Spurred on by her voice, Garrett’s thrusts grow wild, urgent, demanding. The room echoes with the sharp rhythm of their bodies—the bed creaking, the cheap hotel headboard slamming against the wall, a lamp rattling on the side table.
She claws at his back, nails dragging hard enough to mark, her kisses turning messy between gasps. Every plunge draws a new sound from her, raw and breathless, and he watches—always watches—for any sign she wants him to slow. But all he finds is her head tossed back, lips parted, eyes shining as he drives into her, deeper and deeper.
“I’m close,” she breathes, voice shaking.
Thank fuck.
He captures her mouth in a fevered kiss just as she arches beneath him with a strangled moan, her body tightening, fluttering around him in a rhythm he feels to his core. It hits him like a detonation—his release tearing through him in a pulse of heat, hips grinding through the final waves as he spills into the condom, shuddering against her.
When the aftershocks fade, he rolls onto his back, slick with sweat and entirely wrecked—pulling Naomi with him, her small body curled into his side exactly where she belongs. He tucks her close, careful not to crush her, and exhales against her hair, havingjust experienced something he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from.
She lets out a breathless laugh, still panting. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “Remind me to call my chiropractor in the morning. And possibly a priest.”
Garrett snorts, and she dissolves into giggles, burying her face against his chest like she’s trying to stifle the sound.
Her laughter fades, and he shifts slightly beneath her, one hand drifting lazily along the curve of her back, fingers moving in slow, mindless strokes. His voice softens, which he doesn’t bother hiding anymore. “You’re, uh…you okay?”
She lifts her head, flushed and glowing, and gives him a look that knocks the air clean out of his lungs. “I’m perfect,” she says with a sigh. “Perfectly ruined.”
Garrett’s territorial instincts flare in his chest. “Good.”
She swats at him playfully. “Good?”
He meets her gaze, unrepentant. “I want you ruined for anyone else.”
Because she’s his. He knows it in his bones. Wrecked and radiant and wholly his in this moment—hair mussed, lips swollen, skin warm from his hands and mouth. And fuck, if it doesn’t make something primal and territorial burn inside him. He wants to memorize her like this, to etch the image of her pleasure into his mind.
Naomi snorts, dragging him back down to earth. “Wow. That wasn’t possessive at all. Should I stitch your name into my underwear, or…?”
He brushes a lock of hair from her face, letting his fingers linger on her cheek. “I mean, if you’re offering.”
She groans and flops back down dramatically. “Cocky bastard.”
Garrett pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head like it’s instinct. Which it is now.
“Speaking of cocky,” she murmurs, lifting her head and wiggling her eyebrows, “do you think your, um…stick is lucky now too?”
He hums. “Not sure.”
She gasps in outrage, swatting his arm. “Not sure? After all that?”
He grins and rolls her easily, flipping her beneath him, pinning her with just enough weight to make her squirm. He leans in, brushing his mouth against hers. “Gotta test it again,” he murmurs. “Just to be sure.”
She smiles against his mouth, all heat and mischief, but he pulls back and collapses beside her with a satisfied groan. “But give me twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
She laughs. “I thought professional athletes were supposed to have stamina.”
“If I ever make it back to the NHL, I’ll get a new stick every game. I’ll make ‘em line the hallway with ‘em if I want.”
“Wow. That’s a very specific fantasy.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Means you’re gonna be busy.”
She snorts. “I’m gonna have to start doing yoga.”
He grins, her laughter sinking into his bloodstream like pure dopamine. He could listen to her talk shit forever. It hits him in a place deeper than adrenaline ever has. She’s all bite and wit and just the right amount of unhinged—but underneath all that, she sees him. Really sees him. No one else ever has.
She quiets a little, resting her chin on his chest, her voice softer but still firm. “You know it’s not me, right? Or the stick. Or the hoodie. Or any of that superstition crap. You’re good because you’re good.”
