Chapter thirteen
TATE
“Thanks for making me go,” Miles says to Corbin. “Aside from another hand injury and finding out you thought I was gay, I had a good time.”
Corbin laughs and turns to unlock our door. “It’s not exactly my fault I assumed you were gay. You never talk about girls, and you’ve apparently left sex off your schedule for six years straight.”
Corbin gets the door open and walks inside, toward his bedroom. I stand in the doorway, facing Miles.
He’s looking straight at me. Invading me. “It’s on the agenda now,” he says with a smile.
I’m an agenda now. I don’t want to be an agenda. I want to be a plan. A map. I want to be on a map to his future.
But that breaks rule number two.
Miles backs into his apartment after opening his door, and he nods his head in the direction of his bedroom.
“After he goes to sleep?” he whispers.
Fine, Miles. You can stop begging. I’ll be your agenda.
I nod before closing the door.
I shower and shave and brush my teeth and sing and put on just enough makeup to make it look like I didn’t put on any makeup at all. And fix my hair to make it look like I didn’t fix my hair at all. And put back on the same clothes I had on earlier so it doesn’t look like I changed clothes at all. But really, I changed my bra and my underwear, because they didn’t match before but now they do. And then I freak the hell out because Miles will see my bra and underwear tonight.
And possibly touch them.
If it’s part of his agenda, he might even be the one to remove them.
My phone receives a text, and the sound startles me, because a text isn’t on the agenda at eleven o’clock at night. The text is from an unrecognized number. All it says is:
Is he in his room yet?
Me: How do you have my number?
Miles: I stole it from Corbin’s phone while we were driving.
There’s a weird voice in my head, singing, “Na-na-na-na boo-boo. He stole my number.”
I’m such a child.
Me: No, he’s watching TV.
Miles: Good. I have to run an errand. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Leaving the apartment unlocked in case he goes to bed before then.
Who runs errands at eleven o’clock at night?
Me: See ya.
I stare at my last text to him and cringe. It sounds way too casual. I’m giving him the impression that I do this all the time. He probably thinks all my days go something like this:
Random guy: Tate, you want to have sex?
Me: Sure. Let me finish up with these two guys, and I’ll be right over. By the way, I don’t have any rules, so anything goes.
Random guy: Awesome.
Fifteen minutes pass, and the television finally switches off. As soon as the door to Corbin’s bedroom closes, mine opens. I’m across the living room and slipping out the front door and then bumping into Miles, who is standing in the hallway.
“Good timing,” he says.
He’s holding a bag. He moves it to his other hand so it’s not as visible to me.
“After you, Tate,” he says, pushing open his door.
No, Miles. I follow. That’s how it is with us. You’re solid, I’m liquid. You part the waters, I’m your wake.
“You thirsty?” He walks toward his kitchen, but I’m not sure if I can follow him this time. I don’t know how to do this, and I’m scared he’ll notice that I’ve never had a rule number one or two before. If the past and the future are off limits, that only leaves the present, and I have no idea what to do in the present.
I walk to the kitchen in the present. “What do you have?” I ask him.
The bag is on the counter now, and he sees me eyeing it, so he pushes it aside, out of my view.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I have it,” he says.
“Orange juice.”
He grins, then reaches toward the bag. He pulls out a container of orange juice, and the simple fact that he even thought about it is testament to his generosity. It’s also testament that it doesn’t take much to make me melt. I should tell him my one rule has just become Stop doing things that make me want to break your rules.
I take the orange juice from him with a smile. “What else is in the bag?”
He shrugs. “Stuff.”
He watches me open the juice. He watches me take a drink of the juice. He watches me put the lid back on the juice. He watches me set the juice on his kitchen counter, but he doesn’t watch me closely enough to notice how fast I can lunge for the bag.
I grab it right before his arms wrap around my waist.
He’s laughing. “Put it back, Tate.”
I open it and look inside.
Condoms.
