His Garden

Trigger Warning: Implied sexual assault off-page

~

~

~

~

I'm not good with people, I never have been. I don't like small talk. I don't like when people ask too many questions. I don't like... well, let's be honest here--I don't likepeople. All of this, though, does not apply to him.

Andrew.

God, Andrew.

Not Andy. Not Drew. He hates when people try to give him a nickname. And when we first met that's all I did.

Our parents met when we were seven. They worked together, and they dated in secret for a while before finally slowly integrating one into the other's lives. I didn't like Scott at first for no other reason than he wasn't my dad--who'd taken off a few years prior. At that age I was still certain my dad would come back.

He didn't.

But Scott stayed. And he was a good man. He treated my mom sweetly and respectfully, he talked to me like I wasn't just a dumb kid, and despite my aggression and coldness toward him he never faltered.

When they realized their relationship was getting more serious, they introduced us kids to each other.

Andrew was a skinny, shy, nervous kid a few months younger than myself. A mop of dark waves, pretty hazel eyes, tan skin. His mom, who'd died when Andrew was three, was a Latina, and I'd been intrigued when Scott and Andrew spoke softly to one another in Spanish as Scott tried to calm Andrew's nerves. But I couldn't let them think I was interested in them sticking around, so I was as cold to Andrew as I was to his dad. He didn't seem that interested in me, either, and stuck close to his dad. Days spent together were arranged, the four of us all went out together to museums and amusement parks, we started meeting for dinner at one another's houses, all so we could get used to being around each other.

I couldn't wait for Scott and Mom to get bored so it could go back to just being her and I.

They didn't get bored. They got married just after I turned nine.

And suddenly we were a family.

I lashed out a lot. Yelled and picked fights. Insisted Scott wouldnever be my dad. Shouted that I hated Andrew. Now, as an adult, I know this wasn't fair and it was just plain cruel. I probably knew this back then, too, but I was angry. Angry that my dad left. Angry that I suddenly had to share my safe space. Angry my mom was giving Andrew attention that should've been all mine. I was selfish.

I still remember the exact moment everything changed.

I was ten years old, and I'd been climbing the tree in the backyard. I loved that tree, and Mom was always shouting from the kitchen window to be careful. I loved seeing how far I could climb until the branches couldn't take my weight anymore, and I'd sit up there for hours, hiding from Scott and Andrew, hiding from my mom, hiding from the empty mailbox that failed to deliver me anything from my dad despite the fact that I kept sending him letters.

It had been windy that day, and it'd rained the night before, making the branches slick. I'd nearly made it to the top when my foot slipped and I fell eleven feet, landing on my arm wrong. The pain had been instantaneous and excruciating and I'd screamed louder than I ever had in my life. Andrew, who'd been sitting on the back porch silently watching me, jumped to his feet and screamed for his dad. Scott and Mom ran outside, and it was Scott who reached me first and cradled my arm, wrapped me up in his jacket, and soothed that I was okay and we were going to the hospital. He didn't let go of me once, cradled in his arms like a baby as I sobbed, Mom driving, Andrew in tears in the backseat. Scott called me "baby girl," smoothed back my hair, and kissed my head. And for the first time since my father left I felt like I had a dad.

My arm was broken, and after X-rays and medication I was still crying until Andrew crawled up into the hospital bed with me and curled up in my side, holding my uninjured hand, and I fell asleep.

Something changed that day. Scott's pure, paternal concern for me, Andrew's quiet comfort--my stupidity had bonded us.

I became softer with Scott and Andrew. I didn't treat them like invaders, I treated them like friends, and eventually like family. I helped Scott cook, he let Andrew and I sit with him and ask questions when he was working on his project car, I curled up with him during movie nights. I welcomed Andrew to play with me, taught him how to climb the tree when my arm healed, and when kids at school picked on him for his shyness and his small size I had his back.

Mom told me years later that the first time I called Scott "Dad" he'd cried that night.

But Andrew was different. He was my stepbrother, and we were growing up together, but he wasn't my brother. He was just Andrew--my Andrew. We curled up under the covers and whispered late into the night. We comforted one another when the other got in trouble. We were best friends, not siblings, and somehow that made us even closer.

As we grew we began to change, as kids tend to do.

