The Deal(81)

Then again, we probably won’t be wearing clothes for much longer.

“Hey.” I gulp. “So…how do you want to do this? Should I take my clothes off?” I pause as something occurs to me. “Don’t you dare ask me to do a striptease, because I’m nervous enough as it is and there’s no way I can dance even remotely sexy right now.”

Garrett bursts out laughing. “You have no idea how to set a mood, do you, Wellsy?”

I moan miserably. “I know. I’m just…nervous,” I reiterate. Taking a breath, I wipe my clammy palms on the front of my skirt. “Can we just get started? You’re standing there and looking at me, and it’s freaking me out.”

He approaches with a quiet chuckle, cupping my chin in his hands. “First, relax—there’s nothing to be nervous about. Second, I don’t expect, or particularly want, a striptease.” He winks. “At least not tonight. And third, we’re not starting anything right now.”

I battle a pang of disappointment. “We’re not?”

Garrett tosses me the same T-shirt I slept in last night. “Go change out of that Grease costume and put this on. I’ll get the next disc ready.” He wanders over to the TV and picks up the DVD case for Breaking Bad.

“You want to watch TV?” I say incredulously.

“Yup.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. But it stays closed, because I suddenly realize what he’s doing, and I whole-heartedly appreciate it.

He’s trying to put me at ease.

It’s working.

I duck into the bathroom to change, returning a moment later to join Garrett on the bed. He instantly puts his arm around me and pulls me closer, and his familiar masculine scent relaxes me.

“Ready?” he says lightly, holding up the remote.

I find myself smiling. “Yep.”

The episode fills the screen, and I lean my head against his shoulder as I focus on the TV. Like the other times we’ve watched this show together, neither of us say much aside from the occasional gasp from me or a prediction from him, but unlike those other times, I’m only half paying attention. Garrett rubs his palm over my shoulder in a light, teasing caress that makes it incredibly hard to concentrate on the TV.

Halfway through the episode, he leans in and kisses my neck.

I don’t say a word, but an involuntary sigh slips out. Goose bumps rise in the spot his lips have touched, and when he rests one big hand on my bare thigh, a jolt of heat singes my skin.

“What are you doing?” I murmur.

His lips travel along the length of my neck. “Setting the mood.” He nips at my earlobe. “Unlike some people, I happen to know how to do that.”

I stick my tongue out at him even though he can’t see it. He’s too busy tormenting me with his mouth, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses on the side of my throat.

Arousal starts deep in my core and spreads outward, dancing through my body and tingling in all my erogenous zones. Every time his lips kiss a new patch of skin, I shiver with pleasure. When his tongue tickles my jaw, I turn my head toward him and our mouths meet in the hottest kiss on the planet.

I love the way Garrett kisses. It’s not sloppy or hurried, but skillful and slow and absolutely incredible. His lips brush mine, lazy and teasing, while his tongue sneaks inside every so often for a fleeting taste before seductively retreating. I slant my head and drive the kiss deeper, and I moan when the minty flavor of him infuses my tongue. A masculine rumble comes from the back of his throat, and my belly clenches in response.

His mouth stays locked to mine as he gently pushes me onto my back, settling on his side beside me. One warm hand cups my breast over the thin material of my T-shirt, and the zing of pleasure makes me squeak in joy.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.” His deep voice tickles my lips, and then his tongue spears through them to find mine again.

I’m on sensory overload. He’s kissing me, squeezing my breasts, lightly rubbing my nipple with his thumb, and everything he’s doing feels so good I don’t know which sensation to focus on.

My pulse goes haywire when he glides his palm down my body. He hesitates when he reaches the hem of the T-shirt, then makes a husky sound and slips his fingers beneath it.

When his hand moves between my legs, I stop breathing.

When his fingers touch my clitoris over my panties, I whimper.

Garrett’s hand stills. “Should I stop?”

“God. No. Keep going.”