The Heart Rate Challenge… 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽
𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒽𝒶𝓂⁴⁴ 𝓍 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃’𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 || 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 + 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞
6.8K words 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 ⁀➴ 𝒶𝓈𝓀
𑣲⋆𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealous as hell!garrett, everyone’s kissing, lap dances, accidental hard launch, stripping adjacent, brief oral from the back, unprotected p in v, squirting, situationship, fingering, roughish, pet names (baby, babydoll, my baby, my girl + no y/n), language, w.a.m., bf/gf discussions + local briar man suffers while dressed like a sexy!cowboy 🍹🌊🦩🏝️
Garrett has watched seven girls come through that doorway already and he couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened because every time the door opened, he looked to see if it was you.
Every girl has done the same thing all night, dancing on laps, flirting, kissing whoever they’re standing in front of. The entire point of the challenge is getting reactions out of people.
Which would be fine, if you weren’t participating.
A handwritten poster board leans against the kitchen island with betting totals scribbled across it in black marker, names crossed out and rewritten every few minutes as people throw another ten dollars into the pot, slipping their ticket into the jar of their favorite “islander” to win.
Sixteen athletes, eight guys, eight women—an unsanctioned charity event between Briar’s sports teams turned too hot to handle.
Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.
Dean sits forward. Hunter starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.
The last time they’d all seen you, you were at the rink screaming at an official over a bullshit interference call before burying a shorthanded overtime winner.
Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you in Briar hoodies and workout gear, hair shoved underneath a baseball cap, showing up at the rink for morning skate. None of them were mentally prepared for this.
And neither was he. Garrett knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Garrett should’ve known you were going to play to win.
Garrett knew exactly what was about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.
He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.
His hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.
The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Garrett Graham was absolutely fucked.
You’re dressed like every college fantasy Dean has ever had in his entire life, and Garrett can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.
He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.
You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”
Garrett’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from the basketball team completely. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.
Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Garrett wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.
You walk over to Tucker and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.
You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.
“Well, Mr. Tucker,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”
You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath Tucker’s chin before lifting it lightly.
“Questionable,” you decide.
Tucker’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“No.”
The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.
You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on Tucker’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.
The room breaks in applause as Tucker helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.
You make it three steps before stopping in front of Beau. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.
“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully.
The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.
“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.
“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.
Beau’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.
“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.
“Thank you, baby.”
The words mumbled past Beau’s lips and hit Garrett like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.
Hunter sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.
Garrett drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.
Hunter’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.
“Look at this asshole,” Dean chuckles against the rim of his drink and Davenport turns his head, smiling in agreement. Hunter doesn’t even deny it.
You stop directly in front of him, and Hunter’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.
You climb onto Hunter’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. Hunter lets out a rich laugh that makes Garrett want to throw his drink at the wall.
“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Garrett before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.
You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.
“Such a fucking nerd, Davenport,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.
You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.
You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.
The worst part was that Garrett had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.
The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.
He’d laughed, made some stupid joke, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.
Garrett drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.
“Can you believe this shit?” Logan sighs through a smile.
“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Dean lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Logan.
Garrett watches Hunter watch you walk away.
One of Hunter’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. Hunter licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.
The room feels ten degrees hotter. Garrett shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.
You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Logan, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.
Logan follows the ruler with his eyes.
“Talking in class?”
Logan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“No shame!” Dean adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.
You click your tongue and shake your head.
“That’s disappointing.”
“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.
“Turn around,” you breathe, and Logan scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass. “One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.
Logan spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.
And Logan’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to his hair, tugging enough to pull a groan from his lips as his head tilts back.
He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Logan’s as you walk away. Garrett tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.
And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.
He remembers standing in the rink two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Garrett had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’
Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.
“Mr. Di Laurentis,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Dean cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.
Dean sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”
You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Di Laurentis.”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”
Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.
Your back lands against his broad chest and Dean drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.
“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.
Dean’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.
You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.
You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Garrett’s thigh.
The contact lasts barely a second.
But Garrett still feels it.
That same hand slides away from Garrett, hooking loosely around Dean’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.
“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Di Laurentis’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Garrett. “It’s the class pet.”
The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Garrett’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.
Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Garrett is looking at you.
Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.
“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.
“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”
“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”
“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.
You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Dean and Logan snickering beside him, Di Laurentis shoving at Garrett’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.
But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.
Now he’s sitting here thinking about Dean’s picture, Logan’s kiss, Hunter’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Beau’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.
He’s spiraling.
“You’re up, Graham,” you whisper against his lips.
Garrett’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.
“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.
