Chapter 27
GARRETT
Being tall is great for reach, decent for looking tough, and a goddamn curse when trying to bed a five-foot-nothing stick of dynamite without snapping her in half.
It requires strategy. Restraint. A dedicated warm-up period.
Because Naomi’s small, sure—but she’s far from delicate.
She’s like wildfire, greedy and consuming, pulling him in with a recklessness that will leave burn marks.
And the way she looks now, with her freckled cheeks flushed, strawberry lips plush and puffy from his kisses, that wild red hair fanned out across the pillow begging to be wrapped around his fist, it’s like she’s daring him to lose control.
He grabs a condom from his wallet, still shoved into the pocket of his discarded jeans, before dropping back onto the bed. Naomi doesn’t miss a beat—already on him, licking and sucking at his neck, his chest, her soft hair dragging across his skin as he rolls it on.
Fuck. He’s not going to last. Not with her wrapped around him like this. Not in that tight, perfect little body.
Grabbing her hips, he hauls her onto his lap, settling her right over his erection. His hardness presses flush against her soft, slick center, and a wave of lust punches through him, blurring his vision.
She reaches between them, notching him against her entrance, then rolls her hips—taking him inside in one smooth, devastating glide.
A groan rips from his throat. She feels like heaven. Like heat and silk and home.
But she had not taken all of him. Not even close.
“Good thing I like a challenge,” she breathes, staring down at where they’re joined as she sinks lower—inch by torturous inch—until he’s barely holding on. He clenches his jaw hard, fighting the overwhelming urge to slam into her like a man possessed.
Don’t fuck this up.
His hands skim over the swell of her hips, up the smooth line of her ribs, and over the plush perfection of her breasts in slow, soothing strokes as she sinks deeper onto him until their bodies are flush.
His eyes nearly roll back in his head at the overwhelming pleasure of her tight heat gripping him completely.
He exhales, voice rough with awe. “Should’ve known you’d be this perfect.”
Naomi grins down at him like a woman who just conquered Everest—and planted her flag. She circles her hips, and the friction sends a shudder through them both, drawing out ragged, matching moans.
She does it again. Then again, picking up a rhythm—grinding down in slow, devastating rolls, keeping him right on the edge.
Garrett grips her hips like a lifeline, his knuckles white with restraint. Every muscle in his body is locked tight, hanging on by a thread, resisting the urge to slam into her.
Naomi leans in, breath brushing his ear, voice all wicked delight. “What’s wrong, big guy? You holding out on me?”
That’s it. Thread snapped.
With a low growl, Garrett surges upward, flipping her beneath him. The mattress rocks under the sudden shift, and Naomi lets out a startled laugh that turns into a moan as he cages her in with his body and thrusts into her.
She’s warm and plush underneath him, soft everywhere he’s hard. The sensation of her milky thighs wrapped around his waist and her bare breasts pressed against his chest makes him feel like a mindless animal.
He leans down to speak in her ear as he fucks her with slow, even strokes. Ones to drive her to the edge and keep her there, trembling.
“You’re gonna make me fuck the sass out of you,” he growls.
“Yeah, do that—” she moans, clutching his biceps. “Oh, God.”
Spurred on by her voice, Garrett’s thrusts grow wild, urgent, demanding. The room echoes with the sharp rhythm of their bodies—the bed creaking, the cheap hotel headboard slamming against the wall, a lamp rattling on the side table.
She claws at his back, nails dragging hard enough to mark, her kisses turning messy between gasps.
Every plunge draws a new sound from her, raw and breathless, and he watches—always watches—for any sign she wants him to slow.
But all he finds is her head tossed back, lips parted, eyes shining as he drives into her, deeper and deeper.
“I’m close,” she breathes, voice shaking.
Thank fuck.
He captures her mouth in a fevered kiss just as she arches beneath him with a strangled moan, her body tightening, fluttering around him in a rhythm he feels to his core.
