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?
A quick exploration of the fridge, pantry and cupboards reveals that Garrett wasn’t kidding—cooking does happen here, because the kitchen is stocked with ingredients. The only recipe I know off the top of my head is my grandmother’s three-cheese lasagna, so I gather up all the necessary items and pile them on the granite counter. I’m about to get cooking when something else occurs to me.
Pursing my lips, I fish my phone out of my back pocket and pull up my mother’s number. It’s only four o’clock, so I’m hoping she hasn’t left for work yet.
Luckily, she picks up on the first ring. “Hey, sweetie! This is a lovely surprise.”
“Hey. Got a sec?”
“I’ve got five whole minutes actually,” she replies with a laugh. “Your father’s driving me to work tonight, so he has the honor of cleaning all the snow off the car.”
“You guys are already getting that much snow?” I say in horror.
“Of course we are. It’s gl—”
“I swear to God, Mom, if you say global warming, I’m hanging up,” I warn her, because as much as I love my parents, their global warming lectures drive me up the wall. “And why is Dad driving you? What happened to your car?”
“It’s in the shop. The brake pads needed to be replaced.”
“Oh.” I absently open a box of lasagna sheets. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you about Nana’s lasagna recipe. It serves eight, right?”
“Ten,” she corrects.
Frowning, I think about all the food Garrett shoveled into his pie hole when he came to the diner last week, then multiply that by four hockey players and…
“Crap,” I mutter. “I still don’t think that’s enough. If I wanted to serve twenty, do I just double the ingredients, or is there a different way to calculate it?”
Mom pauses. “Why exactly are you cooking lasagna for twenty people?”
“I’m not. But I am feeding four hockey players who I imagine have the appetites of twenty people.”
“I see.” There’s another pause and I can practically hear her smiling over the line. “Is one of these four hockey players someone…special?”
“You can just ask me if he’s my boyfriend, Mom. You don’t have to be cheesy about it.”
“Fine. Is he your boyfriend?”
“Nope. I mean, we’re kinda seeing each other, I guess—” Kinda? He just made you come! “—but we’re friends more than anything.”
Friends who make each other come.
I silence the annoying voice in my voice and swiftly change the subject. “Do you have time to quickly talk me through the recipe?”
“Of course.”
Five minutes later, I hang up the phone and start preparing dinner for the guy who made me come today.