Page 18 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
"Oh." I busy myself with the tea preparations, avoiding his gaze. "I just... guessed? You have that look about you. I'm sorry," I add quickly. "I shouldn't have brought it up with my parents. It was presumptuous."
"It's fine," he says with a slight shrug. "It's in the past."
The kettle whistles, saving me from having to respond immediately. I pour the hot water into two mugs, the fragrant steam rising between us.
"Is it, though?" I ask as I hand him a mug. "In the past? Because if you're still having nightmares about it..."
"I guess not entirely," he admits, surprising me with his candor. "The things I've seen... they'll always be with me. But I'm not there anymore. I'm here, trying to be better. Do better."
"What's better?" I ask.
He sets down his untouched tea and steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"This," he says simply, and then his mouth is on mine.
There's nothing hesitant about this kiss. It's decisive and intentional, as if he's been thinking about it as much as I have. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as his lips claim mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
I melt into him, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as he deepens the kiss. His body is warm against mine, his musky odour filling my senses until I can't think of anything else.
My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart through his shirt. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat that sends heat pooling low in my panties.
When he finally pulls back, we're both gasping for breath. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, his expression filled with pure lust.
"I'm sorry," he says, stepping back abruptly. "I shouldn't have done that. I got... confused about what's real and what's pretend."
He turns to leave, and panic surges through me. I can't let him walk away, not now, not when I've finally had a taste of what could be between us.
"Garrett, wait," I call after him. "Please stay."
He pauses but doesn't turn around. "Why?"
Instead of answering with words, I move to him, gently tugging at his sleeve until he faces me. "Stop being an idiot," I say, summoning every ounce of courage I possess.
Then I'm the one kissing him, rising on my tiptoes to press my lips to his. For a heart-stopping moment, he's still, and I fear I've misread everything. Then his arms wrap around me, lifting me effortlessly. One strong hand cups my ass as he carries me to the living room, his mouth never leaving mine.
We tumble onto the couch, a tangle of eager hands and urgent kisses. Garrett's weight presses me into the cushions, his body covering mine. I run my fingers through his hair, marveling at its softness compared to the rough stubble along his jaw.
"Are you sure about this?" he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.
"I've never been surer of anything," I answer.
That's all the permission he needs. His hands find the zipper of my dress, easing it down with surprising gentleness for someone so powerful. I work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy with eagerness.
Clothing falls away piece by piece. My dress puddling on the floor, his shirt joining it, shoes kicked off hastily. Each new expanse of skin revealed is a discovery.
When Garrett is down to just his boxer briefs and I'm in my matching bra and panties, he pauses, drinking me in with an intensity that should make me self-conscious but somehow does the opposite. The way he looks at me, like I'm precious and desired, makes me feel beautiful.
His body is magnificent. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, toned chest dusted with dark hair, abs defined from years of military discipline. But what draws my attention are the scars—a puckered line across his left shoulder, smaller marks scattered across his torso, telling stories of pain and survival.
I trace them with gentle fingers, feeling the raised texture against his warm skin. He tenses slightly under my touch.
"I understand if they bother you," he says quietly.
I shake my head, meeting his gaze. "They don't. They're part of who you are, part of what made you the man standing here with me."
"You're incredible," he murmurs against my skin as he kisses his way down my body. He kneels between my legs, his large hands spanning my waist, thumbs stroking the soft curve of my belly.
I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide the parts of me that aren't perfect. I'm curvier than the women in magazines and softer in places society says should be firm. But Garrett doesn't seem to notice or care. His hands grip my hips, my thighs, with appreciation rather than judgment.
