Page 67 of Whatever It Takes

His hand veered over to the soft flesh of my stomach. Shirt and jean shorts already on the floor, his fingers stopped at the hem of my panties.

“Is this okay?” he whispered in my ear.

“Yeah,” I replied, voice raspy. He kissed my lips, urging them open slowly. I followed his lead, and his tongue slid sensually against mine.

I didn’t know where to put my hands.

Don’t remember.

But it’s hard to forget how my palms made uncertain, awkward movements. Usually I would hold his shoulders. That night, I wasn’t sure if I should touch his dick.

“Do you need me to…?” I started, but I didn’t even know what I was offering. A blow job? A hand job? Another sort of job I was unaware of?

We hadn’t even run all the bases together before that night. I’ve touched his dick—but I wouldn’t call it a full-on gold-star worthy hand job, and I’ve never put him in my mouth before.

I’m always in my head. Anxious and nervous like I’m doing things wrong, and Garrison has been sweet in not pressuring me to go further. I’m just more relaxed with him touching me than the other way around, I guess. Usually, we just make out, grinding a lot, and he’ll finger me until I come.

Back when we were in bed together, Garrison pressed his lips to mine again. More tenderly. “No, this is for you. Just relax, Willow.”

His fingers skated below the fabric of my panties, his touch achingly slow, and when he brushed the sensitive spot, I let out an aroused breath.

I inhaled the vanilla scent around us and held his firm shoulders. He slipped into me, and I gave myself to Garrison. I trusted him.

I loved him—Ilovehim.

He pulsed his fingers in me, filling me, and his thumb teased my clit. Torching my body and nerves.His fingers would be replaced by something bigger and harder, the thought lit me on fire and brewed excitement.

As I touch myself in London, I imagine he’s here just like that night. About to fill me to the brim. His erection inside me. Rocking. Pleasing.

I remember how my breath staggered back. “Garrison,” I moaned at the soft pressure of his fingers. Building more arousal.

He pressed his forehead to mine, rocking slightly. He needed friction. He wanted friction. He ached to be in me. I could see all of this in his eyes and shallow breath.

Pleasure mounted.

His bare chest was slick with sweat, and a deep noise rumbled inside his throat. A noise that drove home who he was. Masculine. Man. Mine. And I was his.I am his.

How? I wasn’t even sure.

I was bookish and quiet.

He was rebellious and misunderstood. Guys like him usually didn’t fall for girls like me. But here we were.

His movements grew faster, our lips skimming with hot breath, and he brushed his thumb over my clit. I crumbled against him in a crashing wave.

My toes curled and euphoria spotted my vision. My breath staggered, moans catching in my throat.

In London, I grip the twisted sheets and arch my hips. Wishing he were here, touching me.He is, I pretend.

“I’ve got you,” Garrison breathed that night, lips to my ear.

I rolled down the blissful sensation. Eyes heavy lidded, I kissed the closest thing I could find—his forearm. Averypretty forearm.

When our eyes met, his overwhelming desire avalanched mine, covering me in so much need that I nearly quivered beneath him.

“You can do it now,” I said softly.

He rubbed my thigh and searched my gaze. “You sure you’re ready? I can get you off again—”