of us can stop them.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out my ring, winking as I eye it stunned. “Don’t think I didn’t double check to make sure we brought this. It’s all about the appearance, right?” Taking my hand, he gently slides it onto my finger and brushes a kiss just above it. I feel every single nerve in my body fire even after those lips retract and he brushes a thumb over the piece of expensive jewelry. “Are you ready, wife?”
I shiver at the title, wondering if he can hear the thump, thump, thump of my heart. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that.”
“Better start, love.” Pecking my cheek, he opens his door a crack before shooting me a weighty look and stuffing the ring box back into his jacket pocket. “Your parents are walking toward the car.”
I think my heart stops.
There’s a thick tension in the air as we sit around the living room, a large open space painted yellow because Mom said it was warm and welcoming. Everyone is spread out in here instead of cramped around the kitchen table like we would have been since most serious talks happen there.
Like when my goldfish died, and Mom tried telling me it went to boarding school. Or my rabbit, which they said got a letter to Hogwarts. I knew that was bullshit, but I let them lie and used the opportunity to ask if we could get a cat.
They’d said no.
Every time they wanted to talk about something big, it happened at the chipped, square table that Dad proudly found at a garage sale. He’d sanded it, repainted it, and said the wear it’d gotten over the years gave it character. The bottom has random drawings from when I was little and got ahold of permanent markers, and it used to house some of my old gum until Mom found out and made me scrape it all off and then grounded me for a week.
A long time ago, Dad announced he’d lost his job at the table during dinner. His eyes had been glazed with stress, Mom patted his hand in comfort, and I stared at them wondering what that even meant for us since Mom didn’t work.
And I’ll never forget the time they gave me the dreaded sex talk at that very same piece of furniture when I started dating Fulton Ramsay. I’m not sure if their intention was to scare me from having it, but it worked. Especially when my father said the word ‘condom’ and my mother told me I should go on birth control.
I’d like to think that the room venue means this won’t be as bad as I assumed it would, but I know the real truth is that Dad twisted his ankle and has to prop it up on his recliner with an ice pack on it.
“Did you see a doctor?” I ask, staring at the swelling on his foot.
Garrick shifts beside me on the couch, eyes roaming to my father’s injury as well. He offered a hand in greeting when my father approached him outside, and Dad may have been reluctant, but he still shook it. Mom and I gawked. Dad grunted something and limped back inside with all of us following.
It’s been quiet since.
“No,” is all he says.
“Oh.” A few more seconds pass uncomfortably quiet before I add, “Maybe you should, just so you’re certain there’s not a break.”
Mom cuts in, a hand wrapped tightly around her cup of tea. “It’s just sprained.”
I nod slowly, not bothering to ask how they know, and trailing my eyes down to the new carpet they had installed within the last few years.
Garrick nudges my leg with his, letting me know he’s there for me. It’s him who addresses the elephant in the room. “I understand if you’re upset with us because my mother wasn’t very pleased when she found out about our marriage either.”
Both my parents stare at him with unblinking, unreadable expressions. It makes it hard to swallow, but Garrick takes it in stride like it doesn’t faze him. “I’ll take care of your daughter, help her through what’s to come by being attached to me, and we’ll be safe.”
My face heats over his version of safe and the one I’m clearly thinking of that must have been front and center in my mind from PTSD of that safe sex talk all those years ago.
Dad clears his throat. “What hurt us more,” he declares, looking only at me, “is that we found out online. Not by you. Your mother was upset you didn’t even tell her you were seeing anyone, much less…” His eyes go to Garrick for a moment, his lips twitching downward.
There isn’t disapproval on his face necessarily, but he definitely doesn’t approve either. Unless Garrick can prove otherwise, he’ll be Switzerland about it while Mom takes lead on how she feels about our situation.
I sink into the couch cushion. “It happened so suddenly I barely had time to process myself.”
Mom shifts toward me, one of her hands reaching out to find Dad’s beside her. “You never liked talking to me about boys. Did you not trust me enough to ask for advice? Or to vent? To at least tell me what their names were?”
Internally, I groan, side-eying my husband whose brows are raised as he scopes out my face. I ignore his curiosity and direct my attention fully at my mom. “It isn’t like I dated that often. There were only a few guys.”
“And you only told us about Fulton.”
Gee, I wonder why. “None of them were serious anyway,” I counter.
She sighs, setting her cup down on the table next to her recliner. “Apparently, the seriousness of a relationship doesn’t matter considering you got married without so much as saying a word about it.”
I’m at a stalemate when Garrick cuts back in, reaching out and taking my hand. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Simmons.”
Unlike his mother, she doesn’t tell him to call her by her first name. A thought I bury for now to overthink about later when I’m alone.
My husband interlocks our fingers. “It was a whirlwind romance that we both got swept away in, and I know how the media works, how the press and paparazzi would have dissected every little thing about us before Rylee could truly give me a chance. The second I saw your daughter I knew what I wanted.”
To my horror, Dad grumbles, “I’m sure you did” just loud enough for all of us to hear.
“Dad!”
Mom hides a smile, Garrick tries to fake a cough to cover his surprised laugh, and I gape at my parents with what I imagine is red tinting my whole face that matches the color of the flower painting hanging on the wall.
Subconsciously, my nails dig into Garrick’s hand until he wiggles it loose and flexes. When I look down, I see the crescent marks left behind on his skin. “Sorry,” I murmur.
He pats my
knee. “Rylee has had to endure a lot as soon as the news came out, as I’m sure you’ve seen, and I knew if we announced it sooner we would have been harassed for far longer. It’s not a good excuse, and I’m sorry that we hurt you and my mother. I felt it was best, and Rylee went along with it because I’ve been in this business long enough to know how it works.”
I can’t help but look at him, awe sprinkled into my overheated face. He says it so simply, so calmly. Like I almost believe it when he says, “I care about Rylee very, very much, and I would hate to see anything happen to her. You’ve raised a lovely woman. She keeps me on my toes, seeing more than just the dollar amount attached to my name or the career I’m known for. She’s the first person who isn’t afraid to question me about what I say or do. I’m sure my brother would agree, since he witnesses how she handles my theatrics daily.”
“Your brother lives with you two?”
“He recently bought a house,” Garrick explains to Mom. “But he’s been staying with us until he gets through closing and can move in. I love having him around. I’m close with my family.”
“And your parents?” Dad inquires.
“Divorced. My father is still in Australia and my mother lives near me in California. Rylee met her the other day. My father knows about her as well, and I’d like for them to meet one day. He and I aren’t very close, but we do keep in touch.”
I know Garrick talks with his father because I hear them on the phone once in a while. The first time I heard his father say “g’day, mate” in a thick accent reminded me of all the episodes of The Crocodile Hunter I’d watched with Dad growing up. Garrick’s never brought up the possibility I’d meet him face to face, and I don’t know if he’s saying that to appease my parents or if he means it.
Mom and Dad exchange a long look, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out what they silently communicate whenever they get that matching look in their eyes. I always thought I’d get the same abilities when I found someone to spend the rest of my life with, yet here I am, staring at Garrick wondering who the hell he is and what he’s thinking.