Page 47 of Wherever You Are
Breath jettisons from her mouth. “Garrison,” she cries in want.
Our lips are parted and skim, as though to kiss, but we can’t catch our breathes. Tension pulled, and I bring her back to the tiled wall.
She buries her head in my shoulder. “Please.”
I push into my girl. Slow, carefully, and she gasps into a shudder. Her body trembling against me. My eyes almost roll back. God, the sensation, the warmth, her wetness—it’s overwhelming.
Holding her, I rock, thrusting my hips, and the friction ignites between us. Steam making it hard to breathe, and the raps on the door and drunken complaints to “hurry up” are distant.
It’s just me and her.
It’s been us for a while, and I’m not letting her go. Against better judgment. Against all odds. I’m not leaving this girl.
She hangs onto me, and I fill her up, in and out. Muscles burning for more and longer, but we reach that peak together.
Once I feel her contract around me, it’s over. I come, groaning out her name, and she cries into my neck. Pleasured cries.
Slowly, we come down, and we end up sinking to the bottom of the tub. Water raining on us, Willow is more tucked into herself, forearms covering her chest. Head bowed down. Sometimes after sex, she gets like this. More cerebral and closed-off.
But she’s across my lap, sort of between my legs, and I have my arms wrapped around her frame, holding her in the position she feels most comfortable.
She nestles her head closer to my chest.
“You replaying it?” I ask against her ear.
She nods.
“Well, just so you know, Willow Hale,” I breathe, “I loved it and I love you.”
Willow smiles, then looks up at me. “I loved it too.”
I nod, already knowing. But it feels good hearing that she’s not second-guessing anything. After a few minutes, letting our heart rates descend together, we rise, and I wash her hair. She scrubs shampoo through mine. We laugh and joke, and everything feels about normal.
Except we’re not in Philly.
London.
I’m here just for now. By the time we exit and dry off, we realize the music isn’t on and the chatter is gone.
“The party must be over,” Willow says, knotting a towel around her body. Black-rimmed glasses back on.
I could wear clean clothes from my duffel, but I think she’d feel more comfortable if we both went out in towels. So I tie a towel at my waist.
“I’ll check.” I open the door, and I see a graveyard of college debauchery. Spilt alcohol, bottles, cans, and cups—so many fucking cups. “Yep, it’s over.” I don’t see Tess or Sheetal, but I’m guessing they’re in their room or maybe they went out to a bar.
I grab my duffel, and when we exit into the common area, I roll my eyes at the sight ofSalvatore.
Willow pales, holding breath.
At least the douche is cleaning his mess, plucking bottles off the kitchen counter and shoving them in a trash bag.
We exchange a glare but no words.
He makes a show of looking from her towel to mine. He zeroes in on my tattoos. Then to my girlfriend, he says, “If you need anything, Willow, just call me.”
Don’t be a dick.
Don’t be a dick.
