“Thank you.”
She was still whispering.
“For what, Cherie?” he whispered back.
“For making me happy.”
Fuck.
His brown-eyed girl.
He slid his fingers back into her hair, grunting, “You’re killin’ me, baby.”
“I’ll stop,” she returned instantly. “If I kill you, you can’t bang me again.”
He smiled as he rolled into her, giving her his weight, moving his hands on her, and gave it to her straight. “Makes me happy to make you happy.”
“Good.”
Since she deserved it and he needed to let it loose, he kept giving it to her straight. “And it scares the fuckin’ shit outta me.”
She slid her hands along his sides, to his back and down to curl her fingers in his ass, all as she held his eyes.
“I’m holdin’ on.”
He felt his mouth quirk. “Yeah. To my ass.”
He watched her eyes heat even as her lips curved up, and she did both as she opened her legs, his hips fell through, and she wound her calves around his thighs.
“Better?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured, his attention shifting to her mouth.
She dug the fingers of one hand in his ass as she moved the other, gliding it up his spine, asking, “You gonna do me or what?”
Garrett dropped his head, trailing his lips from the corner of hers across her cheek to her ear.
“Yeah, I’m gonna do you,” he whispered there.
“Well, get on with it, boss.”
He slid a hand over her hip, along her thigh, and hitched her leg up so it was curled around his ass, instructing, “You better hold on tighter, Cherie.”
“Goodie,” she breathed, running her nose along his jaw.
Garrett grinned.
Then he commenced in giving his girl reason to hold on.
And do it tight.
* * * * *
Very Late Saturday Night
Cher was up against the wall, her face filled with fear, the gun pointed an inch from her nose.
The blast made everything go black.
There wasn’t even a scream.
Garrett opened his eyes to the dark. The length of his body stretched taut, he could feel the sheen of sweat on his chest, the wet gathering in his groin.
He blinked at the ceiling.
It was then he felt Cher curled into him, calf thrown over his thigh, cheek to his chest, arm around his gut.
He drew in a deep breath and concentrated on relaxing his muscles on the exhale.
It took him four breaths.
Then he moved and he moved his woman as he did. Shifting her around so he had her back to his front, he curled into her and wrapped his arm around her belly, drawing her close.
“Merry,” she mumbled.
“Here, Cherie.”
She said no more.
She was out.
Garrett stared into the dark.
Terrified.
* * * * *
Sunday Morning
Garrett sat at a stool at his bar, watching Cher shuffle around his kitchen in one of his tees, opening and closing cupboards, having announced she was making him breakfast. As he did this, he was also sifting through the Sunday paper and clicking through his laptop.
“Most of my kitchen is garage sale, and still, my shit is better than yours,” she grumbled, straightening from a base cupboard while closing its door.
He looked from the listing his real estate agent had sent to him that he’d been considering to her. “I’m a bachelor. I don’t need good shit in my kitchen.”
She turned to him, skillet up and pointing his way. “Half the Teflon is scratched off this.”
“So use oil,” he returned.
“Merry, this is actually a health hazard,” she informed him.
He burst out laughing.
As he did, he heard the skillet hit the stove and she said, “No. Seriously.”
“Bullshit,” he replied. When her face screwed up with mild irritation, he gave her a white lie. “Been usin’ that skillet awhile, and as you can see, I’m fine.”
She pointed to the skillet. “You use that skillet?”
“Yep.”
“How often do you cook?”
He grinned.
She had him.
“You got me.”
She turned to the stove. “Gonna hit some garage sales next weekend. Get you a decent skillet. And if it’s Teflon, get you some plastic utensils so you don’t scratch it to shit.”
“Cherie, waste of time and effort. That skillet is just for show in order to get Rocky off my ass after she gave me this same lecture about havin’ shit in my kitchen seein’ as then, I didn’t have anything in my kitchen. But it was a waste of money, even if the shit I got is shit. I don’t cook.”
She turned back to him. “You get a wild hair to fry a burger, you’re covered, and it’ll only cost a dollar or two.”
“Babe, I don’t cook,” he repeated.
“Then, right now, you gonna take me to Frank’s for breakfast?” She pointed to the stove. “Because I’m not cookin’ eggs in that skillet.”
“You want eggs, then yeah, I’m takin’ you to Frank’s,” he returned. “Seein’ as you don’t like my skillet, not mention the fact I don’t actually have eggs since I don’t cook.”
She put her hands on her hips, the mild irritation no longer mild.
“We go to Frank’s, I gotta get dressed. Then we gotta head out, drive there, park, order, wait, and eat, and I’ll have to pick up Ethan right after. And that would mean I can’t make breakfast for you, amazing you with my culinary brilliance, which you have yet to experience, after which you’ll have plenty of time to bang my brains out again and then I can go get my kid.”