Chapter 14 #3
Hearing Gareth speak about his father, I know there are so many more layers to him than I ever gave him credit for. But he was right to have his guard up. What we’re doing isn’t personal. It’s sex. That is why I’m not kissing him.
But after the phone conversation I had with Callum about Sophia not being able to come to my house for Thanksgiving, I didn’t give a shit if Gareth was uncomfortable. I wanted to pick a fight with someone, and he was the unlucky person closest to me at the time.
It’s making me crazy that I have no control over where Sophia spends her Thanksgiving holiday and that Callum can shut me down for no apparent reason. Just because he can. That is my life right now and it’s maddening.
So to Astbury I drove, like a bandit. I went to the one place where I am not shut down.
The one place where I have nothing but control over my own life, my own choices, my own decisions.
The one place that lets me forget. Gareth and I have only been at this for a couple of weeks, but his house is the one place that allows me to escape all the shit I have to put up with in my personal life.
Originally, I had planned to finish my day helping Freya with alterations, shower, shave, and primp myself properly for the night.
But I was so worked up after Callum called, I drove straight out to his house in my damn mom jeans!
My need for Gareth’s presence—his manliness, his warmth—was like I was dying of thirst and only he could quench it.
That’s why I need to turn this night around. Stat.
We put our clothes back on to eat because, well, it’s hot food and it seems dangerous to eat without shirts on.
Gareth makes both of our plates up with the best linguini and Bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted.
I nearly ask for the recipe before covering my mouth and mumbling something about how it would pair nicely with a red wine.
Asking for a recipe is a mom move. Super mom move.
You don’t ask for recipes from the guy you’re fucking.
We end up hand-washing the dishes because his dishwasher is still drying a load.
Brushing shoulders as we stand next to each other by the sink is some kind of kinky foreplay that probably only a mom would get turned on by.
There’s something about his wet, veiny hands plunging in and out of the bubbly water.
And maybe the fact that Gareth actually does his own damn dishes.
I dry off my hands and open the refrigerator to see what’s inside. It’s so empty, I would normally question whether anyone actually lived here. There are only a couple of Tupperware containers full of prepared foods—probably from the magical chef, Robert—some sports drinks, and a lime.
Rolling my eyes, I wrench open the freezer. The disappointment continues when all that lays inside are some gross looking protein balls. Athletes are weird.
Inspiration strikes as I close the freezer. “Can I get a glass?”
Gareth eyes me curiously and reaches up into the cupboard to grab a glass down for me. The skin that peeks out from beneath the bottom of his shirt when his arm stretches up is oh-so sexy, I can’t wait to try what I have planned.
He hands the glass over to me and watches me expectantly as I fill the cup with ice cubes all the way to the top. “I think we should have sex again soon.”
His concealed chuckle is appreciated. “Why not now?”
I shrug. “You got lucky with a quickie before because I was having a moment. Now I’m more in control. And because I have to torture you first, of course.”
This causes him to full-on belly laugh. “Well, I’m at your service, Treacle.” He winks at me, and I swear the look alone could get me off if I concentrated on it hard enough.
“Are you the type to get squeamish over unsanitary kitchens?” I ask, eyeing the large granite kitchen island that’s grey with sparkles.
“Not if you’re not,” he replies, his forearms flexing as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“Good because I want you naked and lying on the counter.”
His smile is sinful. “Whatever you say, Tre.”
I hurry out to the foyer to get my handbag with the items I grabbed for tonight while Gareth undresses in the kitchen. When I return, he’s standing by the island, shirtless with his jeans unbuttoned. My eyes instantly go to the trimmed trail of hair that leads to his groin.
When he grabs the band of his jeans, I stop him. “Hang on.”
He pauses, leaving his jeans hanging on the edge of his hip bones. The deep V that angles toward his package is so sexy, I have to close my eyes and regain some composure.
“Hold your hands out together,” I state, setting my bag on the counter and rooting around for a moment.
When I pull out a yellow rope from inside my purse, his eyes fly wide. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Is this not okay?” I frown. “I bought it online. It’s like sex rope or something. They cut to your order. It’s less harsh on your wrists than regular rope from what I understand.”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips and a heated look billows in his eyes. “It’s okay.”
