✍︎

You took in the floor-to-ceiling windows with their glittering view of the skyline, the dark, expansive floors, and the way-too-expensive paintings hanging on every wall. Everything felt curated. The place screamed money. Someone’s parents were absolutely rolling in it.

You felt envious, partly because of the money, but mostly because almost everyone seemed to be close to your age, and you were living a very different life. No one you grew up with had the money to play a sport like hockey. You certainly never had the money to attend college, let alone a fancy private school.

Your mission was simple: make sure the starting line of the Briar University Hawks had an amazing night. The party was in full swing, alcohol flowing and hip-hop blaring from a massive speaker. Three chairs had been set up in the middle of the decadent living room, and three players from the starting line had been ushered into their respective seats.

Beau pointed out your target. The first words that came to mind to describe him were blonde, hunky, and pretty fucking drunk.

“You’ve got Dean. He’s pretty experienced, so I wouldn’t hold back, if you know what I mean.”

That meant pulling out all the stops. Having stripped since you were nineteen, you were no one-trick pony. You were wearing the tiniest black lace mini-dress imaginable. Your heels were impossibly high, but your steps didn’t falter as you approached Blondie. When you danced, you let your alter ego shine, channeling all of your confidence through her. The trick was to stay out of your head and simply feel the music.

Although you’d gotten into this line of work out of necessity, there were parts of it that you enjoyed, including the feeling of having an entire room's attention on you. You started your routine, and in a drunk college boy’s eyes, you probably appeared spontaneous, sensual, and, well, horny. In reality, every move was practiced and automatic at this point.

Everyone was watching and cheering, and you felt your adrenaline begin to surge. Your eyes found Dean’s, and a strange feeling passed through you because he was staring right back at you—only at you. As if there wasn’t a huge party going on around him and other scantily clad women dancing nearby.

You made your way in front of him and deliberately positioned yourself between his legs. Leaning down, you placed your hands on his thighs and spread them farther apart. During the first half of your routine, the dress stayed on, leaving the rest of your body to his imagination. With his hands gripping his own thighs, you could feel his gaze raking over you, and you were grateful he hadn’t started getting handsy yet.

You brushed your hands over his shoulders and down his chest before leaning close to his ear.

“Hi.”

It felt rude not to introduce yourself in situations like this.

“I’m Y/N.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He seemed distracted by your hands and the generous view you were giving him, exactly as planned.

“Dean,” he finally managed, his voice deep and rough. “God, you’re fucking stunning.”

It felt a little strange doing this with someone so young instead of a sleazy middle-aged man. You suspected you wouldn’t mind his attention nearly as much as you would from someone who obviously had a wife and kids waiting at home.

“Thank you, baby,” you purred, matching his tone and feeding the fantasy. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You turned around, lowering your hips until your backside brushed against his jeans. He was already hard. Not getting there, already there. You moved your hips to the rhythm of the song, and from the corner of your eye, you could see his hands tightening on his thighs as though it took every ounce of restraint to keep them there.

By the time it was time to take off your dress, the air felt electric.

You stepped a few feet away from him and slowly shimmied out of the dress, revealing a tiny black thong underneath. There was a deliberate pause before you lifted the fabric over your chest. You waited for the shift in the room, for the voices to rise and the bass to hit at just the right moment.

Still swaying with the music, you pulled the dress over your head. Your black top was little more than a few strings and tiny black hearts covering your nipples. The rest was left on display.

You tossed the dress against Dean’s chest before dipping low.

Now came your favorite part.

You dropped to your knees and moved through your floorwork, your hair flying through the air, before slowly making your way back toward him. He was leaning forward now, elbows braced on his thighs, his expression strained. A handful of dollar bills sat clenched in one fist.

Your breathing had grown heavier, and your smile turned devilish.

Climbing into his lap, you finally allowed him to touch you, taking his hands and placing them on your ass. A few hundred dollars quickly found their way into your thong, making your smile widen.

You moved against him, feeling the evidence of his interest with every shift. You didn’t hold back, just as Beau had requested. You pulled out every trick you had, and Dean did an impressive job holding on and helping you keep your balance as you moved through the final portions of the routine.

By the time the song ended, both of you looked equally wrecked.

