He reached toward the nightstand, his eyes never leaving mine.
I curled my legs around his thighs, careful of the shoes I was still wearing, not wanting to spike him with a heel, my arms gliding around his back, my gaze locked to his.
He kept it that way as his lips fell to mine and he murmured, “Take care of this for me, baby.”
He found my hand and pressed the condom in it.
I didn’t fuck around unwrapping it.
But when I brought it between us and found his cock, I took my time rolling it on.
I watched the hunger burn in his eyes and my erratic breathing became panting, feeling his thick cock pulse under my fingers.
When I got the condom to the base, he nipped my lower lip with his teeth.
Shit yeah.
I tightened my hold on him with my limbs, through all this our eyes connected. They stayed connected as I slid him through my wet, touching my tongue to my lower lip as his teeth sunk into his.
God, fucking, fucking Merry.
Just that…so hot.
I led him to my opening and he immediately pushed in half an inch.
I let out a soft gust of breath, sliding my hand away, across his hip, around, up his spine, into his hair.
When I had a hold, slowly—God, so unbelievably, beautifully slowly—Garrett Merrick filled me.
Connected with me.
Became a part of me.
I stared at him and felt it. Felt him inside. Felt his heat. His weight. Felt his arms wrapped around me. Felt my body wrapped around him.
I felt all that and I felt something else.
My eyes were not burning. No dryness. No pain.
They were wet.
Merry stared into them, the heat in his not waning but a new warmth joining it, before his head slanted and he kissed me.
Then he made love to me.
I was far from a virgin.
But that was my first time.
My first time ever.
My first time where a man thought enough about me to make love to me.
It was slow. It was tender. It included wet kisses. Eye contact. Silent communication. I touched him, clutched him, held him to me.
He drove deep and rhythmic, his arms wrapped around me.
It was there but it built, the slow, constant pounding of him against my clit, his cock inside me. When it started to come over me, I knew it was going to happen with just his cock and it was going to be bigger than anything.
“Merry,” I whispered, my hand moving from his ass up to his hair, my fingers clenching.
He stroked in and, suddenly, it bolted through me.
“Merry,” I gasped, his mouth hitting mine, his tongue touching the tip of mine, and I moaned down his throat.
The slow left him and he went faster, harder, driving into me, pounding deep, bodies connected, mouths connected, his tongue now as greedy as his cock thrusting inside, my orgasm swelling and hovering.
I kept hold on his hair, my legs curling tight around his thighs, my arm slanting across his back, fingers pressing in the muscle of his lat, anchoring him to me as whimpers escaped, filling his mouth, my body under his trembling.
When finally he broke the kiss but not the connection of our lips, his grunts mingling with my whimpers.
He planted his cock deep and groaned, “Cher,” before his body bucked and his growl of release filled my mouth.
After he gave me that, he tore his mouth from mine and thrust once more, hard and deep, while he moved to press his forehead into the side of my neck.
I felt it leave him as it left me and I began stroking him, running the tips of my fingers through his hair, tracing the defined lines of the muscles of his back, the rest of me unmoving.
Merry’s arms gave me a powerful squeeze before he shifted to kiss my neck and then lifted his head.
He looked into my eyes.
I looked into his.
I kept stroking.
Merry took one arm from around me, wrapped his hand around my neck, and moved his thumb along my throat, up, sweeping it over my jaw, up, across my cheek, then over my lips where he left it gliding, back and forth, back and forth. A gentler kind of claiming, even though there was nothing left of me to be claimed.
If he wanted me, I belonged to Garrett Merrick.
All of me.
We stayed this way a long time. No words.
But they weren’t needed. For once in my life, I hoped, I prayed, I dreamed that I was getting it right and this was what it seemed to be.
Without warning, but doing it gently, he slid out and rolled off, shifting me as he did so I was on my side.
He disengaged just as slowly, my legs automatically closing as they lost purchase on his hips.
He was at the side of the bed, through all this never losing eye contact with me. He lost it only when his gaze swept the length of me.
When it came back, he said quietly, “Don’t move.”
I nodded.
He got out of bed and walked to one of the three doors in the room.
The light went on inside it as he disappeared and I saw it was a bathroom.
He’d told me not to move, but with him gone, I realized I was in Garrett Merrick’s bedroom, so I took that opportunity to quickly look around.
From what I’d seen of the rest of his pad, I wasn’t surprised to see not much here either. Two nightstands. Two lamps on them. A tall, six-drawer dresser. A lamp on that. The bed.
On the nightstand that was right in front of me, there was change, crumpled receipts, a used pack of gum, a lighter, and not much else.
Looking over my shoulder to the other one and the dresser, there seemed to be more detritus of this type, an alarm clock, and not much else.
Except there were three trophies on his dresser, but not like they were on display. Like they’d been put there, pushed aside, or shifted when more room was needed. On the top of one was a man standing, rifle to his shoulder, eye to the sight. The top of another trophy that was not quite as tall (but still tall) had another man, same pose, but holding a handgun. The last one that was slightly shorter had a man on his stomach, his rifle aimed.