Chapter nineteen
TATE
It’s Thursday.
Game night.
Normally, the sound of their Thursday-night game gets under my skin. Tonight it’s music to my ears, knowing that Miles should be home. I have no idea what to expect from him or this arrangement we’ve got going on. I haven’t texted or spoken to him in the five days since he’s been gone.
I know that with as much as I’m thinking about him, I shouldn’t be doing this. For something that’s supposed to be a casual thing, it’s felt anything but casual. For me, it’s been extremely involved. Intense, even. He’s pretty much all I’ve thought about since that night in the rain, and it’s quite pathetic that I’m reaching for the doorknob to walk inside my apartment and my damn hand is shaking, knowing he might be in there.
I open the door to the apartment, and Corbin is the first to look up. He nods but doesn’t even say hi. Ian waves from his seat on the couch, then looks back at the TV.
Dillon’s eyes roam up and down my body, and I do what I can to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
Miles doesn’t do anything, because Miles isn’t here.
My whole body sighs from disappointment. I drop my purse onto the empty chair in the living room and tell myself it’s a good thing he isn’t here, because I’ve got way too much homework to do anyway.
“There’s pizza in the fridge,” Corbin says.
“Nice.” I walk into the kitchen and open the cabinet to remove a plate. I hear footsteps closing in on me, and my heart rate kicks up a notch.
A hand touches me on my lower back, and I immediately smile and turn around to face Miles.
Only it isn’t Miles. It’s Dillon.
“Hey, Tate,” he says, reaching around me to the cabinet. The hand that first touched my lower back is still on me, but now that I’ve turned to face him, his hand has slid to my waist. He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he reaches past me and opens the cabinet. “Just need a cup for my beer,” he says, excusing the fact that he’s right here. Touching me. His face only inches from my face.
I hate that he saw me smiling when I turned around. I just gave him the wrong idea.
“Well, you won’t find a cup in my pocket,” I say, pushing his hand off of me. I look away from Dillon just as Miles steps into the kitchen. His eyes are burning holes into the part of me that Dillon was just touching.
Miles saw Dillon’s hand on me.
Miles is looking at Dillon now as if he just committed murder.
“Since when do you drink beer from a cup?” Miles says.
Dillon turns around and looks at Miles, then glances back to me and smiles a very blatant, flirtatious smile. “Since Tate was standing so close to the cabinet.”
Shit. He’s not even hiding it. He thinks I’m into him.
Miles walks to the refrigerator and opens it. “So Dillon. How’s your wife?”
Miles doesn’t make an attempt to remove anything. He’s just standing there, staring into the refrigerator, with his fingers gripping the door handle harder than it’s ever been gripped, I’m sure.
Dillon is still looking at me, staring down at me. “She’s at work,” he says pointedly. “For at least four more hours.”
Miles slams the refrigerator and takes two quick steps toward Dillon. Dillon stands up straight, and I immediately scoot two feet away from him. “Corbin specifically instructed you to keep your hands off his sister. Show him some f*cking respect!”
Dillon’s jaw twitches, and he doesn’t back down or look away from Miles. In fact, he takes a step toward him, closing the space between them. “Sounds to me like this isn’t really about Corbin,” Dillon says, seething.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel guilty that I gave Dillon the wrong idea and even guiltier that they’re arguing about it now. But dammit, I love that Miles hates him so much. I just wish I knew if it was because he doesn’t like that Dillon is flirting when he’s got a wife at home or if he doesn’t like that Dillon is flirting with me.
And now Corbin is standing in the doorway.
Shit.
“What isn’t really about me?” Corbin asks, watching the two of them in their standoff.
Miles backs up a step and turns so that he can face Dillon and Corbin at the same time. His eyes remain locked hard with Dillon’s. “He’s trying to f*ck your sister.”
Jesus Christ, Miles. Ever hear of sugarcoating?
Corbin doesn’t even flinch. “Go home to your wife, Dillon,” he says firmly.
As embarrassing as this is, I don’t do anything to step in and defend Dillon, because I get the feeling that Miles and Corbin have been looking for an excuse to defriend him for a while now. I would also never defend a man who has no respect for his marriage. Dillon stares at Corbin for several painstakingly long seconds, then turns to face me with his back to both Miles and Corbin.