I think I was fourteen when I noticed Andrew's gaze would linger a little too long. I was growing into myself both physically and emotionally: finally gaining breasts all the other girls at school had already seemed to grow, my hips growing, my baby fat slipping away. My sarcasm and bite remained, but I was getting softer. Especially with Andrew. Because he was growing, too, and I started noticing things: the way a cute dimple formed on only one side when he laughed, the way his warm hazel eyes lit up when he spotted me, the way his body was changing. He sprouted up when he was around fifteen, towering well over the rest of us, and he and his friends had started working out. But he was still my sweet, soft Andrew. Still shy. Still quiet. Still emotional. But he was gaining confidence, exchanging witty quips that would have us in stitches and matching my sharp words with ease.

We took care of each other. We knew things about each other no one else knew, not even our own best friends. We knew, in extensive detail, when we'd each lost our virginity. Surprisingly, Andrew had lost his first at the ripe age of eighteen--surprising only because he was so nervous and shy around other girls. I'd lost mine around twenty years old, with my first and only real boyfriend. We knew what the other liked in a relationship and during sex, we knew each other's turnoffs, kinks, and what we looked for in partners.

When Andrew found out his second girlfriend, Lauren, was cheating on him, he cried in my arms all night, and I was moved to tears by his own emotion. He'd been absolutely heartbroken, and I spent the entire night reminding him why Lauren was so fucking stupid. I brushed my fingers through his hair, rubbed his back, and kissed his head. We'd stayed up watching shitty YouTube videos to make him laugh, finally falling asleep around 3am, and when I woke up in the morning Andrew was asleep on my chest, arms wrapped around my middle. I think that was when I realized the feelings I had for him had taken root.

And then there was the time my first and only real relationship had taken a dark turn. Wyatt and I had been having sex after an argument and he was being so rough, but not in the way I liked. He was hurting me, and I begged him to stop. He didn't. He fucked me until I was in tears before leaving me alone in my apartment, and I'd fled to Andrew's place, crying and shaking and in more fear than I'd ever felt in my life. I'd never seen Andrew angry before that moment. Mild irritation, maybe, but not pure rage like the kind I'd seen in his eyes that night. He wrapped me up in his arms, safe and tight, and promised that I was safe and that he had me. He rocked me, whispered to me, and held me until I fell asleep.

Months later, I found out through Andrew's best friend, Ryan, that the next day, long after I'd gone to work, Andrew went to Wyatt's house and punched him right in the face, warning him to never come near me again. I don't know exactly what was said, Ryan wouldn't tell me and I have no idea if Andrew even knows that I know what he did, but whatever he said must have scared Wyatt shitless because he ghosted me and I never heard from him again. He never even asked for his shit back that had slowly accumulated at my place over the three years of our relationship, and Andrew and I had taken great pleasure in tossing his crap out.

I didn't date again after that. I had no desire to. Hookups, yeah, but I'd practically sworn off dating. I spent most of my time with Andrew, and during one quiet night while we were curled up in my bed he quietly asked me if I was afraid to date because of what Wyatt did. I was, at least a little bit, but I told him no. I told him I was happy where I was. Andrew knew that I was lying, because he always does, but he didn't say anything--he just took my hand.

Andrew broke up with his girlfriend, Grace, not long after the Wyatt Incident. He didn't tell me why, but I had a feeling I knew the reason.

Which is how I've ended up here, pacing the hall outside of his apartment at ten in the evening. It's been two years since the Wyatt Incident. Two years of treading lightly, two years of being a little more than friends, but not daring to take anything further.

What am I doing? I wonder for the fifteenth time, glancing down the hall towards the elevator. I should go. This feels wrong.

But Brielle's voice is in my head again. "Look," she told me last week, sipping on wine. "I saidlook, Eden." She was a little drunk. Maybe more than a little.

I laughed. "I'm looking."

"Look," she said again, and I laughed again. "Y'all have been playing this game for years. You need to just get it over with."

"What game? Get what over with?" I asked. "With who?"

"Andrew. You need to just fuck Andrew. There. Done."

I sputtered into my wine. "I--who--what?"

Brielle rolled her eyes. "Y'all need to fuck. Seriously. Do you know how annoying it is to watch y'all give those shy glances, shy smiles, those shy little touches and it not go anywhere? It was cute at first, you know? Like, 'aw, look at them, they're in love.' But I'm gettin' sick of it. You're so high strung and annoying as fuck when you're not getting pounded at least once a week, and it's been months since a guy's railed you."

"Brielle," I snapped, face burning. It wasn't the topic of sex that embarrassed me, it was who she was insinuating I should be having sexwith. "Isn't that... weird? Wrong?"

"Is what wrong?"

"Me and... Andrew."

She shrugged. "Nah. Your parents have been divorced for, what, six years? And y'all were never like siblings anyway, right?"