It hits him like a detonation—his release tearing through him in a pulse of heat, hips grinding through the final waves as he spills into the condom, shuddering against her.
When the aftershocks fade, he rolls onto his back, slick with sweat and entirely wrecked—pulling Naomi with him, her small body curled into his side exactly where she belongs.
He tucks her close, careful not to crush her, and exhales against her hair, having just experienced something he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from.
She lets out a breathless laugh, still panting. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “Remind me to call my chiropractor in the morning. And possibly a priest.”
Garrett snorts, and she dissolves into giggles, burying her face against his chest like she’s trying to stifle the sound.
Her laughter fades, and he shifts slightly beneath her, one hand drifting lazily along the curve of her back, fingers moving in slow, mindless strokes. His voice softens, which he doesn’t bother hiding anymore. “You’re, uh…you okay?”
She lifts her head, flushed and glowing, and gives him a look that knocks the air clean out of his lungs. “I’m perfect,” she says with a sigh. “Perfectly ruined.”
Garrett’s territorial instincts flare in his chest. “Good.”
She swats at him playfully. “Good?”
He meets her gaze, unrepentant. “I want you ruined for anyone else.”
Because she’s his. He knows it in his bones.
Wrecked and radiant and wholly his in this moment—hair mussed, lips swollen, skin warm from his hands and mouth.
And fuck, if it doesn’t make something primal and territorial burn inside him.
He wants to memorize her like this, to etch the image of her pleasure into his mind.
Naomi snorts, dragging him back down to earth. “Wow. That wasn’t possessive at all. Should I stitch your name into my underwear, or…?”
He brushes a lock of hair from her face, letting his fingers linger on her cheek. “I mean, if you’re offering.”
She groans and flops back down dramatically. “Cocky bastard.”
Garrett pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head like it’s instinct. Which it is now.
“Speaking of cocky,” she murmurs, lifting her head and wiggling her eyebrows, “do you think your, um…stick is lucky now too?”
He hums. “Not sure.”
She gasps in outrage, swatting his arm. “Not sure? After all that?”
He grins and rolls her easily, flipping her beneath him, pinning her with just enough weight to make her squirm. He leans in, brushing his mouth against hers. “Gotta test it again,” he murmurs. “Just to be sure.”
She smiles against his mouth, all heat and mischief, but he pulls back and collapses beside her with a satisfied groan. “But give me twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
She laughs. “I thought professional athletes were supposed to have stamina.”
“If I ever make it back to the NHL, I’ll get a new stick every game. I’ll make ‘em line the hallway with ‘em if I want.”
“Wow. That’s a very specific fantasy.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Means you’re gonna be busy.”
She snorts. “I’m gonna have to start doing yoga.”
He grins, her laughter sinking into his bloodstream like pure dopamine.
He could listen to her talk shit forever.
It hits him in a place deeper than adrenaline ever has.
She’s all bite and wit and just the right amount of unhinged—but underneath all that, she sees him. Really sees him. No one else ever has.
She quiets a little, resting her chin on his chest, her voice softer but still firm. “You know it’s not me, right? Or the stick. Or the hoodie. Or any of that superstition crap. You’re good because you’re good.”
He exhales slowly. “I know,” he says, almost too quiet to hear.
But there’s a flicker of doubt in his chest, familiar like an old friend he can’t seem to let go. That nagging whisper that maybe he’s not. That maybe, even with the right girl, the right stick, the right everything…it still won’t be enough.
He doesn’t say it. He tightens his arm around her waist and lets her stay right where she is, warm and steady against him.
Then she shifts, slowly sliding over him again, her hair brushing his chest, her mouth grazing the edge of his jaw. He can feel her smile before she speaks.
“Hey, Garrett…” she purrs.
He hums.
“Has it been twenty minutes yet?”
And just like that, the blood rushes south again.
He’s never been so happy to fail a recovery period in his life.