This boy seriously has a death wish.
“I live in ten-twelve,” he whispers with a wink. “Stop by sometime. She works weeknights.” He turns away and walks between Corbin and Miles. “The two of you can go f*ck yourselves.”
Corbin turns, and his fists are clenched. He begins to stalk after Dillon, but Miles grabs his arm and pulls him back into the kitchen. He doesn’t release Corbin’s arm until the front door slams shut.
Corbin turns to face me, and he looks so angry I’m surprised steam isn’t coming from his ears. His face is red, and he’s popping his knuckles. I forgot how insanely protective he is of me. I feel like I’m fifteen again, only now I suddenly have two overprotective brothers.
“Erase that apartment number from your head, Tate,” Corbin says.
I shake my head, somewhat disappointed that he would even think I’d want to remember Dillon’s apartment number. “I have standards, Corbin.”
He nods, but he’s still making an attempt to calm himself down. He inhales a deep breath, pops his jaw, then walks back into the living room.
Miles is leaning against the counter, staring down at his feet. I watch him silently until he finally raises his eyes and looks up at me. He glances toward the living room, then kicks off the counter and walks toward me. Every step closer he takes, the more I press myself into the counter behind me, making an attempt to back away from the intensity in his eyes, even though I can’t very well go anywhere.
He reaches me.
He smells good. Like apples. Forbidden fruit.
“Ask me if you can study at my place,” he whispers.
I nod, wondering why in the hell he would make such a random request after everything that just happened. I do it anyway, though. “Can I study at your place?”
He breaks out into a huge grin and drops his forehead to the side of my head so that his lips are directly over my ear. “I meant for you to ask me in front of your brother,” he says, laughing quietly. “So I have an excuse to get you over there.”
Well, that’s embarrassing.
Now he knows exactly how much I’m not Tate when I’m near him. I’m only liquid. Conforming. Doing what he asks, doing what I’m told, doing what he wants me to do.
“Oh,” I say quietly as I watch him ease away from me. “That makes a lot more sense.”
He’s still smiling, and I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing that smile. He should smile all the time. Forever. At me.
He walks out of the kitchen and heads back to the living room, so I go to my room and shower in record time.
? ? ?
I didn’t realize I was such a good actress.
I had practice, though. Five minutes of practice. I stood in my room, trying to think of the best, most casual line for when I walked into the living room to ask Miles for his key. I decided to wait until a particularly loud moment during the game, and then I burst out of the room and yelled at all of them.
“You guys either need to mute the damn TV or go watch it next door, because I’m trying to study!”
Miles looked at me and tried to hide his smile. Ian looked at me with suspicion, and Corbin rolled his eyes. “You go next door,” Corbin said. “We’re watching the game.” He looked at Miles. “She can use your place, right?”
Miles stood up immediately and said, “Sure. I’ll let her in.”
I grabbed my things, followed him out of my apartment, and now here we are.
Miles opens his apartment door for me, even though it isn’t locked. Corbin doesn’t know that, though. He walks inside, and I slip in behind him. He shuts the door, and we turn and face each other.
“I really do have homework,” I say. I don’t know what he’s expecting to happen right this second, but I feel like I need to let him know that just because he shows up after a few days away, that doesn’t mean he’s my number one priority.
Even though he pretty much is.
“I really do have a game to watch,” he says, pointing over his shoulder at my apartment but walking toward me at the same time. He takes my books out of my hands and walks with them to the table, where he sets them down. He starts walking back toward me and doesn’t stop until his lips are pressed to mine and we can’t walk any farther because my back is against the apartment door.
His hands are gripping my waist, and mine are gripping his shoulders. His tongue slides between my lips and into my mouth, and I take it, very willingly. He groans and presses himself against me as my hands slide up his neck and through his hair. He pulls away just as fast and steps back several feet.
He’s looking at me like it’s somehow my fault that he has to leave. He runs two frustrated palms down his face and releases a deep breath. “You didn’t get to eat earlier,” he says. “I’ll bring you some pizza.” He walks back toward me, and I step aside without responding. He opens the door and disappears.