With trembling hands, I instruct him to hop up onto the counter. He does as he’s told and holds his two fists out to me. I begin wrapping the rope around his wrists, cinching them together and nervously looking up into his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” he husks.
My eyes dart down to take in the straining erection under his jeans. “Just this does it for you?”
He shrugs. “You do it for me, Tre.” He swallows slowly and pins me with a serious look. “You should see yourself right now. What are you thinking about?”
I pause to take in the full effect of his wrists bound together. His muscles and broad shoulders tight and flexed. The soft jeans. Bare feet. It’s all…really, really hot.
“I think this is really freaking exciting,” I croak, totally unsexy. His pleased laugh has me rolling my eyes. “Try to contain your amusement and lie down, please.”
He smirks and shifts back on the counter. The movement has his abs bunching and showcasing the rivets of his perfect six-pack beneath his fisted, trussed-up hands. When he lies down on his back, he winces at the cool granite and the rivets become softer and more spread out.
I slide my hands on his forearms and pull them up to rest above his head. The effect of seeing him laid out like this at my mercy is incredible. “God, you are sexy.”
He chuckles. “So are you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m in a T-shirt and jeans.”
He shakes his head and looks up at the lights. “Still sexy.”
I try to hide my pleased smile as I pull my shirt up over my head and slide my jeans down my hips.
It’s amazing how we’ve only had sex a handful of times and I’m already so comfortable being naked in front of him.
At first, I thought I’d want the blindfold again tonight, but feeling his heated gaze on me is part of where I draw my bravery from.
Gareth has a way of making me feel like a million bucks just by looking at me.
He did it that night I caught Cal cheating on me, and he’s doing it tonight. He makes me feel impossibly strong.
Wearing nothing but my grey bra and black thong, I stand beside a half-naked Tarzan who’s tied up on a kitchen counter like my own personal buffet.
I drag my nails down his furry chest, raking over the springy muscles appreciatively.
He is such a glorious specimen of a man.
So masculine and powerful, like he was fathered by the legendary Atlas himself.
Gareth’s eyes are on me as I crawl up onto the counter and position myself astride his groin, a leg curled up snugly next to his hips. “Keep your hands above your head,” I state, dipping my fingers inside the glass and grasping a large, dripping ice cube.
Air hisses between his teeth as a few drops of freezing water drizzle onto his chest. I press the cube between his pecs and drag a moist path of water all the way down to his navel.
My hair tickles his sides as I bend down and drop a soft kiss on his hard, tiny nipples.
I’ve noticed Gareth’s nipples are extremely sensitive, and I’ve been daydreaming all week about how he reacts when I touch them.
I continue my path downward along the ridges of his abs, my own nipples hardening inside my bra as he writhes beneath me. He twines his fingers together above his head, and his arm muscles flex with every squeeze he makes as he fights the urge to lower them and touch me.
Suddenly, my bra feels heavy on my skin. “Close your eyes,” I state, dropping the ice in the glass and reaching back for the clasp.
He narrows his gaze but obeys. I slip out of my bra, then grab a piece of ice and put it into my mouth. I lie down overtop of him, the ice peeking out between my lips as I slide it down the thick column of his throat.
His low groan vibrates against my chest as my hard nipples brush against his damp skin. The skin-on-skin contact is intoxicating as the ice melts to nothing in my mouth. “Does this feel good?” I ask, dragging my tongue along a thick tendon in his throat.
He thrusts his hips up into me, his erection pressing the needy part of my centre. “That should tell you your answer.”
With a little growl, I sit up and eye him in silent warning. “I want to hear you say it, Gareth.”
His lazy smile is adorable. “Yes, Treacle. It feels good. You feel good.”
I reach down to the firmness beneath me. “Should we get these tight jeans off?”
“Yes,” he pants, his eyes hooded as he watches me stroke him firmly over the fabric.
He brings his arms down as I reposition myself beside him. As he lifts his hips, I shimmy his jeans down his ass and off his legs, smiling proudly when I see he’s not wearing underwear, as usual.