You practically collapsed against him with a breathless laugh.

“God fucking damn.”

Around you, the other girls were finishing up their routines as well.

You climbed off his lap and retrieved your dress from the floor. Leaning down close to his ear again so he could hear you over the music, you said:

“I need a shot.”

Dean looked up at you without hesitation.

“I will give you anything you want.”

One shot leads to five, and after giving a few more lap dances to members of the team, you find yourself alone with Dean in an upstairs den. Away from the music, you finally feel like yourself again. You pull the money you've collected from your dress and begin counting it.

Your total comes to eight hundred dollars, and suddenly you're grateful you came tonight. You'd have to ask one of your friends from the club how much she made and compare. The money fluctuated constantly in your industry, so it always felt like you were chasing the next big payday.

“Not bad. You hockey boys are more generous than I expected.”

He's poured you a glass of Chardonnay, and he hands it to you as he sits down beside you on the white leather couch. He clinks his glass against yours in a toast, and you both take a sip.

It doesn't fully hit you until that moment that you've let him get you completely alone.

While you were giving lap dances to the other guys, Dean had been getting ambushed by college girls fawning all over him, and yet he'd still brought you upstairs. Now that you thought about it, his attention hadn't really left you all night.

He'd made sure you had refreshments and all the alcohol you could want.

Instantly, you felt suspicious.

“You'd be surprised. Most of us are perfect gentlemen.”

You hum. “I'm sure. You most of all, right?”

“I didn't say that. I am a great host, though, right? This party turned out pretty great.”

“This is your house?”

“Uh, yeah. My parents'. So feel free to make yourself at home.”

You take that as your opportunity to free yourself from your too-high heels and pull your legs up onto the couch.

“You grew up here?”

“Yep,” he answers, popping the p.

“Wow. And you're, like, a hockey star?”

“I've been told,” he says, making you laugh. “And I'm very humble.”

You take another sip of your drink before saying, “This is really good.”

“Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru,” he says, and your eyebrows shoot up.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

He laughs. “That's the wine.”

“Oh.”

A brief silence settles between you, and the soft way he's looking at you makes your cheeks warm. You shift uncomfortably.

“If you're such a good host, shouldn't you actually be at your own party?”

“You got me.” He sighs. “I'd really rather be here, I think.”

Your eyes narrow, and you finish your glass in one gulp.

“What do you want?”

“What?”

“Don't bullshit me. Why do you want to be alone with me?”

“Shit, I don't know. Maybe because I want to get to know you?”

“Me? The stripper?”

“Well, yeah.”

You tip your head back in drunken laughter.

He takes the empty glass from your hand and sets it on the coffee table. Suddenly, he's closing the distance between you, and when you look at him again, he's only an inch from your lips.

You don't blame him for how he feels. You really don't. An hour ago, you were dancing all over him. But it's all supposed to be a fantasy.

He doesn't know you, and you'll never really know him.

“You're cute,” you admit. “But no—”

Dean moves fast, capturing your mouth with his and wrapping his arms around you. It's effortless, the way he pulls your scantily clad body onto his lap.

The kiss doesn't surprise you nearly as much as how good it is.

How easily he makes the space between you disappear.

He pulls you into his rhythm, and whenever you feel yourself falling behind, he tightens his grip, encouraging you to keep up.

He's hard again.

You never felt turned on while giving lap dances, and you hadn't felt any sparks while performing earlier, but now, sitting in his lap and completely at his mercy, you feel far too much.

You push against his chest until he finally lets you go.

“I need to leave,” you say breathlessly.

Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth, and some of your foundation has transferred to his jaw. Then you begin to wonder how long you'd been kissing him. It felt as though time had stopped.

How long had you let him guide your hips against his?

“Um, thanks for the fancy wine.”

You climb off his lap and reach for your shoes, but he gently catches your wrist before you can get far.

“What's wrong? I'm a really good time.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“Let me make you feel good. Ten minutes. That's all I need.”

“You're not serious.”

“I'm deadly serious, gorgeous. I'm so fucking hard for you. I know you felt it.”

You scoff, but then a dangerous thought crosses your mind.

No one had ever looked at you the way Dean had tonight.