He’s so weird.
I walk to the table and begin to lay everything out that I need in order to study. I’m pulling out my chair to sit when his apartment door flies open again. I turn around, and he’s walking toward the kitchen with a plate in his hands. He puts the pizza in his microwave, presses a few buttons and starts it, and then heads straight toward me. He’s doing that intimidating thing again that makes me naturally back away from him, but his table is behind me, and I can’t go anywhere.
He reaches me and quickly presses his lips to mine. “I have to go back over there,” he says. “You good?”
I nod.
“You need anything?”
I shake my head.
“There’s juice and bottled water in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
He kisses me briefly again before he releases me and walks out the door.
I fall into my chair.
He’s so nice.
I could get used to this.
I pull my notebook in front of me and begin studying. About half an hour passes, and then I get a text from him.
Miles: How’s the homework going?
I’m reading the text on my phone, smiling like an idiot. He goes nine days without seeing or texting me, and now he’s texting me from twenty feet away.
Me: Good. How’s the game going?
Miles: Halftime. We’re losing.
Me: Bummer.
Miles: You knew I didn’t have cable.
Me: ???
Miles: Earlier, when you yelled at us. You told us to go to my place to watch the game, but you already knew I didn’t have cable. I think Ian’s suspicious now.
Me: Oh, no. I didn’t think about that.
Miles: It’s cool. He’s just giving me looks, like he knows something is up. Honestly, I don’t care if he knows. He knows everything else about me.
Me: I’m surprised you didn’t tell him already. Don’t all guys kiss and tell?
Miles: Not me, Tate.
Me: I guess you’re the exception. Now leave me alone, I have to study.
Miles: Don’t come back until I come tell you the game is over.
I lay my phone down on the table, unable to wipe the grin from my face.
? ? ?
An hour later, the door to his apartment opens. I look up, and he walks in, shuts the door, and casually falls against it. “Game’s over,” he says.
I drop my pen. “Perfect timing. I just finished my homework.”
His eyes fall to my books, spread out across the table. “Corbin’s probably expecting you.”
I don’t know if that’s his way of telling me I should leave or if he’s just making conversation. I stand up anyway and begin to gather my books, attempting to hide the disappointment on my face.
He walks straight to me and takes the books out of my hands, setting them back down. He gives them a shove, sliding them a foot away, and then he grabs my waist and pushes me onto the table.
“That doesn’t mean I want you to leave,” he says firmly, looking me hard in the eyes.
I don’t smile this time, because he just made me nervous again. Every time he looks at me with this much intensity, I get nervous.
He slides me to the very edge of the table and stands between my legs. His hands are still on my waist, but his lips are now on my jaw. “I was thinking,” he says softly, his breath caressing my neck, covering me in chills. “About tonight and how you’ve been in class all day.” He slides his hands beneath me, lifting me off the table. “And how you work all weekend, every weekend.” My legs are wrapped around him now. He’s carrying me to his bedroom.
Now he’s laying me on his bed.
Now he’s on top of me, brushing my hair back, looking me in the eyes. “And I realized that you never have a day off.” His mouth is back to my jaw again, kissing it softly between each sentence. “You haven’t had a day off since Thanksgiving, have you?”
I shake my head, not understanding why he’s talking so much but loving it just the same. His hand slides up under my shirt, and his palm meets my stomach, continuing upward until he’s cupping my breast. “You must be really tired, Tate.”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
I’m lying.
I’m exhausted.
His lips leave my neck, and he looks me in the eyes. “You’re lying,” he says, brushing his thumb over the thin layer of bra covering my nipple. “I can tell you’re tired.” He lowers his mouth until it’s pressed against mine so softly I barely even feel it. “I just want to kiss you for a few minutes, okay? Then you’re going to leave and go get some rest. I don’t want you to think I expect something just because we’re both home.”
His mouth touches mine again, but his lips can’t compare to what his words do to me. I never knew thoughtfulness could be such a turn-on.
But oh, my God. It’s so hot.
His hand slides beneath my bra, and his mouth invades me. Every time his tongue caresses mine, it makes my head spin. I wonder if that will ever get old.