I laugh and toss it back onto the counter. When I turn around, his arms don’t leave me. “I really want to say something inappropriate or embarrassing, but I can’t think of anything. Just pretend I did and laugh anyway.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his arms are still around me. “You’re so weird,” he says.
“I don’t care.”
He smiles. “This whole thing is weird.”
He’s telling me how weird this is, but it feels pretty damn good to me. I’m not sure if weird feels good or bad to him. “Is weird good or bad?”
“Both,” he says. “Neither.”
“You’re weird,” I tell him.
He grins. “I don’t care.”
He moves his hands up my back, to my shoulders, and slowly down my arms until his hands are touching mine.
That reminds me.
I pull his hand between us. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine,” he says.
“I should probably check it out tomorrow,” I say.
“I won’t be here tomorrow. I leave in a few hours.”
Two thoughts cross my mind. One, I’m very disappointed he’s leaving tonight. Two, Why am I here if he’s leaving tonight?
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t sleep now.”
“You didn’t even try,” I say. “You can’t fly a plane on no sleep, Miles.”
“The first flight is short. Besides, I’m copilot. I’ll sleep on the plane.”
Sleep isn’t on his agenda. Tate is.
Tate overrules sleep on his agenda.
I wonder what else Tate overrules?
“So,” I whisper as I drop his hand. I pause, because I don’t have anything to follow the So. Nothing. Not even a la-ti-do.
It’s quiet.
It’s getting awkward.
“So,” he says. His fingers move through mine and spread them apart. My fingers like his fingers.
“Do you want to know how long it’s been for me, since I know such an intimate detail about you?” I ask him.
It’s only fair, considering my entire family knows how long it’s been for him.
“No,” he says simply. “But I do want to kiss you.”
Hmm. Not sure how to take that, but I’m not about to analyze his no when it’s followed up with a statement like that.
“Then kiss me,” I say.
His fingers leave mine and move to the sides of my head, and he holds me still. “I hope you taste like orange juice again.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
I count the words in that last sentence, then search around in my head for a place to store those eight words forever. I want to hide them in a mind drawer and label it Things to pull out and read when his stupid rule number two becomes a sad and lonely present.
Miles is in my mouth. He’s invading me again. I shut the mind drawer and get out of my head and come back to him.
Invade me, invade me, invade me.
I must taste like orange juice, because he’s certainly acting as though he’s enjoying the taste. I must enjoy tasting him, too, because I’m pulling him to me, kissing him, doing my best to infiltrate him with nothing but Tate.
He pulls away to catch his breath and speak. “I forgot how good this feels.”
He’s comparing me. I don’t like that he’s comparing me to whoever else once made him feel this good.
“Want to know something?” he says.
I do. I want to know everything, but for some reason, I pick this moment to get revenge on that one word he spoke to me.
“No.” I pull him back to my mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back right away, because he doesn’t know what to think about what just happened. His mouth catches up pretty quickly, though. I think he hated my clipped response as much as I hated his, and now he’s using his hands to get his own revenge. I can’t tell where he’s touching me, because as soon as he touches me in one spot, his hands move to another. He’s touching me everywhere, nowhere, not at all, all at once.
My favorite part about kissing Miles is the sound. The sound of his lips when they close over mine. The sound of our breaths being swallowed by each other. I love the way he groans when our bodies join together. Guys usually tend to hold back their sounds more than girls do.
Not Miles. Miles wants me, and he wants me to know it, and I love that.
God, I love that.
“Tate,” he mutters against my mouth. “Let’s go to my bedroom.”
I nod, so he pulls away from my mouth. He reaches across the bar to get the box of condoms. He begins walking with me to his bedroom, but he quickly walks back into the kitchen and grabs the orange juice. When he shoulders past me to lead the way to his bedroom, he winks.
The way that one little wink makes me feel leaves me terrified about what it’ll feel like once he’s inside me. I don’t know if I can survive it.
