“’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.
He liked control. He wanted what he wanted and enjoyed dominating the situation so he’d get just that.
Most of the partners he’d had liked it too. But they were often hesitant or skittish, locked in their heads, hung up on shit that took time or training to get them past.
He didn’t mind the time or the training, but considering none of them were women he intended to keep, both were eventually a waste.
Cher let loose. Gave it all and gave it up readily. She was with him all the way from the start.
He wanted to spank her ass, she took it, pushed it, came hard for him. He wanted to finger her on his dining room table and watch, she kept her arms over her head and gave it to him. He wanted her to perform by riding him with her body on display, hands in her hair, she took his cock and gave him the best show he’d ever had.
His to toy with.
His to dominate.
Just his.
His.
On that thought, he felt that unease again sour his gut even as his arm around her tightened.
She lifted up her head and caught his eyes. “I’m good, honey.”
Looking into her face, sated, soft, happy, his hand drifted out of her hair to cup her jaw.
“Thanks for dinner,” she whispered.
Fuck, his brown-eyed girl.
The unease loosened when warmth started to invade.
“Stop thankin’ me for everything,” he ordered.
Her lips tipped up. “Thanks for a fuckin’ awesome orgasm.”
“You did all the work,” he pointed out.
She ignored that completely. “Thanks for bein’ shit-hot in bed.”
He shook his head on the pillow and felt his body start shaking too.
“Would suck, you bein’ tall, gorgeous, and knowin’ how to skim walls but a terrible lay,” she remarked.
His shaking turned to audible laughter.
Through it, he asked, “‘Knowin’ how to skim walls?’”