“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.
“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.
He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.
You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.
The challenge keeps moving as Garrett stands behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.
Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the challenge. Especially Garrett’s.
The first guy goes, and Garrett can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.
The captain of the Briar basketball team, Cash Suzuki, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Garrett sick.
He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Garrett’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.
He flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.
Garrett bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.
The crowd starts screaming when Tucker pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.
The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.
Hunter takes a page out of Tucker’s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.
Beau announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.
Logan’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.
Garrett drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Dean’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.
Garrett reaches for it without thinking it through, Dean’s hockey number on repeat unlocks the phone on the first try.
The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Dean took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Garrett has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.
Not because he doesn’t trust Dean to do it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.
The moment it’s gone, Garrett just stares at the screen.
“…She ruined me,” he mutters under his breath.
He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.
He really has lost his fucking mind.
“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Dean’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Garrett’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.
Logan claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “G, you’re up,” he smiles but Garrett’s already pushing off the kitchen island.
He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.
The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Garrett can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.
She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.
He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Garrett’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.
By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Garrett Graham is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.
He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.
Garrett glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Garrett Graham you know. This is not the Garrett Graham who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.
“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.
“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.
Garrett looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.
And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.
“G, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Logan shouts.
Garrett doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.
“Here we fuckin’ go,” Tucker and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.
Garrett stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.
The crowd erupts and Garrett winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.
“What the hell was that?” Dean shouts over the music.
“What?” Garrett laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”
“You’re not!” Logan yells from the kitchen.
“Virgin Mary over here.” Dean barks. “Graham, are you Catholic?”
“Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.
You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.
For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.
You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Garrett finally feels like he can breathe.
“Babydoll?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.
“Garrett,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.
“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your teammates reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”
You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.
He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.
“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.
He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.
“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”
“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.
Garrett pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.
Garrett ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.
The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Garrett stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.
You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Garrett keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.
“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Logan says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Garrett barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Logan a look before immediately finding you again across the room.
“You did,” he says, and Dean laughs into his beer.
“Yeah, no shit,” Dean mutters, following Garrett’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.
He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.
Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Garrett loses his patience completely.
You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Garrett straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.
You make it a step before the captain of the basketball team walks in your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Garrett’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.
Cash gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.
“Nope,” Garrett sighs, already pushing away from the island while Logan turns his head toward him.
“Go easy on him, G. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Logan taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.
Garrett doesn’t answer because Suzuki made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.
“Hey, baby,” Garrett breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.
Garrett taps Cash on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, buddy.”
“You need somethin’, Graham?” Cash asks with an annoyed laugh.
“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.
“Sure,” Cash scoffs in reply.
“Have a great night, yeah?” Garrett smiles, clapping him on the chest this time, using the contact to push him away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.
Garrett’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.
“Still had it on,” he hums.
“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the hockey house all wrapped up in his arms.
“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.
“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.
“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Garrett’s voice barks across the party impatiently.
“You got places to be, Graham?” Dean asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Garrett’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.
The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and Hunter and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and Hunter’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.
“So Davenport and my girlfriend. We done here?”
Logan’s head snaps toward Garrett so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Dean whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Beau physically chokes on his drink. Even Hunter’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Garrett doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.
Around them, Garrett’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.
The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Garrett’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Dean snorts into his drink.
“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Dean hollers.
Logan lets out a laugh, but Dean’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”
“What?” Logan asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.
Dean stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”
“Oh? It’s gone? Garrett? Our Garrett?” Logan asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.
Dean slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”
Garrett’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.
He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Good guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.
Garrett glances over, catching the smile on your lips.
“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.
“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”
“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”
Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.
“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Garrett freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.
“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”
“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.
“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”
Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.
The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.
You whimper against his lips and he smiles against your mouth, kissing along your jaw to your ear.
“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.
He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.
And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.
Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.
“Of course, I will.”
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.
“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m an idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”
“Well, I mean I don’t do boyfriends,” you answer with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.
“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”
“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.
“No.”
You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.
“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.
“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.
“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”
“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”
“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.
You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”
“You look so good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Couldn’t even tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”
You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”
“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.
“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.
“You look good, Garrett,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.
“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”
He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.
“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.
Your nails work through his dark hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.
He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.
“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.
“All yours,” you whisper.
“On your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.
“This body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.
You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.
He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.
“Garrett,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.
“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”
“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.
“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.
Garrett’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”
Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.
He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his rough hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.
Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.
Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.
“Need you to cum again, okay?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.
His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh for balance, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.
“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.
His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”
“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.
“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.
“That’s my girl.”
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