I know we’re living a fantasy. Sheila and Kurt get back from their honeymoon tomorrow, and I’ll go back to my crappy apartment, and Garrett will return to his parent’s palatial estate. But we still have today.
Garrett brought his drums over Monday. We jam every day and walk the dog every night. Then we sleep next to each other. We’ve done everything married couples do except that one thing.
It’s my fault. I told him on day one I didn’t want a fling. Then I may have opened up about my past too much. Garrett didn’t want to be just another man I came across. I don’t want him to be one either.
“Are you going to eat the last one?” he asks.
I stab the pancake with the fork and put it on his plate. “It’s all yours.”
He cuts off a piece and dips it into the syrup. “We can share.” He feeds it to me, and my insides tingle.
I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Every look from him makes me flush. Every seductive word makes my skin prickle. When we play together, it’s the most intense foreplay I’ve ever experienced. It’s also not lost on me that he’s taken a lot of cold showers this week.
“You missed a spot.” He leans over and licks syrup off my chin.
I can’t take it anymore. “Garrett, oh my God, when are you going to take me to bed already?”
He chuckles into the crook of my neck, then withdraws and takes our plates to the sink. He holds out a hand. “It’s our last day. Let’s have one more jam session before I pack up the drums.”
I want to yell at him, but the truth is, playing with him might be as satisfying as sex, minus the explosive outcome. Oh, how I crave the explosive outcome.
He sits behind his drum set, still in his sleep pants. He’s shirtless because I’m wearing his shirt. It’s what I’ve slept in the past six nights. He gives me a beat, and I play. It’s amazing how well we play together without scored music. We’re so much in sync, it makes me wonder how good we’ll be in bed.
I’ve had a few flashbacks of the night of the wedding, or maybe they’re fantasies of what I think it would be like with him. I’ve seen him naked. Naked with an erection. I’ve studied every tattoo on his right arm; I could draw them from memory. I’ve heard all about his childhood, his hopes, and his dreams. I know Garrett Young better than I’ve ever known anyone.
And I’m sure I love him.
I haven’t said it, though. Every time I do, they run for the hills. I keep asking myself what’s the respectable amount of time to wait before declaring my love for them. With Lincoln, it was two weeks. The next day we went shopping in New York City, and he left me there, stranded. With Bryan, it was a month. He stared at me for about two seconds, then said he was sorry and walked out the door. With Kevin, I was sure I was in love with him by the end of our second date. Then we ran into his ex and he left the restaurant with her, not me.
There’s a pattern here. The list goes on and on. I’ve often wondered if it’s me they don’t want to fall in love with or if it’s my past that scares them. Maybe no one wants a foster-care kid with so little potential. What they don’t know, what none of them realize, is that one day, I’m going to make it big. Then they’ll be sorry they didn’t give me a chance.
I can’t look away from Garrett when he plays his drums. He knows where to hit every cymbal, every snare, without looking. Will he toss me to the curb after today? Was this just a fortuitous break from his pretentious family and an opportunity to play house?
He stops playing, but I don’t. I keep strumming, working out the right chords for a song I started tossing around in my head this week. When I add lyrics, Garrett stares at my mouth as I sing. Maybe I don’t need to say the three little words after all. Maybe he knows how I feel from the song.
When he comes out from behind his drums, his sleep pants are tented. I put down the guitar. “If you don’t take me to bed right this second, Garrett, I might actually die. As in spontaneously combust right here, right now.”
He tosses his drumsticks on the floor. I jump on him. He looks into my eyes. “Did you write it because of me?”
I nod.
“Is it how you really feel, Reece? Or are you just trying to get me into bed.”
“It’s how I feel.” I touch my lips to his. “And I really want to get you into bed.”
His lips smile against mine. He carries me to the bedroom and puts me on the bed before removing his pants. I try not to moan, mewl, or beg as he stands gloriously naked in front of me. Climbing on the bed next to me, he whispers, “Now you,” and pulls my shirt up and over my head. He stills, looking at my chest. “You’re fucking gorgeous, do you know that?”
Heat flushes my neck and chest.
“Has anyone ever told you that before?”
I shake my head.
His eyes widen. “Never?”
I shrug. “A few said they liked my tits.”
He looks upset. “Not the same. Not nearly the same.” He kisses first one breast, then the other, being so gentle I have to press myself into him. He works his tongue down my stomach, stopping when he reaches my panties. “How attached are you to these?”
“Not very. I stole them from Sheila.”
Laughing, he uses his teeth to rip them off. It makes me feel like I’m Jane to his Tarzan. All week he’s protected and amazed me, making me feel more special than I ever have. I can feel the words bubbling up.
Don’t say them, I tell myself. I don’t want this one to leave.
When he puts his mouth on me, I arch my back. He inserts a finger, and a groan escapes me. Every move he makes is careful and calculated. He watches my face, for clues maybe, to see if I like what he’s doing. Oh, I like it all right. Everywhere he touches me, I’m on fire. Every lick of my clit has me soaring higher. Every crook of his finger makes me shudder. He asks me to come, and I detonate, calling his name as I fist the sheets and dig my heels into the mattress.
Before the last pulse has left my body, he’s inside me, thrusting. One. Two. Three. He buries his head in my shoulder and stills, grunting loudly.
He rolls off me, catches his breath, then rises on an elbow. “Didn’t mean to be Speedy Gonzales, but it’s been a while.”
“What do you mean? We did it last Saturday. Twice apparently.”
“So it’s been a while since I remember doing that.”
I raise a brow. “How long?”
He chews his lips. “Five months maybe.”
“That’s not so long.”
He laughs. “You’re not a nineteen-year-old man. Five months for us can seem like a fucking lifetime.” As he removes the condom, I wonder how he even had time to put one on. He seems to know what I’m thinking. “I’m pretty good with these things. Can put them on with one hand even.”
“I’m on the pill.”
“I know, but I’m not taking any chances. No way do I want any rug rats. Can you imagine trying to become a rock star and having to deal with diapers and daycare and snotty-nosed kids demanding your attention twenty-four-seven? A buddy of mine, a few bands back, knocked up his girlfriend. Do you know what he does now? Works at the local hardware store. Sure, he jams on the weekends when his kid’s mom isn’t making him do shit, but no way is that happening to me.”