Hold On (Page 114)

It did not suck.

It felt fucking great.

Which, at the same time in his fucked-up head, was fucking terrifying.

Because if he fucked this up, it wouldn’t be fucking over Cher, which was bad enough.

It would be fucking them both.

Again, he powered past that feeling and offered, “You need me anytime to step in with Ethan, if I can do it, I’m there.”

Cher didn’t respond except to drift a hand up his chest to wrap it around the side of his neck and rub her thumb gently along the column of his throat.

That said something, though.

And her eyes said something too.

They were warm and happy.

He put that there. He gave her that.

And that felt fucking great too.

Just as it was downright terrifying.

He focused on her look.

He focused on her touch.

He focused on her soft body pressed to his.

He focused on the night he had with her boy, which moved on to a night spent with her, her boy, and his friend.

He focused on how he and Ethan and Cher were getting comfortable with each other. How Garrett liked the way she teased her kid. How he liked the way Ethan’s friend looked at Cher like he wished he was twenty-five years older and could slide a ring on her finger. How natural it was for her to balance having her man there with giving her son and his bud their kid time, all this while giving Garrett attention, Ethan attention, and ribbing Teddy, giving him attention.

And focusing on all that, he reminded himself not to be a dumb fuck.

Finally, she spoke.

“I think, you’re down with it, we should discuss another waffle morning. Maybe next weekend,” she suggested.

He gave her another squeeze. “You’re good with that, you think Ethan’s good with that, we’ll do that.”

She pressed closer and smiled.

He dipped his head and kissed her again. Another good-night kiss that turned into a five-minute make out session.

With effort, he ended it, touched his lips to her jaw, lifted one hand so he could slide his fingers along where he’d touched his mouth, and let her go.

“’Night, brown eyes,” he murmured.

“’Night, Merry,” she replied.

He turned and pushed out the storm door. Once out, he twisted to see her in it, watching him go.

He gave her a look.

She rolled her eyes and did what his look told her to do. She locked the storm, stepped back, closed the front door, and he heard that lock go.

Only then did Garrett start down the walk.

Instinct made his head turn.

When he did, he saw the guy he’d seen the night he’d come to take Cher on their first date. He was standing in his drive, leaned over a car that was running, arms on the roof of the car, attention to the driver’s side window.

Two men were in the souped-up muscle car. Nissan GT-R.

Big-ticket car for that ’hood.

And a late-night discussion in the cold.

The man could be saying good-bye to friends who were leaving after coming over and having a few beers.

But it didn’t look like that and Garrett had been a cop a long time, so he knew it wasn’t that.

And he didn’t like the feeling his gut told him it was.

Garrett kept watching as he made his way to his truck at the curb.

The guy must have felt eyes on him because he lifted his head.

There was eye contact through the dark and Garrett didn’t break it.

The guy did when he pushed back, looked down, said something to the driver, slapped his hand on the roof, and moved away from the GT.

Garrett beeped his locks, rounded the hood, opened his door, and swung into his truck.

He took his time with firing up his vehicle and putting it in drive.

The GT backed out.

Garrett memorized its plate.

Cher’s neighbor stayed in his driveway like he was planted there. The GT was pulling away and the guy didn’t move.

It was a statement.

This was his turf, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and he wasn’t big on attention.

Garrett hit the gas, keeping his gaze on Cher’s neighbor as he did, making his own statement. This meant he saw the neighbor watch him as he pulled away.

He was forced to break contact when he lost sight of him.

He stopped at the stop sign at the end of Cher’s street, saw it was clear, and made his turn.

He did this thinking he’d get a plate on the guy’s truck, the number on his house, and run him and the owner of the GT on Monday when he was back at work.

* * * * *

Saturday Night

Cher drove down on him and he had no choice but to close his eyes, losing the sight of her, naked and riding him, her back arched, arms up, hands lifting up her hair, just like he’d ordered her to ride him.

He clamped his fingers into the flesh of her hips to pin her down as he grunted and exploded, shooting hot and deep into a fucking condom.

She ground into his cock as he kept coming, and only when it started moving from him did he feel her tits hit his chest before the warmth of the rest of her pressed close, her face in his neck, her lips nuzzling his throat.

Garrett was still coming down when he released his hold on her hips and trailed his hands in then up her back. He slid one around her at her shoulder blades and glided the other one into her hair, gathering it gently in his fist to keep her where she was because he liked the feel of her lips at his throat.

“You good?” he asked, his voice thick from sex and gruff from taking most of her weight.

It was a question he knew the answer to. She was good because she’d come before him, and from the looks of it, even if his orgasm had been phenomenal, hers was better.

Fuck, but she got off on the way he liked to play.