I know he said he just wanted to kiss me for a few minutes, but his definition of kiss and my definition of kiss are written in two different languages. His mouth is everywhere.
So are his hands.
He pushes my shirt up above my bra, pulling one side of it down until my breast is exposed. He teases me with his tongue, looking up at me while he does it. His mouth is warm, and his tongue is even warmer, causing soft whimpers to escape from me.
He runs his hand down my stomach and lifts slightly off of me, holding his weight up on his elbow. His hand trails over my jeans until he reaches the insides of my thighs. He runs his fingers against the material between my legs, and I let my head fall back and my eyes close.
Good Lord, I love his version of kissing.
He begins to rub his hand over me, pressing firmly against my jeans until my entire body is silently begging for him. His mouth is no longer on my breast. It’s on my neck now, and he’s kissing, nibbling, sucking, all in one spot, as if he’s trying to brand me.
I’m trying to be quiet, but it’s impossible when he’s creating this amazing friction between us. But that’s fine, because he’s not being quiet, either. Every time I moan, he groans or sighs or whispers my name. Which is why I’m being so loud, because I love his sounds.
Love them.
His hand quickly moves to the button on my jeans, and he unbuttons them, but he doesn’t switch positions or move away from my neck. He pulls my zipper down and slides his hands on top of my panties. He resumes the same movements, only this time they’re a million times more intense, and I can instantly tell he isn’t going to have to do it for much longer.
My back arches off the bed, and it takes all I have not to pull away from his hand. It’s as if he knows exactly the right places to touch that will make me react.
“Christ, Tate. You’re so wet.” Two of his fingers pull my panties aside. “I want to feel you.”
And that’s it.
I’m a goner.
His finger slips inside me, but his thumb remains outside, coaxing moans and oh, my Gods and don’t stops out of me like I’m a broken record. He kisses me, swallowing all my sounds while my body begins to tremble beneath his hand.
The sensation lasts so long and is so intense I’m afraid to let go of him when it’s over. I don’t want his hand to leave me. I want to fall asleep like this.
I’m completely still, but we’re both breathing so heavily we’re unable to move. His mouth is still on mine, and our eyes are closed, but he’s not kissing me. After a few moments, he finally pulls his hand out of my pants, then zips and buttons them back up. When I open my eyes, he’s slowly sliding his fingers out of his mouth with a grin.
Holy shit.
I’m so glad I’m not standing up right now, or seeing him do that would have made me fall straight to the floor.
“Wow,” I say as I exhale. “You’re pretty damn good at this.”
He smiles even wider. “Why, thank you,” he says. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Now, go home and get some sleep, girl.”
He begins to lift off the bed, and I grab his arms and pull him back down. “Wait,” I tell him. I push him onto his back and slide on top of him. “That’s not really fair to you.”
“I’m not keeping score,” he says, rolling me onto my back. “Corbin’s probably wondering why you’re still over here.” He stands up and grabs my wrists to pull me up with him. He pulls me against him close enough for me to tell he isn’t at all ready for me to leave yet.
“If Corbin says anything, I’ll just tell him I didn’t want to leave until I was finished with my homework.”
Miles shakes his head. “You need to go back, Tate,” he says. “He thanked me for protecting you from Dillon earlier. How do you think he’d feel if he knew I only did that because I was being selfish and wanted you all to myself?”
I shake my head. “I don’t care how he’d feel. It’s not his business.”
Miles brings his hands to my cheeks. “I care. He’s my friend. I don’t want him to find out what a hypocrite I am.” He kisses my forehead and pulls me out of the bedroom before I can respond. He gathers my books and hands them to me when I reach the front door, but before I walk out, he grabs my elbow and stops me. He’s staring down at me, but there’s something else in his expression this time.
Something in his eyes that isn’t desire or want or disappointment or intimidation. It’s something unspoken. Something he wants to say to me that he’s too afraid to say.
His hands cup my cheeks, and he presses his mouth to mine so hard I hit the frame of the door behind me.
He kisses me so possessively and desperately it would make me sad if only I didn’t love it so much. He inhales deeply and pulls away, exhaling slowly, staring me hard in the eyes. He drops his hand and steps back, waiting for me to step into the hallway before he closes his door.