I tilted my wine glass around, watching the red swish slowly. "Yeah, I guess," I murmured, because she was right. Brielle's usually right, even if it's annoying.

Brielle shrugged again. "Just think about it," she said, and then she changed the topic.

So I did think about it. I thought long and hard all week. Andrew could tell something was on my mind, but I made excuses. Work. Mom's birthday approaching. Etcetera, etcetera.

But now I'm here. I've made my decision--or, at least, made the decision to talk about it.

Doubts swim. What if it's all in my head? Sure, I've known Andrew nearly my whole life, but maybe I'm just making shit up to excuse my feelings. Or what if something actually comes out of this? What will our parents say? Yes, they've been divorced for a while now, but we're still a family. I still call Scott "Dad," Andrew still calls my mom "Mom," they still call ustheir kids. We have family dinners, we go out together. What if this ruins that?

But it's too late, I'm already unlocking his door.

Andrew looks up in surprise from where he's lounged on his couch, the TV playing but his attention on his book. "Jesus, Eden," he breathes, relaxing when he sees it's just me. "You scared the shit out of me."

I relax a bit as I close and lock his door again, kicking off my flip flops. "Sorry," I chuckle, and Andrew rolls his pretty hazel eyes when he notes there's no real apology in my tone.

I enter the living room, dropping my bag on the other couch before crawling between his legs and resting my head on his chest. Andrew shifts a bit to make room and, like he always does, his hand immediately goes to my long blonde hair. Straight as a fucking ruler, but Andrew told me once that he loves my hair--loves how soft it is and that the straight strands make it easier to untangle and run his fingers through.

He returns to his book. I close my eyes and listen to the faint thudding of his heartbeat in his chest.

His smell relaxes me, some cologne I can't recall the name of mixed with the faint bourbon of his body wash and his natural scent.

We sit there in silence for some time, the TV playing faintly, the occasional turn of a page, Andrew's warm body against mine.

Finally Andrew breaks the silence, tucking my hair behind my ear tenderly and making my stomach twist. "What's on your mind, Eden?"

I have no idea how he always knows when something's eating at me. I stopped questioning it about a decade ago.

I don't answer right away. My stomach's churning in anxiety. Am I really doing this? I could say something else, tell him it's work and give him a story he'll believe. I could crush down these feelings and move on. What if this ruins the safe, comfortable bubble we're in when it's just us? What if he pulls away from me, further and further, until I lose him?

"Garden?" Andrew urges when I've been silent too long.

Garden. Like the Garden of Eden. He started calling me this in high school, and it used to annoy the fuck out of me, but now it just fills me with warmth.

The nickname calms me and I take a deep breath. "I've... been thinking."

Andrew lowers his book. "Okay," he says in a neutral, even tone that annoyingly doesn't give anything away. "What are we thinking?"

I like when he says that. We. Like we share the same brain, the same thoughts. Sometimes I think we do.

"I've been thinking," I start again. "Okay. Um..."

Andrew strokes my hair encouragingly. It gives me the strength to continue.

"Okay," I say again, feeling stupid with how messy my words are coming out. "I've been thinking that we... that things are... different."

"Different?" he parrots.

"Yeah. Different than when we were kids." I pause to pick at the drawstring of his hoodie. "We, um--we're... not just friends anymore, are we?"

Andrew's fingers still in my hair. With my head pressed against his chest, I can hear his heartbeat quicken.

"What do you mean?" Andrew whispers, but it's not confusion. It's a silent plea to continue.

Which is terrible for me, because now I have to really fucking focus on what I'm trying to communicate.

"It's... it's different now. When we cuddle like this, when we curl up in bed or we hold hands--it's not like when we were kids. It's..." I'm getting flustered now, my embarrassment translating to frustration, and I start to push myself off of Andrew. He looks up at me sharply, but I don't look at him, moving to get off of him. "Never mind. It's nothing, forget it. I should just go home."

But Andrew sits up quickly and his warm hand presses into the small of my back, keeping me in place. "Eden," he breathes, hazel eyes locked on mine. I swallow nervously. "You're right. Things are different. I... don't think we're just friends anymore."

He searches my eyes for a moment, then drops his gaze as his free hand reaches for mine. He cradles my fingers in his and a burst of electricity shoots up my arm.

"What are we, then?" I whisper, like I'm scared to hear the answer, and Andrew hesitates.

"We're just... us," he says finally, looking up at me again. "We're Eden and Andrew."

