I pass my couch and flip the TV on. I need sound. I always need sound.
I need Gunner Bishop.
Griffin’s name fills my living room within a second of the TV powering up. I didn’t even have to search for the channel, it’s right there, and though hearing them say his name makes me scowl, it also makes my heart thud with nerves.
I pass the little red sweater, folded and neat on the arm of the couch, and yearn for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
I don’thaveto spend the next twenty years hugging a sweater and mourning. If I could let go of my pride and go to him, I could hug the real thing. And he’d have me. He already promised he would.
I pass my couch and move into the hall, and with the intention of tossing my belt onto my dresser to declare today done, I swing the door wide, only to scream like a total idiot at the broad man that sits on the edge of my bed.
I’m supposed to be a cop, a hardened officer who absolutely doesn’t scream or – worse yet – toss my damn belt and everything strapped into it at my intruder. But that’s what I do. I toss my shit and scream, and when those blue eyes come up and meet mine, I scream for a whole other reason and throw myself into Gunner’s lap.
I wrap my arms and legs around his body, and as I squeeze, my heart gives that final twist that the sweater tried to achieve in the living room.
“I was gonna come to you.” Traitorous tears slide over my cheeks as I squeeze him tight and press kisses to his face. His forehead. His cheeks. His nose. His lips.
Gunner’s hands mold to my ass, kneading, demanding, as his heart pounds just as violently as mine does.
“I was going to pack a bag and come to you.”
“You were?” His breath comes in heavy pants. He was sitting when I arrived, unmoving, but he pants now as though he’s run a race. From passiveness where he accepted my kisses, to taking control and kissing me back, his hands race away from my hips, only to stop on my face and hold me prisoner. “You were gonna come to me? You swear?”
“Yes.” I kiss his lips once. Twice. A dozen times. “Yes, I wasn’t gonna make it another night. I was choosing between your sweater or you.”
“Both.” He grunts as I move in his lap and grind over his erection. “You can have both. I’m sorry I left.”
“It’s okay. We can make it work, okay? I’ll come with you.” I kiss him again. And again. And again. “You don’t have to give up Griffin for me. I’ll come with you.”
“Really?” He pulls back. “Because I already packed my shit and moved in.” He lifts his chin toward a black duffel unlike the fancy suitcases he had last time.
When he first came to town, he was here as Theo Griffin. Fancy suitcases, fancy suits, fancy watch and laptops. But this time, he’s wearing jeans, his things are in a duffel bag, and his beloved cell phone is nowhere in sight.
“I choose you, Lib. The rest can go to shit. I’ll find someone to run Griffin for me. I can share that, but I can’t share you.”
“Oh God.” I whimper when he pushes up and grinds against my most sensitive place. My most neglected place. “We’ll make it work. I promise.” I hurriedly unbutton his shirt and push it back to reveal strong shoulders.
Our lips slide together, our tongues duel, and our teeth clash, but he smiles and goes to work on my shirt. “It’s fun to fuck you, Libby. It might be my most favorite way to pass time, but this uniform is giving me the heebie-jeebies.” He rebelliously tears my shirt open, his mutiny against the job I chose so many years ago.
Hecouldhave unfastened the buttons. Hecouldhave been gentle, but he’d rather make a statement and tear it open to show who’s in charge and where he stands on his love for the police.
He pushes my shirt back so my arms tangle in the fabric, then he tears my bra down and pops a breast free. My spine is arched, my tits presented in offering, and hungrily, he takes one between his lips until I cry out.
The past week felt far longer than the last twenty years. How is that possible?
Because I was living without the one person I can’t survive without. Before his re-emergence in my life, I didn’t have a choice. He was dead, and the only option I had was to live without him… or die. But this week, I found out he was alive. I learned he was within reach.
“I love you, Gunner. I don’t wanna be stubborn anymore. I want you.”
“Thank God.” He lifts me with one fast movement, flips us, and slams me onto the bed with such power that the oxygen in my lungs races out and leaves me empty.
I gasp for air as though I’ve just broken the surface of a lake, but then he’s here, his chest presses to mine, his hands are all over my body. His legs rest between mine, his lips control mine. There’s nowhere for me to turn. Nothing to see but him. There’s nowhere to go. So I let him control me the way we both know he needs to.
He unbuttons my pants as easily as he did our first time. One fast flick, the zipper follows, and then he tugs them down and doesn’t stop until they tangle on my boots. I expect him to release me. My arms are still caught in the fabric of my shirt, and now my ankles are bound, but he shows me no mercy. Instead, he sits back on his haunches and looks down at my mostly naked body.
He’s dressed. Fully clothed, fully in control. And when he gets his fill and realizes the power imbalance, his lips creep up into that same grin I remember from forever ago.
I was in love with this boy when I was just nine years old. I didn’t know it was possible, I didn’t know what it meant, but it was as factual then as it is now. And it’s the very reason I’ve been so closed off my entire life.