Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(46)

“It’s so right.” I grasp at the strong, taut muscles of his back, sliding my hands down, pressing against his hard, clenching ass. “So . . . right.”

Every touch, every kiss that wasn’t his felt . . . different. Not bad, not uncomfortable—but different. Not the same. Not this.

It’s only ever felt right with him.

Time ceases to exist. There’s only Garrett above me, inside me, surrounding me. My arms stretch up over my head and his fingers wrap around my wrists. I raise my hips, giving myself to him . . . giving myself over to the pleasure that pulses through my body with every thrust of his hips.

Garrett’s gaze is hot and heavy-lidded with how good it feels. He moves harder, faster, rougher . . . pushing me higher. It’s like my soul is climbing, rising.

“Garrett . . . Garrett . . .” I keen in a whimpering voice I hardly recognize.

And then I’m falling, arching up against him as my orgasm takes me, twists me, and wrings his name from my lips. I contract around his hardness, clenching him inside me, never wanting to let go, never wanting it to end. Garrett’s face presses against my neck and he fucks me hard, groaning as he rides through his own pleasure and comes with hot pulsing jerks within me.

For several long moments we stay just like that, chasing our breath, holding each other with heavy, satiated limbs. I run my fingers through his hair, across his back that’s damp from exertion. Garrett presses a kiss against my ear, my jaw, my mouth—gentle now—and my heart feels swollen with tenderness for him.

“We’re so fucking good at that,” he whispers.

“We were always good at that,” I tell him.

His lips slide slowly into a cocky, arrogant smile that also happens to be gorgeous.

“We got better at it.”

I laugh. He slips his hands beneath my head, cradling me in his arms.

And it’s perfect.



~



There’s something so incredibly sexy about watching a man walk naked across a room. Especially a man like Garrett Daniels—with his self-possession, his control of every long, sinewy movement. A man who knows his body—knows what it’s capable of and just how to use it.

I roll on my side and enjoy the view of Garrett’s hard, sculpted ass when he walks to his adjoining bathroom and takes care of the condom. And I enjoy the show even more on his way back. He’s still semi-hard—his cock a stunning spike of thick flesh against a bed of dark hair. I want to kiss him there, lick every inch. My eyes trail down his legs, to the wide, white scar that’s slashed across his knee. I want to kiss him there too—thousands of kisses—one for every day I missed from when that scar was made.

Garrett rolls onto his back on the bed next to me—a graceful lion returning to the pride. He tugs me against him, his arm around my shoulder, my chin on his chest, our damp skin molding and our bodies aligned. We don’t stop touching each other—caressing with fingertips, sliding palms and brushing lips. We talk in hushed, secret, sacred tones.

“What’s your favorite memory?” I ask him. “Something I don’t know about yet.”

Garrett squints at the ceiling as he thinks.

“One year, when I was . . . twenty-seven, it was the last game of the season, we didn’t go to the playoffs . . . and Bailey Fowler, a senior with Down syndrome, was on the team. He’d only gotten a few seconds of field time all year—I treated him like any other third string player. I thought it was important to treat him the same. Anyway, the last play of the game, Bailey was in and . . . James Thompson, our quarterback, passed him the ball. They must’ve worked it out with the other team, because a few of the kids went after him, but nobody touched him. And he ran that ball all the way to the end zone. Bailey was so frigging happy; everyone in the stands was cheering. It was such a good moment.”

He glances down at me. “What about you?”

Mine isn’t as uplifting, but it’s a joyful memory. I tell him about Twelfth Night, the first production I was involved in after graduation, with the Fountain Theater. How I’d prepped for the audition, wanted it so badly . . . and got the part.

“I finally got to play Viola.”

“That was your dream role.”

I tilt my head, looking up at him. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything, Callie.” He picks up a strand of my hair, brushing it with his fingers. “Every one of your dreams . . . your laughs”—he cups my cheek—“and the tears too.”

A memory rises in my head—a rainy day, senior year, in Garrett’s bedroom—when he held me, rocked me in his arms, and I soaked his skin with tears.

I close my eyes, brush it away. I don’t want to go down that road, not when we’re making this new, precious, happy memory. I turn the corner instead.

“What’s your favorite song?” I ask, wanting to absorb every detail of him.

“‘Undone—The Sweater Song’—by Weezer is still my favorite. It was our song.”

My face scrunches. “Ah . . . that wasn’t our song, Garrett.”

“Sure it was. It came on in my Jeep, right before the first time we had sex. We discussed it afterwards. Totally our song.”

I roll my eyes. “Nooo . . . our song was ‘Heaven’ by Bryan Adams. It was our Junior Prom song.”