His eyes are desperate, like he might do just about anything to get you to stay.

“For ten minutes...” You pause. “I'd want one thousand.”

“One thousand?”

You nod. “One thousand dollars.”

“You want me to pay you... to have sex with me?”

You're glad he connects the dots quickly.

His blue eyes cycle through several emotions, the strongest of them confusion.

“I've never had to pay for sex before.”

“Good for you. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not one of your little fans, and I'm working right now.”

You shrug and pick your heels up from the floor. Pulling your wrist free, you start toward the door.

“Wait.”

You pause, exactly as he expects you to.

“How much for a whole hour?”

One thing that turned you on more than the average person: money.

You turn around and find him wearing the same expression he'd had earlier when you were crawling toward him on your knees.

Pained.

But now he looks even hungrier.

“For you? Two thousand.”

He bites his lower lip, conflicted, his hands rubbing together nervously.

“What's included in this deal?”

You take a step back toward him, and his gaze drifts over every inch of you.

“What's included in the sex package you're purchasing?”

“Yeah. I mean, can I be rough with you?”

“Rough meaning?” you ask, slightly intrigued. “Hair pulling, face slapping, spanking, things like that?”

Dean nods eagerly.

“Yup. All of those things.”

“Okay,” you say, curious that his mind went there first. “My only hard limits are bathroom stuff and weapons. Oh, and I don't want to go anywhere near your feet.”

“Jesus, I would never—”

“Yeah, yeah. I've met a lot of weirdos. So where are we doing this?”

He stands from the couch and closes the distance between you.

Towering over you, he says, “I am going to rock your world, baby. Follow me.”

You’re not sure what you expected. Scratch that – you expected he’d take you to his room. Or at least a room with a bed. Instead, he pulls you through the still-raging party, out the front door, and toward the building’s staircase.

“Where are we going?” you ask, now considering the possibility that he might be trying to kill you.

“Just wait,” he insists as you climb another four flights of stairs.

A heavy metal door swings open, revealing the New York night air. Immediately, you spot an expansive pool that spans most of the rooftop, its lights glowing in the darkness. Lounge chairs are scattered around the deck, and, of course, the most breathtaking feature is the view of the city.

The space is deserted, though you imagine anyone could wander up here at any time. That doesn’t seem to bother Dean.

“Ta-da,” he says, placing a hand on your waist and urging you forward.

“I’m not swimming,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest as your gaze wanders around the space.

The city noise isn’t so bad this high up, and as he guides you toward the edge, you realize you’re high enough that all the people below look like ants.

“Good, because I’m not paying you to swim.”

He positions himself behind you, hands braced on either side of you. Pulling your hair over one shoulder, Dean dips his head toward the curve of your neck.

“Let me guess,” you say. “You’ve always wanted to have sex up here.”

Dean scoffs.

“You underestimate me. I’ve had sex all over this building.”

You roll your eyes.

“I underestimated your little hockey fans. They let you do that in public?”

“Let me? They beg me to. But you’re the lucky one.”

He presses closer, his teeth grazing a sensitive spot on your neck and drawing a soft sound from your lips.

“Why’s that?” you ask.

“I’m never gonna fuck anyone like how I’m about to fuck you.”

His player vibes work on you, unfortunately, and you can feel your center heating up. You can feel how wet you are as your thighs rub together: “Your hour started about ten minutes ago, you know?”

“What? Are you already ready for me to be inside of you?” He lifts your dress and slides your thong down until it's wrapped around your ankles. “Spread your legs.” He says as he presses your back down, and your stomach touches the edge of the roof. 

You don’t expect his voice to sound so deep and commanding. Following his lead, you spread them for him. He inspects you, his fingers exploring over your folds. “Fuck. Me,” He whispers, and you can practically hear him biting down on his lips. He teases you, large fingers rubbing over your sensitive bud. A moment later, you’re taken aback by Dean grabbing the backs of your thighs and pressing his face into your pussy. 

“Don’t fucking move.” He slaps the back of your right thigh when you start to squirm. Tongue against your clit and nose against your aching hole, he starts to eat you. There’s no tasting or licking. Dean makes a meal out of you, “So good. So fucking good.”

