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It’s just me and her.
It’s been us for a while, and I’m not letting her go. Against better judgment. Against all odds. I’m not leaving this girl.
She hangs onto me, and I fill her up, in and out. Muscles burning for more and longer, but we reach that peak together.
Once I feel her contract around me, it’s over. I come, groaning out her name, and she cries into my neck. Pleasured cries.
Slowly, we come down, and we end up sinking to the bottom of the tub. Water raining on us, Willow is more tucked into herself, forearms covering her chest. Head bowed down. Sometimes after sex, she gets like this. More cerebral and closed-off.
But she’s across my lap, sort of between my legs, and I have my arms wrapped around her frame, holding her in the position she feels most comfortable.
She nestles her head closer to my chest.
“You replaying it?” I ask against her ear.
She nods.
“Well, just so you know, Willow Hale,” I breathe, “I loved it and I love you.”
Willow smiles, then looks up at me. “I loved it too.”
I nod, already knowing. But it feels good hearing that she’s not second-guessing anything. After a few minutes, letting our heart rates descend together, we rise, and I wash her hair. She scrubs shampoo through mine. We laugh and joke, and everything feels about normal.
Except we’re not in Philly.
London.
I’m here just for now. By the time we exit and dry off, we realize the music isn’t on and the chatter is gone.
“The party must be over,” Willow says, knotting a towel around her body. Black-rimmed glasses back on.
I could wear clean clothes from my duffel, but I think she’d feel more comfortable if we both went out in towels. So I tie a towel at my waist.
“I’ll check.” I open the door, and I see a graveyard of college debauchery. Spilt alcohol, bottles, cans, and cups—so many fucking cups. “Yep, it’s over.” I don’t see Tess or Sheetal, but I’m guessing they’re in their room or maybe they went out to a bar.
I grab my duffel, and when we exit into the common area, I roll my eyes at the sight of Salvatore.
Willow pales, holding breath.
At least the douche is cleaning his mess, plucking bottles off the kitchen counter and shoving them in a trash bag.
We exchange a glare but no words.
He makes a show of looking from her towel to mine. He zeroes in on my tattoos. Then to my girlfriend, he says, “If you need anything, Willow, just call me.”
Don’t be a dick.
Don’t be a dick.
I bite down on my teeth.
“I’ll be fine,” Willow says softly and turns more to me. “That’s my room.” She motions to a door past the kitchen. Her phone suddenly rings, and I can’t see who calls but concern cinches her brows. “I have to take this—” She leaves quickly for her room.
Not even glancing at me.
Something is wrong.
I’m about to follow when Salvatore says, “She’s been acting strange ever since December.”
My jaw tics, hating how he’s acting like they’re BFFs and I’m no one. “Yeah?”
Bottles clink as more fill the bag. “Her whole mood changes when she gets these phone calls.” His eyes hit mine. “I thought it was you that was calling.”
Not me.
I’m officially freaking the fuck out.
59
willow hale
I stare at my bedroom wall and listen, hand to my towel on my chest and phone to my ear. “All I’m saying is that the further you get into school, the more important internships are, Willow,” my dad tells me.
Normally, I wouldn’t have picked up his call after epic sex (definitely one of the best) and while Garrison just got here. But I missed the last two times my dad has called.
And I made a promise not to miss the third. I thought I could swiftly tell him that I’d call back later, but I’ve been standing here for a solid two minutes and have yet to find a space to speak up.
Garrison is leaning on the shut door in only a towel, arms crossed. He knows who called since I mouthed, my dad.
My boyfriend looks supremely sexy, and as I turn towards him, I have trouble not staring at his whole being. Not just his abs and lean muscles, the towel riding low, but the ink that represents him too well and the wet strands of hair that brush his ears. The corner of his lip that wants to lift in a slight smile.
His aquamarine eyes that hold our youth and early days spent together. The friendship that became an emotional lifeline and physical bond.
My heart swells.
I look away as my dad continues, “And you don’t want to be in shitty fucking low-level jobs or with the Wall Street assholes who’d see you as pus—” He stops himself before saying something crude. Something I think he’d say in front of Ryke and Lo. But not me. He clears his throat. “I’m just saying, there are plenty of CEOs or even low levels who don’t appreciate women.”