Once we’re in his bedroom, I begin to grow apprehensive. Mostly because this is his place, and this whole situation is pretty much on his terms, and I feel a little bit at a disadvantage.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s slipping off his shoes. He walks to the bathroom and flips off the light, then closes the door.
“I just got kind of nervous,” I whisper. I’m standing in the middle of his bedroom, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. Usually, these things aren’t discussed and prearranged like this. They’re spontaneous and heated, and neither party knows what’s happening until it happens.
But Miles and I both know what’s about to happen.
He walks to the bed and sits on the edge of it. “Come here,” he says. I smile, then walk a few feet to where he’s seated. He cups the backs of my thighs, then presses his lips to the T-shirt covering my stomach. My hands fall to his shoulders, and I look down at him. He’s looking up at me, and the calmness in his eyes is contagious.
“We can go slow,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. That wasn’t one of the rules.”
I laugh, but I also shake my head. “No, it’s fine. You’re leaving in a few hours and won’t be back for, what, five days?”
“Nine this time,” he says.
I hate that number.
“I don’t want to make you wait nine days after getting your hopes up,” I say.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs and come around to the front of my jeans. He flicks the button open effortlessly.
“Being able to imagine doing this with you is in no way torture for me,” he says as his fingers touch my zipper. He begins to pull it down, and my heart is hammering away in my chest so hard it feels like it’s building something. Maybe my heart is building a stairway for himself all the way to heaven, since he knows he’ll explode and die the second these jeans slide off.
“It’ll for sure be torture for me,” I whisper.
My zipper is undone, and his hand is sliding inside my jeans. He pushes his hand around to my hip, then begins to tug them off.
I close my eyes and try not to sway, but his other hand has lifted up my shirt just enough for his lips to press against my stomach. It’s overwhelming.
Both his hands slip inside my jeans now, around to my backside. He pushes my jeans down slowly until they’re around my knees. His tongue meets my stomach, and my hands get lost in his hair.
When my jeans are finally around my ankles, I step out of both them and my shoes at the same time. His hands slide back up my thighs and to my waist. He pulls me to him so that I’m straddling him. He adjusts my legs on either side of him, then cups my rear and pulls me flush against him. I gasp.
I don’t know why it seems like I’m the inexperienced one here. I certainly expected him to be a little less take-charge, but I’m not complaining.
Not at all.
I lift my arms for him when he attempts to pull off my shirt. He throws it to the floor behind me, and his lips reconnect with mine as his hands work the clasp of my bra.
It’s not fair. I’m about to be left with one article of clothing, and he hasn’t removed anything yet.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, pulling back to slide off my bra. His fingers slip beneath the straps, and he begins to slide them down my arms. I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to take it off. I want his mouth on me so bad I can’t think straight. When the bra lowers, revealing all of me, he exhales. “Wow,” he says with shaky breath.
He tosses the bra onto the floor and looks back up at me. He smiles and briefly presses his lips to mine, kissing them softly. When he pulls back, he brings his hands up to my cheeks and looks me in the eyes. “You having fun?”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling as much as I want to smile right now. He leans forward and takes my lip into his mouth, pulling it away from my teeth. He kisses it for a few seconds, then releases it. “Don’t bite that again,” he says. “I like seeing you smile.”
Of course, I smile again.
My hands are on his shoulders, so I slide them lower on his back and begin to tug on his shirt. He releases my face and lifts his arms so I can take it off of him. I lean back and take him in, just as he’s taking me in right now. I run my hands over his chest, touching every contour of every muscle. “You’re beautiful, too.”
He presses his palms into my back, urging me to sit up straight. As soon as I do, he lowers his mouth to my breast and softly glides his tongue across my nipple. I moan, and he covers it with his mouth completely.
One of his hands moves to my hip and slides beneath the hem of my underwear. “I want you on your back,” he whispers. He keeps one hand on my back as he seamlessly switches positions, pulling me from his lap to his bed. He’s bent over me now, pulling on my underwear as his tongue dips inside my mouth. My hands immediately fall to the button on his jeans, and I unbutton them, but he pulls away quickly. “I wouldn’t do that yet,” he warns. “Otherwise this will be over faster than it started.”
