The Deal by Elle Kennedy
I keep a close eye on the clock above the weight room door. It’s almost five. Hannah finishes work at ten, and then she’s coming straight over to my place.
So we can have sex.
The pressure in my gut gathers in strength, tightening into a massive knot. I have no idea if I can do this. I’m terrified of doing something wrong. Hurting her.
“I’m not surprised you saw the error of your ways,” Logan finally says as we trade places again. “She’s pretty damn cool. I knew that from the moment I met her.”
Yeah, Hannah is cool. She’s also beautiful and smart and funny.
And she’s not broken.
The tightness in my stomach eases as I cling to that last thought. That’s why I agreed to sleep with her, because no matter what happened to her in the past, no matter how many scars she still bears from that ordeal, I know without a shred of doubt that Hannah Wells is not broken. She’s too strong to allow anyone—especially a piece of shit high school rapist—to break her.
No, what she’s lacking is the ability to trust, and to some extent, confidence. She just needs someone to…guide her, for lack of a better word.
But shit, can that someone really be me? I don’t know the first thing about the etiquette required for sleeping with a rape victim.
“So anyway, maybe I’m not pissed that you beat me to it,” Logan tells me.
I shoot him a faint smile. “Gee, thanks.”
He grins back. “With that said, I request an exemption from the part of the bro code that states I can’t date someone after you’ve broken up with her.”
My fingers stiffen on the bar. Fuck that. The thought of Logan hooking up with Hannah makes me want to go He-Man on the barbell and hurl it across the gym. But at the same time, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a chance in hell of Hannah dating Logan, especially now that I know about her hang-ups.
So I shrug casually and say, “Exemption granted.”
“Good. Now I’m adding ten pounds to this motherfucker, because, really, G, we’re better than this.”
The next thirty minutes fly by. The room empties out as the other guys head for the showers, but when I see that Birdie is still rocking chin-ups across the room, I make my way over to him.
“Hey, man, got a sec?” I call out, wiping my sweaty forehead with a towel.
He lets go of the bar, and his sneakers land on the blue gym mat. Then he grabs his own towel. “Sure. What’s up?”
I hesitate. Hockey players aren’t known for having girly heart-to-hearts. Most of the time, we indulge in locker room talk or shoot insults back and forth, with the rare serious convo thrown into the mix.
Jake “Birdie” Berderon is the exception to that rule. The tall, intense senior is the one you seek out for advice, the one you call when you’re in a jam, the one who’d drop whatever he was doing just to help you out. Last season, after half our seniors graduated and nominations for team captain were being tossed around, I told Birdie that if he wanted the job, I’d back him one hundred percent. He shot me down, insisting that he sucks at pep talks and would rather skate than lead, but honestly, deep down I know that Birdie is our real leader. You won’t ever find a better man than him. No joke.
I glance at the open doorway, then lower my voice. “This has to stay between us, okay?”
A wry grin lifts his lips. “Dude, if you knew how many secrets are floating around in this thick skull of mine, you’d freak. Trust me, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
I sink onto the long wooden bench against the wall and rest my hands on my knees. I don’t know where to start, but I do know I can’t tell him the truth. That’s something only Hannah has the right to share.
“Have you ever slept with a virgin?” I hedge.
He blinks. “Uh. Okay. Well, yeah. I have.” Birdie sits beside me. “Between you and me?” he says.
“Of course.”
“Nat was a virgin when we first hooked up.” Nat is actually Natalie, Birdie’s girlfriend since freshman year. The two of them are one of those “it” couples that everyone makes fun of for being so nauseatingly perfect together while secretly envying their relationship.
I have to ask, “Were you?”
He grins. “Naah. I punched in my V-card at fifteen.”
Fifteen. That’s how old Hannah was when she… I suddenly wonder if that had been her first time, and horror claws up my throat. Jesus. Losing your virginity is a huge deal for some chicks—I can’t even imagine what’d it feel like having it taken from you.