I have no idea what that was, but I need more of it.
I somehow make my legs move, and I walk into Corbin’s apartment. Corbin isn’t in the living room, so I set my books down on the counter.
I hear Corbin’s shower running.
Corbin’s in the shower.
I immediately walk out the door and back across the hall and knock. His door swings open so quickly it’s as if Miles was still standing in the same spot. He glances over my shoulder at my apartment door.
“Corbin’s in the shower,” I say.
Miles looks back at me, and before I think he even has time to process my words, he’s pulling me inside his apartment. He slams the door shut and shoves me against it, and once again, his mouth is everywhere.
I waste no time, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down several inches. His hands take over and pull my pants down completely, along with my underwear. As soon as he slides my feet out of them, he’s urging me toward his kitchen table. He spins me around, positioning me until I’m leaning across the table on my stomach.
He reaches between my legs, spreading them farther apart while freeing himself from his jeans. Both of his hands move to my waist and grip tightly. He steadies himself against me and then carefully eases himself inside me. “Oh, God,” he groans.
I press my palms flat out on the table. There’s nothing to grab hold of, and I desperately need to grab something.
He leans forward, pressing his chest against my back. His breaths are heavy and hot and crashing against my skin. “I have to get a condom.”
“Okay,” I breathe out.
He hasn’t backed away yet, though, and my body naturally wants to take him in the rest of the way. I press myself against him, pushing him further inside me, causing him to dig his fingers into my hips so hard I wince.
“Don’t, Tate.”
His voice is a warning.
Or a dare.
I do it again, and he groans, quickly pulling out of me completely. His hands are still digging into my hips, and he’s still pressed against me—he’s just no longer inside me.
“I’m on the pill,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move.
I close my eyes, needing him to do something. Anything. I’m dying here.
“Tate,” he whispers. He doesn’t follow it up with anything. We stand quietly still, with him in the same position, poised right outside me.
“Dammit.” He releases my waist and finds my hands palms-down on the table. He slides his fingers through mine and squeezes, then buries his face against my neck from behind me. “Brace yourself.”
He slams into me so unexpectedly I scream. One of his hands leaves mine, and he brings it to my mouth and covers it. “Shh,” he warns. He holds still, giving me a moment to adjust to him inside me.
He pulls out with a moan and slams into me again, causing me to yell out once more. His hand muffles my noises this time.
He repeats his movements.
Harder.
Faster.
He’s grunting with every thrust, and I’m making noises I didn’t even know I could make. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.
I didn’t know it could be this intense. This raw. This animalistic.
I lower my face and press my cheek against the table.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I let him f*ck me.
? ? ?
It’s quiet.
It’s so quiet, and I don’t know if it’s because we were both so loud just a few seconds ago or if he just needs a minute to recover.
He’s still inside me, but he’s finished. He’s just not moving. One of his hands is still covering my mouth, the other still squeezing my fingers. His face is still buried against my neck.
But he’s so incredibly still I’m afraid to move. I don’t even feel him breathing.
The first thing to move is his hand, away from my mouth. He unlocks his fingers from mine and straightens them, pulling them slowly apart from mine. He presses both palms against the table and lifts his face away from my neck. He pulls out of me without a sound.
It’s still too quiet, so I don’t move.
I hear him as he pulls his pants back into position and zips them.
I hear his footsteps as he walks away.
He’s walking away.
His bedroom door slams shut, and I flinch. My cheek and palms and stomach are still flat against his table, but now so are my tears.
They’re falling.
Falling, falling, falling, and I can’t stop them.
I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed. I don’t have a clue what the hell is wrong with him, but I have too much pride and too little courage to go find out.
This felt like an end. I’m not sure I was ready for this to be the end. I’m not sure I was ready for there ever to be an end, and I hate myself for allowing my feelings to get to that point.
I’m also angry because here I am, standing in his apartment, looking for my pants, trying to stop my ridiculous tears, still feeling the remnants of him sliding down my leg, and I have no f*cking clue why he had to ruin it.
Ruin me.
I finish getting dressed, and I leave.