It's not really an answer, but it soothes me anyway. He's right. It's just him and I. It's always been just Eden and Andrew. No labels. No expectations.

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything at all. I lean in and I kiss him.

Andrew reacts instantly, melting against me as his warm hands press into my back and hold me closer. It's a soft, gentle kiss at first. Careful as we both test the waters. But then it gets more heated. More desperate. I don't know who deepens the kiss--it could have been me, it seems like something I'd do, but the way Andrew's kissing me like he's absolutely fucking starving and I'm his first shred of sustenance in weeks makes me think it could have been him.

I crawl onto his lap, straddling him, and Andrew's fingers tuck under my shirt and trail up my bare back.

Andrew pulls away first to breathe, pressing his forehead against mine as he gazes up at me, our chests heaving. "Eden," he whispers, reaching to tuck blonde strands behind my ear before his knuckles trail down my jaw. "I've wanted to kiss you like that foryears."

I brush his dark waves out of his face. "Why didn't you?" I whisper back.

"I didn't know if you felt the same way. You're very hard to read, you know."

I draw him close to kiss him again, and Andrew holds me closer. I rock my hips into his lap and a soft groan crawls up Andrew's throat. "What are you reading now?" I breathe against his lips.

His warm hands drift down my back, slide across my hips, and land on my thighs, squeezing lightly. "That you want to have sex," he says. In a quiet, hopeful groan he adds, "God, I hope so."

I smile into his lips. "Are you going to fuck me, Andrew?"

Andrew's hands tighten on my thighs, and then one dips further between my inner thighs and trails carefully up to a place that aches for him--though he doesn't touch, not yet. "If you'll let me," he whispers, looking up at me.

"Take me to bed," I beg. Andrew smiles at me beautifully, presses a quick kiss to my lips, and then I scramble off of him.

The second we're through his bedroom doorway he's pressing me back against the wall and his hands are on me, running over my body, his warm lips on mine again as he carefully begins to peel my shirt away from my frame. I tuck my hands under his hoodie and pull it off, our kiss breaking briefly, but the second he's free from it he dips his head to kiss me again, dark waves in his face--like he can't breathe without his lips on mine.

I love it.

I need more.

"You're beautiful," Andrew breathes into me, hands traveling and exploring my body for the first time. "You're so beautiful, Eden. My garden. My heaven."

Andrew's an artist. He can make you a picture using anything--paint, pencils, and words. He knows how to talk to me. He knows how to make me feel things I'm not scared to feel.

"I love you, Andrew," I whisper.

He melts, pulling my body against his. "Fuck. I love you. I love you, Eden." And then Andrew's voice is lower, desperate. "Bed. I need to taste you."

Oh, motherfucker.

Andrew steps out of his sweatpants as I practically fly to his bed, lying on my back and kicking off my jeans. He helps me, tugging them off gently before his fingertips tuck under the waistband of my underwear. "Is this okay, baby?" he whispers, hazel eyes searching mine for any hint of discomfort.

Baby.

"You keep calling me that and you'll get whatever you want," I tell him. Andrew laughs, the sound warm and joyous, and he leans to kiss my stomach before he carefully pulls off my underwear, his lips leaving a trail down my hip and thigh.

And then he spreads my thighs, kneeling on his bedroom floor and tugging me to the edge of the bed easily, and I feel no embarrassment whatsoever for being so exposed to Andrew for the first time. He's careful and patient. Kissing along my thighs gently, squeezing at my thighs and hips tenderly, eyes flashing up to meet mine as he silently checks in, making sure this is still okay.

It is. It is so fucking okay.

And then finally, finally, Andrew spreads me open, his gentle touch making me shiver, and he takes his tongue to me. Slow at first, watching me carefully, but when I dip my head back and moan deeply he buries his face against me and eats me out like I'm his last fucking meal. I moan again and it melts off into a whimper. I knew Andrew enjoyed eating women out a lot more than most men do, but I had no idea he was this good at it. His tongue is hot and strong, swirling and dipping like he's trying to personally explore every crevice.

Fuck... it feels so good.

I dig my fingers in his dark waves and tug, pulling him even closer, and Andrew moans into me, brows creasing a bit. He loves his hair being pulled.

"Andrew," I moan softly, and his fingers tighten on my thighs. "Fuck, Andrew..."

He pulls away a bit, dragging his tongue firmly up me, and I shudder. "You taste so fucking good, my garden," he says softly, and I don't have a chance to even think up a response before he's locked his mouth on my clit and he pulls a hand away from one of my thighs to gently and slowly push a finger in me, bottoming out at his knuckle before withdrawing just to add another finger. Andrew fucks me with his fingers carefully at first, sucking gently on my clit, and then he curls his fingers inside me to rub firmly against my inner walls.