“Oh my God, oh my God.” You try to keep still because every sharp movement your body makes, Dean plants a hard slap against your skin. The pressure he’s applying is completely overwhelming; you don’t think you’ve felt anything like it. Your mouth parts in a gasp as his tongue presses against your sensitive bud. Over and over and over. He sets a good rhythm. No, a perfect rhythm. Now, you have to stay still. You force yourself to stay still because your orgasm is coming quickly. “Oh, fuck, Dean!”

Your orgasm rips through you almost painfully. Dean continues to lap at you, and you’re so oversensitive that you start to close your legs. “Okay, okay, okay, please, please.” You’re begging him to stop but cumming at the same time. When he relents, your legs are shaking, and you’re trying to catch your breath. 

You scream when you feel your legs lift off the ground. “Dean!” His hands wrapped around your torso, Dean lifts you and carries you over to one of the lounge chairs by the pool. He drops you down onto your bottom as he climbs on top of you. His lips smash onto yours, and suddenly you’re tasting yourself, a reminder of how much he’s made you feel. 

He breaks the kiss only so he can focus on putting on the condom. His shirt is off, and his pants are down now, and you have a full view of how large he is. Not to mention he’s sculpted like a God. You’re not sure how well you’re going to take him; you’ve never had anyone as big as him. And your mind is still reeling from your orgasm. It’s a foreign feeling to orgasm with a partner and even more abnormal to orgasm before penetration. 

“Are you ready?”

No. 

“Yes.”

“I can fuck you as hard as I want, right?”

You find yourself doing a mental pep talk. He leans back down, condom on, and grabs your hips. He pulls you toward him in a swift movement before lifting your legs in the air. It’s almost clinical, like the way he felt your folds when you bent over. Dean holds your legs in the air as he positions himself at the entrance. 

You watch him as he pushes inside of you. You find your muscles are much more relaxed after your orgasm, and although you immediately feel full with him inside of you, it doesn’t hurt. His eyes are focused on how his own cock fits inside of you as if it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever admired. As he smirks, your head tilts back in pleasure. 

“Look at that,” He says, pushing deeper, “You’ve almost got all of me, baby. How does that feel?”

The sound you release in response comes from a place deep inside you. “Fuck.” Is all you can manage, and your hands grab hold of the soft fabric of the chair. Dean holds your legs against his shoulders as he starts to rock his hips into yours. 

“Breathe, baby, or you’ll pass out.”

“I am,” You say, although you’re not sure it’s true. You’re trying to. You really are. He’s stretching you completely, and you could feel that pressure starting to build again as he starts to pick up his pace. He tilts closer, your legs bending, and he presses his body into you. You’re trapped beneath you as he decides how much he’s giving you and how fast. 

You realize he’s been waiting all night for you. 

He squeezes your tits as he pounds into you, “Look at me.”

You hadn’t realized you weren’t. You were so focused on how he was making you feel. “Y/N, look at me while I’m fucking you.”

You listen, but seeing his eyes so focused on you sends you over the edge. “I’m cumming,” You’re whining at this point. 

“Good girl, cum for me,” He keeps his rhythm but fucks you deeper. “Look at you.”

You can’t take it. Your second orgasm is even more intense than the first. Your arms reach for his shoulders, and you push. If you could just have one second to–

“Don’t run from me.” He pins your wrists above your head, and you cry out in pleasure. “I’m not done.”

“Please, Dean, I can’t.” You squeeze around him, and for the first time, you see his composure fading. Your third orgasm comes quickly after the second, catching both of you off guard, and it’s thanks to how relentless Dean is. 

“You’re coming again? Jesus,” He grunts. By the third orgasm, tears are filling your eyes, and your body convulses beneath his. You’re squeezing him too hard. He curses as he slows and pushes into you for the last time. His moan is guttural, which is only fitting given how he fucked you like an animal. 

Dean collapses next to you on the chair. You’re crying, although it’s not from sadness. It feels like he’s altered your brain chemistry. He pulls your body into his, wrapping his arms around you, and he uses his discarded t-shirt to wipe your eyes. 

“You’re really pretty when you cum,” Dean remarks, and you allow yourself to melt into his touch. “Did you know that?”

“No, I … guess not.”