“Why? You’ve got a date with a hot virgin?” Birdie teases.
“Something like that.” Considering he met Hannah last night at Malone’s, I’m sure Birdie is putting two and two together in his head, but I know he won’t blab about this to anyone.
And I figure this virgin story is safer than uttering the words rape victim. Because really, the approach to sleeping with the former can’t be all that different from doing it with the latter. In both instances, you need to be patient and respectful and thorough, right?
“So what did you do for Nat’s first time?” I ask awkwardly.
“Honestly? I just tried to make her comfortable.” Birdie shrugs. “She’s not into all that mushy shit, like flowers and candles and rose petals all over the bed. She didn’t want it to be a big deal.” Another shrug. “Some girls do want to make a big production outta it, though. So in your case, I think the first thing you need to do is figure out what kind of girl she is. Low-key or mega romantic.”
I think about Hannah and all the pressure she’s under to be “normal”—which is probably a million times worse than the pressure I’m feeling at the moment—and I immediately know the answer.
“Low-key, definitely. I think candles and rose petals would make her nervous.”
Birdie tips his head. “Then just go slow and make sure she’s comfortable. That’s the only advice I can give you.” He pauses. “And include lots of foreplay, dude. Chicks need that shit. Got it?”
I chuckle. “Yes, sir.”
“Any more questions? Because I stink to high heaven, and I desperately need a shower.”
“Naah, that’s it. Thanks, man.”
Birdie slaps me on the shoulder and rises to his feet. “Don’t stress too much about it, G. Sex is supposed to be fun, remember?” Then he winks and lumbers out of the weight room.
Don’t stress? Jeez, how can I not?
I groan out loud, grateful that nobody is around to hear the panicky sound.
Make her comfortable. Go slow. Lots of foreplay. Don’t stress.
Okay. I can do that.
Or at least I damn well hope I can.
24
Hannah
I almost throw up three times on the way over to Garrett’s, but I choke back the nerves because I’m driving Tracy’s car, and the last thing I want to do is pay to have my vomit scrubbed off her upholstery.
I honestly don’t remember a second of my five-hour shift at Della’s. Or my one-hour rehearsal with Cass earlier. Or how I got from one place to the other today. I’ve been on autopilot since I left Garrett’s bedroom earlier, every conscious thought focused on what I’m about to do tonight.
Did I mention I’m nervous?
I shouldn’t be, though. It’s just sex. It’s sex with a guy I’m attracted to, a guy I genuinely like and trust.
My hands shouldn’t be trembling this badly, and my heart shouldn’t be beating this fast. And yet intertwined with the nervousness is a sense of excitement. Anticipation. I’m even wearing matching bra and panties beneath my waitressing uniform. Yep, you know you’re about to have sex when you’re rocking black lace top and bottom, and your skin is silky smooth and ready to be touched.
Garrett’s roommates aren’t home when I walk into the house. Unless they’re holed up in their bedrooms, but I don’t think they are because there’s nothing but silence in the upstairs hallway as I head toward Garrett’s room.
I wonder if Garrett ordered them to disappear. The
“Hey,” he says when I walk in.
My heart simultaneously does a nervous somersault and an appreciative flip. I can tell he took the time to get ready because his hair is still slightly damp from the shower, and his face is completely clean-shaven. I glance at his black track pants and tight gray undershirt, then at my garish uniform. Thanks to the jittery state I’ve been in all day, I forgot to bring a change of clothes.
Then again, we probably won’t be wearing clothes for much longer.
“Hey.” I gulp. “So…how do you want to do this? Should I take my clothes off?” I pause as something occurs to me. “Don’t you dare ask me to do a striptease, because I’m nervous enough as it is and there’s no way I can dance even remotely sexy right now.”
Garrett bursts out laughing. “You have no idea how to set a mood, do you, Wellsy?”
