Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(50)

I’d told him before.

He whispered against my lips, “If it hurts too much, you tell me and I’ll stop, okay? I’m fine with that.”

His words were like magic. Vanquishing my nerves.

I nodded, and I rested my shoulders back to the mattress. My legs around him. Vulnerable and ready, so ready.

For the first time, I watched him sheath himself in front of me. More confidence radiating off every inch of him. It was contagious, fueling timid parts of me.

He climbed further over my body, his hand beside my cheek. He lowered his head, his lips fusing with my lips. His tongue tangling with mine, his breath melding with mine, his heart beating with mine.

I was swept up into hot sensations. Into the fiery moment, and his hand slid along my hips and then pressure welled between my legs.

A sharp pain came and went, replaced by an overwhelming fullness that dizzied and electrified. Sparking more need. More desire. More want.

“God, Willow,” Garrison groaned like this is a very good place to be. I trembled underneath him, desiring more friction. His eyes soaked into mine. Concern wrapped in extreme craving. He was already moving his hips.

He was already rocking against me and watching him pump inside me—oh my God. I gasped, and he held my hand in his, lacing our fingers on the pillow. “This good?” he breathed.

I nodded, words lost in my throat. So good.

With that confirmation, he started thrusting harder. Working me up, sweat glistened on our skin, and a high-pitched noise escaped my lips, something else tickling my throat. “Ahh.” I clutched onto his bicep, the one with the inked skull. I was riding a surge of pleasure, the end not even in sight. “Garrison…please don’t stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, placing another kiss on my lips. He drove deeper in me and welled up sentiments pricked my eyes.

He let go of my hand and clutched my cheek. His pace and the fullness absolutely annihilating me. In the best way. Obviously worthy of a mental revisit.

I was lost beneath him.

He was lost above me.

We found each other between every staggered breath. Every racing heartbeat. Every aching need. Until we were both sweaty and overcome by an intense, passionate crash. Nerves firing. Breaths heaving. Bodies colliding with blissful pleasure after all those years of waiting.

In my dorm room, I ride the same wave. I reach a peak.

I cry out his name in a soft, aching whisper. He lights me on fire—even when he’s miles away. But there’s a difference.

I come down, and I roll on my side. No one else tangled in the sheets with me.

He’s not here to pull me in his arms. He’s not here to say I love you. He’s not here so I can say I love you back.

He’s not here to ask if I’m okay. To push the sweaty pieces of hair off my face. To kiss me one last time before we fall asleep.

So I fumble for my phone. And I try to call him again. “Please answer,” I mutter alone in London. “Please answer.”

It rings.

And rings.

“Please, Garrison.” It stops ringing.

Beep.

“Voice-mailbox full,” an automated voice replies.

I roll onto my back and hold my phone to my chest.





16 PRESENT DAY – October


Philadelphia, Pennsylvania





GARRISON ABBEY

Age 20





Halloween.

Also known as Loren Hale’s birthday. He already texted me about some “surprise” party he’s throwing himself. Only it’s a surprise for all his guests, not him—the guy with the birthday. It’s so Loren Hale, you really can’t make this shit up.

The elevator at Cobalt Inc. is slow as fuck today. Maybe it’s broken? It goes down and down and down like the ticking of a clock, and I’m worried that I’m not ditching out of here early enough to avoid the party. I glance at the text again.

Loren Hale: I’m picking you up at 9:45 p.m. for my birthday party. The outing is a surprise. No questions will be answered. Participation is not optional.





He’s such an asshole, even in text. He didn’t even ask where I’d be, so I assume Connor tells him I work until midnight. But joke is on him because I’m out of here at 9:30 p.m. tonight.

The elevator finally makes it to the lobby, and I pull out my phone to call an Uber. Just as I exit the revolving doors, shoes landing on the sidewalk, a black limo slows at the curb.

Fuck.

Second option: Avoid eye contact. Maybe I can get away with ignoring the limo. I focus on my cell and notice that the nearest Uber is ten minutes away. Fuck Halloween.

“Garrison Abbey!” Loren shouts from the limo. “Let’s go! My birthday awaits!”

Don’t be an asshole. I let out a breath of defeat and glance up. Half of his body hangs out of the limo’s opened window. He holds out a hand like come on.

Trying not to seem too unenthusiastic, I pocket my phone, adjust my backpack on my shoulder, and approach the limo. Each footstep heavy.

Loren is about to open the limo door, but I grab onto the windowsill and shove it closed. Lo glares almost instantly like I just told his kid that Santa Clause isn’t real. And in the next instant, his eyes soften considerably. Like he’s trying to be nice—and that act is hard for him.