“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.