"Fuck," I gasp, and his fingers get a little rougher, a little faster, though his mouth is incredibly gentle. I gasp and whimper, my body twisting, but Andrew remains locked on me. An orgasm is coiling in the pit of my stomach, and I didn't want to come yet, but Andrew knows this is the fastest way to make me come from oral and I find myself doing just that with a long, breathless whine. My fingers are so tight on his hair it must hurt, but Andrew doesn't show anything but genuine love as he watches me come.

He doesn't stop fingering me as the orgasm floods through me, though he does release my clit to gently kiss along my thighs. "You're so beautiful," he's whispering against my skin. "You're so beautiful. You look so pretty coming on me, my heaven."

Shit, those words.

Andrew seems to know exactly when my orgasm has fizzled out, and he removes his fingers from me and immediately sticks them in his mouth, sucking up every bit of me he can with a soft groan. "God, you taste so good."

"If I'd known you gave head like that I would've gotten the balls to talk to you a lot sooner," I breathe, staring up at the ceiling. Andrew laughs, pushing himself to his feet, and he trails gentle kisses up my body. He spends ample time on my thighs, and even more time on my breasts, gently kissing and kneading the soft flesh and sucking softly at my nipples as I hum in appreciation. He reaches my neck, lapsing his hot tongue against my skin. And then Andrew's kissing me, pressed between my legs, and I moan softly as I grasp at his face and hold him closer, the taste of myself on his tongue so erotic in a way I can't even begin to explain.

I thought I needed a minute to breathe after such an amazing orgasm following the equally amazing head I just recieved. But I need him. I need him now.

"Fuck me, Andrew," I breathe into his mouth. "Please, fuck me, baby."

He doesn't say anything. Just smiles into our kiss, tucks his arm under my thigh so he can cradle my hip in his warm hand, and with his opposite hand he guides himself into me.

We moan and gasp in unison as he pushes deeper. Fuck, he feels so good. I don't know if it's my horniness, the sexual tension between us the last few years, or if he justfeels that good, but I'm certain right now I've never had better dick.

"Shit," Andrew groans, dropping his head to my shoulder, and I bury my hands in his hair and tug lightly, making him moan softly. "Shit, baby. You feel so fuckin' good."

"I love you," I breathe because it's the only thing I can think to say with his dick buried in me. "I love you, Andrew."

He pulls himself from my shoulder to kiss me. Not desperate and hot--gentle and sweet. "I love you, my garden."

And then Andrew's moving, drawing his hips back, pushing back into me. He's careful, slow, taking his time, watching for any signs of discomfort or a sudden change of heart. I know he's remembering that last night I saw Wyatt, when I came to his door shaking and crying, betrayed by my own boyfriend.

But I have no intention of stopping this. I don't want it to stop.

So I grab at Andrew's face and tug him close, crashing our lips together. Immediately Andrew's energy shifts, no longer cautious. Because Andrew knows me. He knows what I like, despite the fact that we've never even come close to fucking before. He's driving into me harder now with long, deep strokes, pulling out almost completely each time just to bury himself in me again sharply. God, it feels so good. I don't think sex has ever felt this good before.

Andrew's lips leave mine and immediately connect with my neck, gently tugging my skin between his teeth to suck at the delicate flesh lightly. I moan a whorish moan as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and thread my fingers within his dark curls, tugging roughly. Andrew groans against my neck.

The soft noise undoes me and I can feel a second orgasm shoot through me before I've even realized one was approaching. I whimper and whine, my body tensing under his, and Andrew groans into my neck again.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes, trailing tender kisses up to my ear. I shudder with another soft whine. "There you go. You feel so fucking good, Eden. There you go, baby. I have you."

I can't. I fucking can't with those words. He knows just how to talk to me.

And he doesn't stop fucking me, either. His thrusting slows, but he keeps driving into me, aiding me through my orgasm and dragging it out.

"You're so beautiful, my garden. My heaven," Andrew whispers as his hand squeezes my hip lightly. "You're so fucking beautiful."

"More," I beg weakly, the only cognitive thought I can form. I want more. I need more.

Andrew kisses me again, pushing into me as deep as he can and dragging another whine out of me. And then he pulls away completely and taps my ass lightly. "Up," he says. "On your stomach."