I kind of don’t care how long it lasts. I just really want his clothes off of him.
He begins to slide my underwear off of me. He bends one of my legs and slips it off my foot, then does the same to the other. He’s definitely not looking me in the eyes anymore.
He allows my legs to fall back to the bed as he stands up straight and backs two feet away from me.
“Wow,” he whispers, staring down on me. He’s just standing here, staring at me as I lie naked on his bed, while he’s still in the comfort of his jeans.
“This feels a little unfair,” I say.
He shakes his head and pulls his fist against his mouth, biting his knuckles. He turns around until his back is to me and takes a long, deep breath. He faces me again, scrolling up the length of my body until he meets my eyes. “It’s too much, Tate.”
I feel the disappointment seep in with his words. He’s still shaking his head, but he’s walking to the nightstand. He picks up the box of condoms and opens it, then pulls one out and puts it between his teeth, ripping it open.
“I’m sorry,” he says, frantically stepping out of his jeans. “I wanted this to be good for you. I wanted it to be memorable, at least.” He’s out of his jeans now. He’s looking me in the eyes, but I’m finding it hard to keep eye contact with him, because now his boxers are off. “But if I’m not inside you in two seconds, this is going to be really embarrassing for me.”
He walks swiftly to me and somehow slides the condom on at the same time as he’s pushing my knees apart with his other hand. “I’ll make it up to you in a few minutes. Promise,” he says, pausing between my legs, waiting for my approval.
“Miles,” I say, “I don’t care about any of that. I just want you inside me.”
“Thank God.” He sighs. He takes my leg behind the knee with his right hand, and then his lips meet mine. He thrusts himself inside me so unexpectedly hard and fast I practically scream into his mouth. He doesn’t stop to ask me if it hurts. He doesn’t slow down. He pushes harder and deeper until there isn’t any way we could possibly get any closer.
It does hurt but in the best possible way.
I’m moaning into his mouth, and he’s groaning against my neck, and his lips are everywhere, along with his hands. It’s rough. It’s carnal and heavy and hot, and it’s not quiet at all. It’s fast, and I can tell by the tensing of his back beneath my hands that he was right. This won’t take him long.
“Tate,” he breathes. “God, Tate.”
The muscles in his legs become tight, and he begins to shake. “F*ck,” he groans. His lips press to mine, hard, and he holds himself still, despite the tremors moving throughout his legs and his back. He pulls his lips from mine and exhales a huge breath, dropping his forehead to the side of my head. “Jesus f*cking Christ,” he says, still tense. Still shaking. Still pressed deep inside me.
The second he pulls out of me, his lips are on my neck, moving down until they meet my breasts. He kisses them but only briefly before he’s back at my mouth again. “I want to taste you,” he says. “Is that okay?”
I nod.
I nod vigorously.
He pulls away from the bed, disposes of the condom, and returns to his spot next to me. I watch him the entire time, because—as much as he didn’t want to know how long it’s been since I’ve been with a guy—it’s been almost a year. That’s not anywhere near the six years he’s waited, but it’s been long enough that I don’t want to miss this by keeping my eyes closed. Especially now that I get to stare freely at that V and not have to be embarrassed by the fact that I can’t take my eyes off of him.
He’s watching my body now with the same fascination as his hand glides across my stomach, then moves down until he reaches my thighs. He pushes my legs apart as he watches what he’s doing to me with so much enthrallment I have to keep my eyes open so I can watch him watch me. Seeing what I do to him is enough of a turn-on without him even touching me.
Two of his fingers slide into me, and I suddenly find it a lot more difficult to continue watching him. His thumb remains outside me, teasing every spot it can touch. I moan and let my hands fall to the bed above my head as my eyes close.