I moan miserably. “I know. I’m just…nervous,” I reiterate. Taking a breath, I wipe my clammy palms on the front of my skirt. “Can we just get started? You’re standing there and looking at me, and it’s freaking me out.”
He approaches with a quiet chuckle, cupping my chin in his hands. “First, relax—there’s nothing to be nervous about. Second, I don’t expect, or particularly want, a striptease.” He winks. “At least not tonight. And third, we’re not starting anything right now.”
I battle a pang of disappointment. “We’re not?”
Garrett tosses me the same T-shirt I slept in last night. “Go change out of that Grease costume and put this on. I’ll get the next disc ready.” He wanders over to the TV and picks up the DVD case for Breaking Bad.
“You want to watch TV?” I say incredulously.
“Yup.”
My mouth opens. Then closes. But it stays closed, because I suddenly realize what he’s doing, and I whole-heartedly appreciate it.
He’s trying to put me at ease.
It’s working.
I duck into the bathroom to change, returning a moment later to join Garrett on the bed. He instantly puts his arm around me and pulls me closer, and his familiar masculine scent relaxes me.
“Ready?” he says lightly, holding up the remote.
I find myself smiling. “Yep.”
The episode fills the screen, and I lean my head against his shoulder as I focus on the TV. Like the other times we’ve watched this show together, neither of us say much aside from the occasional gasp from me or a prediction from him, but unlike those other times, I’m only half paying attention. Garrett rubs his palm over my shoulder in a light, teasing caress that makes it incredibly hard to concentrate on the TV.
Halfway through the episode, he leans in and kisses my neck.
I don’t say a word, but an involuntary sigh slips out. Goose bumps rise in the spot his lips have touched, and when he rests one big hand on my bare thigh, a jolt of heat singes my skin.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
His lips travel along the length of my neck. “Setting the mood.” He nips at my earlobe. “Unlike some people, I happen to know how to do that.”
I stick my tongue out at him even though he can’t see it. He’s too busy tormenting me with his mouth, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses on the side of my throat.
Arousal starts deep in my core and spreads outward, dancing through my body and tingling in all my erogenous zones. Every time his lips kiss a new patch of skin, I shiver with pleasure. When his tongue tickles my jaw, I turn my head toward him and our mouths meet in the hottest kiss on the planet.
I love the way Garrett kisses. It’s not sloppy or hurried, but skillful and slow and absolutely incredible. His lips brush mine, lazy and teasing, while his tongue sneaks inside every so often for a fleeting taste before seductively retreating. I slant my head and drive the kiss deeper, and I moan when the minty flavor of him infuses my tongue. A masculine rumble comes from the back of his throat, and my belly clenches in response.
His mouth stays locked to mine as he gently pushes me onto my back, settling on his side beside me. One warm hand cups my breast over the thin material of my T-shirt, and the zing of pleasure makes me squeak in joy.
“Tell me if I’m going too fast.” His deep voice tickles my lips, and then his tongue spears through them to find mine again.
I’m on sensory overload. He’s kissing me, squeezing my breasts, lightly rubbing my nipple with his thumb, and everything he’s doing feels so good I don’t know which sensation to focus on.
My pulse goes haywire when he glides his palm down my body. He hesitates when he reaches the hem of the T-shirt, then makes a husky sound and slips his fingers beneath it.
When his hand moves between my legs, I stop breathing.
When his fingers touch my clitoris over my panties, I whimper.
Garrett’s hand stills. “Should I stop?”
“God. No. Keep going.”
A raspy chuckle leaves his mouth, and then his hand begins to move again. Just when I think it can’t feel any better, he proves me wrong by moving aside the scrap of fabric covering my sex and pressing his index finger directly on my clit.
My hips shoot up as if I’ve been struck by lightning. “Oooh. Keep doing that.”
He rubs tiny circles around my sensitive flesh, gentle but firm, before sliding his finger lower to tease the moisture pooling in my core.
