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“‘Undone—The Sweater Song’—by Weezer is still my favorite. It was our song.”
My face scrunches. “Ah . . . that wasn’t our song, Garrett.”
“Sure it was. It came on in my Jeep, right before the first time we had sex. We discussed it afterwards. Totally our song.”
I roll my eyes. “Nooo . . . our song was ‘Heaven’ by Bryan Adams. It was our Junior Prom song.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I laugh, teasing him. “I thought you remembered everything?”
“I do. And I can’t believe you had our song wrong all these years. It commemorated a fantastic fucking moment in our relationship.”
I bite his chest. “I can’t believe you had our song wrong.”
He moves quick, making me gasp—flipping me onto my back, hovering over me with a wicked look in his eyes.
“Your memory needs refreshing, babe. Let’s retrace our mouths.”
“Our mouths? I think we’re supposed to retrace our steps.”
“Nope.” Garrett glides his wet mouth across my neck, over my breasts, licking his way down my stomach, settling his dark head between my thighs. “When our song was on in the Jeep . . . I was doing this with my mouth . . .”
He drags the tip of his tongue through my slit, circling my clit, sending a jolt of simmering heat through my body.
“And your mouth was busy moaning.”
He laps at me, laves me with the flat of his wet tongue. And I moan.
“Yep, just like that. Ring any bells?”
“No.” I manage to shake my head, my heart racing.
“Hmm.” He hums against me and I see stars. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”
He kisses me between my legs—wet, searing, open-mouthed kisses. He eats me, devours me, worships me. He groans against me, telling me how good I taste, how hard I make him.
“Is it coming back to you now, Callie?” Garrett teases hotly.
He spears me with his tongue, over and over. He swivels his mouth, sucking on my clit, fucking me with his fingers.
Until I’m gasping, agreeing to anything—everything.
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”
And I shatter, break into a thousand points of pleasure. And when I’m boneless—possibly dead—Garrett kisses my pubic bone and glides up my body, all self-satisfied smirking.
“That’s what I thought.”
~ ~ ~
After that . . . things get wild. We go through three more condoms before the night is over.
And Garrett was right—we are better at it now.
I ride him with a boldness I didn’t possess when we were young. I roll my hips and scrape my nails down his back—making him beg, groan with pleasure.
He puts me on my hands and knees and pounds into me from behind—rougher than he ever dared when we were teenagers. He pulls on my hips, tangles his hand in my hair, and whispers dark, dirty promises and filthy words.
The last time is slow and unhurried. Chest to chest, entwined, we sink into each other, come together, and lose ourselves in each other’s eyes. Afterwards, Garrett envelops me in the tender safety of his arms, buries his face in my hair, and we fall into sated, exhausted sleep.
~ ~ ~
I open my eyes to the sound of inhaling and exhaling—a light, serrated rumble—breathing that’s not my own. It’s not your grandpa’s, blow the roof off the house kind of snore, but more of a nice, rolling reverberation.
Huh—grown-up Garrett snores. That’s new.
I like it. Manly but also cute.
He lies on his back with me tucked against his side, my head on his chest, his arm across my back.
And we’re not alone.
On his other arm, with his nose in the crook of Garrett’s neck . . . is Snoopy, his eyes closed in peaceful, puppy slumber. Sunlight streams through the window, and I take a second to glance around the bedroom—I wasn’t exactly interested in the décor last night. It’s a nice room. Like the rest of the house, it reminds me of Garrett—neat, simple—all bachelor blues and beiges.
I also soak up the chance to look at Garrett while he sleeps. His strong jaw, his relaxed brow, so handsome—a filthy-mouthed Greek god. My eyes drop to the dark hair that dusts his chest, and the trail below his belly button that dips beneath the sheet—coarse and devastatingly masculine. I really like that too.
I shift slightly, stretching gently without disturbing the other occupants of the bed. I’m sore all over—my arms, my thighs, slightly aching between my legs—my muscles overworked from being so thoroughly well-used. And I can’t stop grinning.
But . . . if my students hadn’t chased me off Facebook, I would definitely be changing my relationship status to “it’s complicated.”
Is it fucking ever.
Over the years when I imagined running into Garrett again—because everybody imagines running into their ex—I always thought he’d be married. To a supermodel, with kids—half a dozen boys, on his way to populating his own football team. And the image always came with a heaping helping of heartache. But he was a catch. I knew that. He was too amazing to not get scooped up by some lucky, undeserving bitch.