I pray he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to stop.
His mouth meets mine, and he kisses me softly, his lips a stark contrast to the pressure of his hand. His mouth slowly begins to explore its way down my chin until it’s on my neck, the dip in my throat, trailing down my chest, covering my nipple, down my stomach, down, down, holy shit, down.
He settles himself between my legs, leaving his fingers inside me as his tongue meets my skin, separating me, causing my back to arch and my mind to let go.
I just let go.
I don’t care that I’m moaning so loudly I probably just woke up the entire floor.
I don’t care that I’m digging my heels into the mattress, trying to pull away from him because it’s too much.
I don’t care that his fingers leave me in order to grip my hips and hold me against his mouth, refusing to let me climb away from him, thank God.
I don’t care that I’m more than likely hurting him, pulling his hair, pushing him into me, doing whatever I can to reach a point so high I’m almost positive I’ve never been there before.
My legs begin to shake, and his fingers find their way back inside me, and I’m pretty sure I’m trying to smother myself with his pillow, because I don’t want to get him kicked out of this apartment building by screaming as loudly as I need to scream right now.
All of a sudden, I feel as if I’m up in the air, flying. I feel like I could look down and there would be a sunrise below me. I feel like I’m soaring.
I’m . . .
Oh, God.
I’m . . .
Jesus Christ.
I’m . . . this . . . him.
I’m falling.
I’m floating.
Wow.
Wow, wow, wow.
I never want to touch the ground again.
When I’ve completely melted to the bed, he hungrily works his mouth back up my body. He takes the pillow off my face and tosses it aside, then kisses me briefly.
“One more time,” he says. He’s off the bed and back on it in a matter of seconds, and then he’s inside me again, but I don’t even try to open my eyes this time. My arms are splayed out above my head, and his fingers are entwined with mine, and he’s pushing, thrusting, living inside me. Our cheeks are pressed together, and his forehead is against my pillow, and neither of us has the energy left to even make a sound this time.
He tilts his head until his lips meet my ear, and then he slows down to a gentle rhythm, pushing into me, then pulling completely out. He holds himself still, then pushes into me again, then pulls all the way out. He does this several more times, and all I can do is lie here and feel him.
“Tate,” he whispers, his lips close to my ear. He pulls out of me and stills himself again. “I can already say this with one hundred percent certainty.”
He thrusts back inside me.
“The.”
He pulls out, then repeats his movement again.
“Best.”
Again.
“Thing.”
Again.
“I’ve.”
Again.
“Ever.”
Again
“Felt.”
He holds himself still, breathing heavily against my ear, gripping my hands so hard they hurt; but he doesn’t make a single sound while he releases for the second time.
We don’t move.
We don’t move for a long time.
I can’t wipe the exhausted smile off my face. I’m pretty sure it’s there permanently now.
Miles pulls back and looks down on me. He smiles when he sees my face, and looking at him brings it to my attention that he never once made eye contact either time he was inside me. It makes me wonder if this was intentional or if it was just a coincidence.
“Comments?” he asks teasingly. “Suggestions?”
I laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I can’t . . . words . . .” I shake my head, letting him know I still need a little time before I can speak.
“Speechless,” he says. “Even better.”
He kisses me on the cheek, then stands up and walks to his bathroom. I close my eyes and wonder how in the hell this whole thing between us will ever end well.
It can’t.
I can already tell because I never want to do this with anyone else ever again.
Only Miles.
He walks back into the bedroom and bends down to pick up his boxer shorts. He picks up my underwear and jeans in the process and lays them on the bed beside me.
I’m guessing that’s his hint that he wants me to get dressed?
I sit up and watch as he picks up my bra and shirt and hands them to me. Every time his eyes meet mine, he smiles, but I’m finding it hard to smile back.
Once I’m dressed, he pulls me up and kisses me, then wraps his arms around me. “I changed my mind,” he says. “After this, I’m pretty sure the next nine days are going to be pure torture.”
