“Give it to me,” I beg.
He grabs my hips, lifts them slightly, then drives into me so fast and hard, I swear I see white behind my eyes. My cock drags along the sheets with every thrust, the pressure building unbearably fast. The friction a fucking necessity.
“You close?” His breath is ragged.
My mouth is so dry, I can barely speak. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He reaches beneath me, grabs my cock, and jerks me rough and hard while still pounding into me from behind.
Sweat forms between our bodies.
“God, I love you,” he says. And the combination of aggressive fucking and soft words destroys me. Heat explodes through me, and I come violently over the new sheets, my entire body tensing.
Garrett groans, a broken sound, when I clamp down on him.
His hips stutter, turning erratic.
He slams deep, once, twice, and then…
“Fuck, Wild.”
He comes inside me, spilling hard, his breath hot against my skin.
Finally, he collapses half on top of me. Cock still buried. Sweat immediately cooling on our skin.
His hand finds mine on the mattress, and he laces our fingers. Garrett kisses my shoulder, then kisses it again. “I love our bed,” he mutters, causing me to chuckle.
“Me too.”
“Happen to love our life too.” He tightens his hold on me for a moment.
And lying there, fucked out and full of him, I believe it.
After we’ve cleaned up, we claim our spots for sleep. But when I wake needing the bathroom four hours later, I realize Garrett is no longer next to me. As I drag my fingertips across the empty sheet, my fingers slipping over the faint dip in the mattress Garrett’s body has left, I realize he’s been gone a while.
My body carries the memory of being well loved as I walk to the bathroom. I love fucking. I love making love with Garrett even more. And I thought that, tonight, he’d hold on to me all the way through morning. That what we did together would be enough to keep the dreams from his consciousness.
I place my hands on the sink and look into the mirror. He never sleeps through. Told me he hasn’t since he was a child. There’s something about being raised in a household with so much violence that leads to hyper-vigilance. Always looking out for where the next danger might come from.
It’s impossible to not feel the slight sting that after all our years together, I haven’t found a way to give him the antidote to that yet. That real sense of peace and ease that allows his heart and head to rest easy.
He reassures me it’s because it’s a lifetime habit, built in childhood, maintained in the military, impossible to shake. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying to figure it out.
He told me the chamomile tea I got for him tasted like someone had soaked a bar of soap in hot water.
A massage with magnesium butter left him horny, but still wide awake at three in the morning.
The weighted blanket had lasted forty-two minutes when he declared it was like being humped by a ghost.
And the soothing rainfall white noise setting I’d set on my phone was met with “It sounds like someone is pissing in a corner.”
Speaking of which, I take a leak, wash my hands, and make my way back to bed. I’m almost there when I see a flicker of light across the street through a gap in the blinds.
I reach for my gun, because if that’s whoever painted that fucking slur on my home, I’m gonna put a bullet through their head and then sleep like a baby.
I use the muzzle to nudge the curtain back an inch farther, but as I squint and try to focus on where the light is coming from, something settles in my chest.
Garrett.
