Chapter 16
GARRETT
This is either the best thing that’s happened since being traded to Hartford…or a catastrophic lapse in judgment.
Garrett isn’t sure which.
Naomi’s pressed against him and kissing him like she’s trying to win. Her mouth moves against his like she’s been dying to do this and is also furious about it. She fists his lapels like she wants to deck him and drag him closer in the same breath.
And fuck, he wants to drag her closer too.
He wants to unravel her. Tear through that sharp mouth and those dagger eyes and the stupid, beautiful armor she wears like she’s bulletproof.
He wants to rip off the sarcastic mask she hides behind and see what’s left when she finally lets go.
He wants to see her fall apart—and know he’s the reason why.
He can make this good for her. He knows it.
Garrett’s hands trail down the smooth exposed skin of her back and then cup her deliciously tight ass. He presses her against the hard, aching length straining against his pants. Her delicate body fits against his perfectly, and every civilized thought burns away, leaving only raw, primal want.
“Jesus,” she whispers, breath ghosting over his jaw.
Garrett’s lip curls. That’s right, he thinks, hauling her closer so she can feel the full outline of what he’s working with.
No jokes now. Only facts.
Garrett wouldn’t call himself cocky, but he isn’t blind. He knows he’s…substantial. There have been more than a few moments in the bedroom where a woman has taken a startled breath and reconsidered her life choices.
Being built like a tree is great for hockey, decent for intimidation, absolute garbage for quickie hookups.
“You gonna make another stick joke?” he murmurs. He pulls back a fraction to see her face. Her cheeks are flushed pink beneath the dusting of freckles, her breaths are heavy, her blue eyes are wild. She looks positively edible.
“Let me process the trauma first, then maybe,” she pants, yanking him down for another kiss, all teeth and frustration.
Garrett groans into her mouth, because of course she’d flip the power back like that.
He’s never been more turned on in his life. Every brain cell except the horny ones have long since left the coatroom.
One hand reaches down, gathering the silk of her dress, the fabric sliding easily up one pale, creamy thigh. He slips a hand up her leg, exposing her shoes, tall, strappy stilettos that look as sharp as her tongue and just as sexy.
“Is this okay?” he asks, pressing his head against the wall above her, trying to catch his breath.
“Mmmm, don’t stop,” she breathes.
She whimpers against his chest when his fingers find the soaked lace between her legs, doing nothing to hide how much she wants him.
He groans as he runs a finger down the length of her panties, feeling her softness. Her hips jerk forward, back arching, hands flying to his hair and gripping tight.
He fucking loves that—the feel of her pulling him closer, at the helpless way she rocks her hips against him. The power of it, of having this tiny, tart-tongued siren so completely undone for him, unravels every scrap of patience he has left.
But when one of her small hands reaches into the waist of his pants, he grasps her wrist gently, halting her before she can get her hands on him.
“Not here,” he breathes into her hair. “You might scream.”
She laughs, but it abruptly turns to whimpers as he teases her through the fabric of her panties with slow, whispering strokes that have her legs trembling.
“More,” she gasps, thighs falling apart wider. Her enthusiasm makes his cock throb, but this moment is not about him.
Happy to oblige, he tugs aside the flimsy fabric and strokes her, dragging two fingers lightly across her wetness.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps. Her nails dig into his neck as she clings to him, holding herself upright as she rocks her hips, desperate for more friction.
He increases the pressure, circling her clit, learning her reactions.
He watches completely rapt as her eyes nearly roll back in her head at the long push of his fingers inside her, first one, then another, filling her completely.
He works her steadily, patiently, wanting to watch every layer of that sarcastic, sharp-tongued exterior come apart under his hands.
She moves against him with abandon, grinding against his hand, breathless and gasping, her moans turning frantic as her pleasure climbs higher.
He doesn’t let up. He wants her to come like this, undone by him, clawing at his chest and rendered speechless.
Her bravado and sass melted into a puddle at his feet.
Her cries are raw and desperate, muffled against his chest, her body clenching tight around his fingers as her orgasm hits, her hips jerking against him as he gathers her in his arms and holds her through it.
Garrett watches as she collects herself, her serrated breathing the only sound in the coat check besides the tinkling of glasses and laughter filtering in.
He dips his head and kisses the curve of her jaw, the apple of her cheek, the top of her head. He wraps an arm around her and feels her burrow in, hiding her face like she’s trying to block out the world with his lapel.
Then she exhales, shaky but steadier, and pulls back to cover her face with both hands. Her cheeks are red. Not just flushed—blazing. She glances around, as if only now realizing she’s just been ravished in a closet full of wealthy old ladies’ fur coats and umbrellas.
“I can’t believe we did that,” she mutters.
Garrett smirks, lazy and satisfied.
“I can’t believe you let me.”
She shoves his shoulder with the force of a kitten. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I the one that’s pleased?”
Her flush deepens. She lets out a tiny, whimper. Somehow, it only makes her more adorable.
Garrett files the image away for later. For the next time she mouths off.
“Keep pretending you hated it,” he murmurs. “It’s cute.”
That gets her. Her eyes flash—wary, flustered, a little feral. Like she’s just remembered who she was kissing. And that realization sobers her up fast.
“This was a temporary lapse in judgment,” she declares. “Like bangs.”
He snorts.
She clears her throat and straightens her dress, tugging the complicated straps back into place and trying to fix her hair, which is deliciously, gloriously wrecked. She’s flustered in a way Garrett’s never seen.
She points vaguely at him. “You’re— Are you gonna…?”
He looks down. His shirt is rumpled and untucked, hair mussed, lipstick probably ghosting his mouth. Couldn’t care less.
Garrett shrugs and slowly begins to tuck his shirt back in, every movement deliberately unhurried. He doesn’t want this to end yet. Doesn’t want to go back out there, where she’ll be busy and he’ll have to make small talk with people he doesn’t give two shits about.
He’d take her home right now if she let him. Strip her out of that dress, pin her down, and fuck every flustered word off her tongue.
But he can feel her pulling away.
“I should, um,” Naomi says, eyes not meeting his. She’s already gone in her head. Already repackaging this into a mistake she can file away between deadlines and deliverables.
“Sure,” he says quietly.
She lingers, taking a deep breath. “This wasn’t…a thing, right?” she says, still avoiding his eyes. “We’re not…catching feelings, or whatever?”
The words slice clean through him.
He forces himself to go still. Shoves down the sting, the hurt. It’s no different than letting in a bad goal mid-game. He feels it. Then he buries it. Let the fire in his veins extinguish. Lets the flicker of hope harden into cold, bitter resolve.
“Copy that,” he says, voice even.
“Um, thank you,” she says, hesitating. “For the, um, stress relief.”
Then he jerks his chin toward the door. “After you.”
She hesitates, eyes finally flicking to his like she’s unsure what she’s walking into now.
He watches her go, hands tucked in his pockets.
Whatever that was—whatever he hoped it could be—it’s not a thing.