I bite my smile, but he doesn’t notice, because I’m still wrapped in his arms. “Yep.”
He kisses me on the forehead. “Can you lock the door on your way out?”
I swallow my disappointment and somehow find the strength to smile at him when he releases me. “Sure.” I walk toward his bedroom door and hear him fall onto his bed.
I leave, not knowing what to feel. He didn’t promise me anything more than what just happened between us. We did what I willingly agreed to, which was have sex.
I just wasn’t expecting this overwhelming feeling of embarrassment. Not because of the way he dismissed me immediately after we had sex but rather for the way that dismissal made me feel. I thought I would want this to be strictly sex between us just as much as he does, but based on the beating my heart took in the last two minutes, I’m not so sure I’m capable of anything simple with him.
There’s a small voice in the back of my head, warning me to pull away from this situation before things become too complicated with him. Unfortunately, there’s a much louder voice urging me to just go for it—telling me I deserve a little fun in my life with all the work I’ve got going on.
Just thinking about how much I enjoyed tonight is enough to make me accept and even embrace his casualness afterward. Maybe with a little more practice, I can even learn how to enforce it myself.
I walk to my apartment door but pause when I hear someone speaking. I press my ear to the door and listen. Corbin is having a one-sided conversation in the living room, presumably with someone on the other end of his cell phone.
I can’t walk in now. He thinks I’m in bed.
I look back at Miles’s apartment door, but I’m not about to knock on it. Not only would that be awkward, but it would also mean he’d get even less sleep than he’s already about to get.
I walk to the elevator and decide to sit out the next half hour in the lobby, hoping Corbin will go back to his bedroom soon.
It’s ridiculous that I even feel I have to hide this from Corbin, but the last thing I want is for him to be upset with Miles. And that’s exactly what would happen.
I make it to the lobby and step off the elevator, not quite sure what I’m even doing. I guess I could go wait it out in my car.
“You lost?”
I glance over to Cap, and he’s seated in his usual spot, despite the fact that it’s almost midnight. He pats the empty chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
I walk past him to the empty chair. “I didn’t bring any food this time,” I say. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like you for your food, Tate. You’re not that good of a cook.”
I laugh, and it feels good to laugh. Things have just felt so intense for the past two days.
“How was Thanksgiving?” he asks. “Did the boy have a good time?”
I look at him and tilt my head in confusion. “The boy?”
He nods. “Mr. Archer. Didn’t he spend the holiday with you and your brother?”
I nod, understanding his question now. “Yes,” I say. I want to add that I’m pretty sure Mr. Archer just had the best Thanksgiving he’s had in more than six years, but I don’t. “Mr. Archer had a great time, I think.”
“And what’s the smile for?”
I immediately wipe away the grin I didn’t realize was plastered on my face. I scrunch up my nose. “What smile?”
Cap laughs. “Oh, hell,” he says. “You and the boy? Are you fallin’ in love, Tate?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say immediately. “It’s not like that.”
“How so, then?”
I quickly look away as soon as I feel the blush creep up my neck. Cap laughs when he sees my cheeks turn as red as the chairs we’re seated on.
“I may be old, but that don’t mean I can’t read body language,” he says. “Does this mean you and the boy are . . . what’s the term they use now? Hookin’ up? Bumpin’ uglies?”
I lean forward and bury my face in my hands. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with an eighty-year-old man.
I quickly shake my head. “I’m not answering that.”
“I see,” Cap says with a nod. We’re both quiet for a moment while we process what I more or less just told him. “Well, good,” he says. “Maybe that boy will actually smile every now and then.”
I nod in complete agreement. I could definitely use more of his smile. “Can we change the subject now?”
Cap slowly turns his head toward me and arches his bushy gray eyebrow. “I ever tell you about the time I found a dead body on the third floor?”
I shake my head, relieved that he changed the subject but confused that the subject of a dead body has somehow helped me find relief.
I’m just as morbid as Cap.