“Well, now you do.” 

A long moment of silence stretches between you, the only sounds the occasional honk of traffic below and the wind whipping across the rooftop.

“Hey.” He says softly. 

Mascara on your cheeks and an ache between your thighs, you glance at him. 

“How much for the whole night?”

I don’t know where this came from, I hope you enjoyed :)

off campus masterlist is coming, but here's my other story

house bunny

main masterlist

His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about. 

You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”

You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.

You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.

When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.

“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty. 

Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation. 

“Ready now, Bunny?”

Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”

You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”

He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”

You nodded quietly. 

“How often is he there?”

“Well, they just got back together–”

“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”

You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”

You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”

“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”

“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car. 

You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.

During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally. 

The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends? 

“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral. 

You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”

“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.” 

You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.

Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.

"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"

"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."

Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.

"Thank you so much."

"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"

"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.

Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.

"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.

Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.

Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.

"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."

"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."

You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.

He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.

"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.

"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."

"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."

You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.

"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"

"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"

"So what's your favorite movie?"

And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.

You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.

The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.

You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.

Paige: Are you still coming home tonight? Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week? Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :) Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing."

You realize Garrett has paused the movie.

You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.

"Your hands are shaking."

The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.

Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.

"What did she say?"

"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"

"Y/N."

Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.

Then he holds out his hand expectantly.

Your heart starts beating faster.

You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.

"So her boyfriend's moving in?"

"Just for the week."

"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"

You can't meet his eyes.

"It pulls out," you mumble.

"Fuck that."

"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."

"Do you even have the money to give her?"

"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"

"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."

A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.

Garrett's jaw ticks.

You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.

"Please, can we finish the movie?"

Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.

Please.

Please.

Please.

You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.

"C'mere."

His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.

You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.

His tone lightens.

"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."

"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."

"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.

You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.

It's Beth March's death that gets you.

The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.

The rolling credits are the last thing you see.

And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one? 

Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy. 

And all of your responses were the same. 

So sorry!!

Of course!! 

That’s fine!! 

I really don’t mind!!!!

His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you. 

He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir. 

Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing. 

Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.

He'd make sure this became a regular thing.

You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.

"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.

Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.

"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.

"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."

"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."

"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.

"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.

"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."

"What?" you'd asked with a smile.

"A kiss."

You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"

"Yes, genius."

"I've never kissed anyone—"

Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"

"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."

"You've never kissed someone first?"

You nodded hesitantly.

"Then let me be your first."

A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.

"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"

You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.

Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.

You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"

Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.

Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.

If there was any control you had left, you let it go.

Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.

His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.

You only tried to pull away because you needed air.

He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.

"Garrett," you breathed.

Immediately, he loosened his grip.

"Can we... I feel..."

"You feel what, Bunny?"

"Overwhelmed."

"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."

"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."

Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.

Maybe he wanted something in between.

You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.

And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?

"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"

He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.

You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.

"I like you like this."

He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.

"Like what?"

"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"

"You can't?"

"I'm crazy about you."

He kissed your cheek.

Then the other.

Teasing you.

And you found yourself melting against him.

"I hate when you leave."

"Why?"

"This feels right, doesn't it?"

A kiss against your nose.

"You with me."

Another brush of his lips.

"I think you need me."

"I do?"

He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.

"I'll take good care of you."

You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.

"You'll let me take care of you, right?"

Your lips parted.

You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.

But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.

"Yes."

A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.

"Good fucking girl."

Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.

Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.

The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.

You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.

It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.

She agrees.

She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.

Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.

And ultimately, short-lived.

A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.

Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.

So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.

Except she's nowhere to be found.

The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.

The bus isn't running anymore.

And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.

Maybe she's just busy driving.

11:20.

You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.

11:35.

Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.

11:45.

Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.

"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.

"Why are you still in the city?"

You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.

"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."

"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."

Not a question.

An observation.

"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"

"I'm sitting outside the building."

"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"

You nod before realizing he can't see you.

"Y-yes."

"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."

Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.

"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.

"Okay, Garrett."

You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.

"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."

"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."

You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.

"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."

"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."

His voice is deep and eerily controlled.

"Are you inside yet?"

The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.

"I'm inside."

"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."

"Okay. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, of course, baby."