The groan he lets out races up my spine. “Oh fuck. You’re so wet.”
I am. I really am. And the ache between my legs is getting worse, throbbing harder as ripples of pleasure dance inside me. I’m stunned to feel the telltale signs of impending orgasm. This is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like this, but I get distracted when I register the hard ridge pressing into my hip. The feel of Garrett’s hard-on rubbing up against me is so erotic I can’t think straight.
I’m desperate to touch him, and my hands move as if possessed, slipping under his waistband and into his boxers.
The second I encounter his erection, my jaw drops.
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?”
He looks startled. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you taking human growth hormones or something?” I snatch my hand back, fighting another rush of nervousness. “There’s no way that huge man monster is fitting inside me!”
Garrett’s head abruptly drops in the crook of his arm as a shudder racks his body. At first I think he’s pissed off. Or maybe even crying. It takes several seconds before I realize what’s happening. He’s laughing.
Scratch that—he’s in hysterics.
His broad back quakes with laughter, causing the mattress to vibrate beneath us. When he finally speaks, his voice is wheezy and broken by loud guffaws. “Man monster?”
“Stop laughing at me. I’m serious,” I insist. “I might have big boobs and a grabbable ass, but have you seen my hips? Tiny and narrow! Which stands to reason that my lady canal—”
A howl rips out of his mouth. “Lady canal?”
“—is narrow too. You’re going to rip me in half.”
He raises his head and there are honest-to-God tears in his eyes. “I think that’s the nicest thing a girl has ever said to me,” he chokes out.
“It’s not funny, okay?”
He’s still wheezing like crazy. “It totally is.”
“You know what? We’re not doing this. You’ve officially killed the mood.”
“Me?” he demands between laughs. “You did that all by yourself, baby.”
I sit up with an annoyed grumble. “Seriously, this was a stupid idea.” Sighing, I search the mattress for the remote control. “Let’s just watch the show.”
“No way. We’re already in this deep.” His voice becomes gruff. “Give me your hand.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I think if you get better acquainted with my man monster, you’ll see that you don’t have to be afraid of him.”
&n
The mood I killed? Roars right back to life as I gingerly wrap my fingers around his shaft. He’s long and thick and pulsing beneath my fingertips, and that’s all it takes for my body to tingle again.
I give him a tentative stroke, and he groans softly. “See? It’s just a regular old penis, Wellsy.”
My throat closes up with laughter. “There are so many things wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to start.” I pause. “Exactly how old is your penis?”
“He’s twenty, like me,” Garrett answers seriously. “But he’s way more mature than I am. What about your lady canal? Is she wiser than her years, or is she—”
I shut him up with a kiss.
It isn’t long before I’m shivering with pleasure again. Garrett’s hand returns to where I want it to be. Somehow my panties disappear, and one long finger slides inside me, making me gasp. My inner muscles clamp around him, and a bolt of heat sizzles up my spine.
Garrett’s tongue fills my mouth, his erection rocking into my hand. I’ve never felt more in control, more desirable, because I know I’m the one responsible for those rough sounds he’s making. He breaks the kiss to nibble on my shoulder, and the spark in my body burns hotter, so close to detonating that I’m moaning louder now.
But the arousal extinguishes when I open my eyes to find him watching me.
The tingles disappear, and I stiffen beneath his touch.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs.
“Nothing.” I swallow. “Just…kiss me again.” I yank his head down and part my lips to welcome his tongue.
Garrett strokes my clit with dexterity that awes me. It’s like he knows exactly how much pressure to exert, when to rub faster, when to slow down. I grind into his talented hand, but when he groans again, the arousal fades once more.
I groan too, frustrated.
“What’s going on, Wellsy?” His fingertips skim over my sex. “I know you’re into this. I can feel it.”
“I am. I…” My throat constricts as helplessness rises inside it. “I get close, and then it…it goes away.” I’m mortified to feel the sting of tears. “That’s what always happens.”