I obey immediately, willing my limbs to move sluggishly as I roll over. I start to prop my knees up into doggy-style, but Andrew's gentle hands catch my legs and he tugs lightly, flattening me on his bed. Then he climbs on top of me and secures my thighs between his. He doesn't enter me again right away, kissing along my spine tenderly until he reaches my shoulder. His fingers brush my blonde hair out of his way before he kisses my neck, then the tip of my ear, making me shudder. His warm hands drift across my ass, my sides, my back--gently squeezing.

"I'm going to fuck you now, Eden," Andrew whispers against my ear, eliciting another needy whine from yours truly.

"Please," I beg.

Andrew kisses the side of my head and then his fingers weave into my hair, gripping at the roots. He tugs and the soft gasp I release morphs into a moan.

Fuck, yes.

He guides himself back into me and pushes in slowly. Andrew fucks me for a second, deep but careful, and then he shifts and his hand in my hair tightens and his free hand raises to lace over mine, pinning it into the mattress.

And then Andrew is fucking me.

Really fucking me.

My entire body jerks with each powerful thrust and I can't stop the soft cries and moans that tear from my chest. It feels so good, and being pinned down with my hair being pulled just makes it ten times better. Andrew's grunts flood my ears, the sound deep and hot. He fucks me like he's an animal driven by primal instinct. He fucks me like it's the end of the world and it's the last time he'll ever fuck me. I know it won't be. I'm addicted to him now. I never want him to stop.

"Fuuuck..." I whine, feeling another orgasm coiling in the pit of my stomach.

Andrew's breath is on my ear again. "You gonna come for me, Eden?" he whispers, making me whimper. "You gonna be a good girl and come for me?"

"Yesss..." I whine. Almost there. I'm almost there.

"Come on me, baby. I wanna feel you. Be a good girl and come on my dick."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

My entire body ripples with shudders as I come for a third time, a weak, exhausted gasp crawling up my throat.

"There you go," Andrew purrs, pounding into me harder, dragging out my blissful moment. "That's it, baby. God, I love feeling you come on me. There you go, baby. Let it out."

"Andrew..."

He kisses my neck, the action far too gentle and sweet for what he's doing to my body. To what he's whispering in my ear. It's so strange to see--to feel--my sweet, soft Andrew this way. Rough. Dominant. To feel his hand twisted up in my hair and tugging sharply with each pound into me, to feel his other hand gripping mine and pining it into his mattress, to feel him suck so hard on my neck that I swear I see stars. If I couldn't hear his voice whispering in my ear, I'd swear this isn't my Andrew at all.

"Fuck, Eden..." he groans suddenly. "Fuck, baby..." He drops his head to my shoulder and his hand in my hair gets a bit tighter, making me whimper softly. "I'm gonna come, baby. Where do you--"

"In me," I gasp desperately. "In me. Please, baby. Please, Andrew."

Andrew doesn't ask me if I'm sure--either because he doesn't have the time to before he reaches his finish line or because he knows I'm on birth control, I'm not sure.

He grunts and groans as he releases in me, hands tight in my hair and on my hand, slamming into me so sharply it hurts a bit, but the pleasure far outweighs the pain. I cry out and whimper weakly as Andrew drives into me as deep as he possibly can one last time before his breath shudders and he stills, his muscles relaxing.

Our panting is the only sound in the air, and Andrew carefully lowers himself until he's practically crushing me with his weight, his grip on me loosening significantly but not releasing me, his face buried in my neck as his hot breath tickles my skin. I shudder softly with a whimper and Andrew kisses at my neck.

"You okay, baby?" he murmurs into my neck.

"So good," I whisper back, leaning my head into his as I close my eyes, my body still buzzing. "I'mso good."

Andrew only responds with a hum.

We lay like that for a while. I'm not even sure how long. Eventually, though, my skin begins to blossom with goosebumps and Andrew's getting a bit heavier--I think he's falling asleep.

I nudge his head gently. "I'm tired, baby," I murmur.

Andrew hums again, but this time he moves, pushing off of me carefully. He's long since softened and he slips away from me easily before he stands, stumbling a bit, and I sluggishly roll over to crawl under his covers.

"Underwear?" Andrew asks in his sleepy, deep voice that never fails to make my stomach twist.

I shake my head. "Just hold me," I whisper, my eyes already closing against my will.

Andrew obeys, slipping under the covers with me and wrapping me up warm and tight with his fingers going to my hair as he untangles the blonde strands carefully.

"I love you," I mumble.

I manage to catch his soft, "I love you, my garden," just before sleep pulls me under.