He pulls away from me only long enough to tear his shirt over his head, revealing his hard, muscled chest, and I barely stop my mouth from dropping open. His hands move around my waist again and I glance up at him, taking in the sharp, angular lines of his impossibly handsome face. His dark eyes glitter as he reaches for me, pushing my hair away from my face. “You’re so beautiful, Charlotte,” he whispers just before he kisses me.
He turns and sets me delicately onto the edge of the bed, and I bite the corner of my mouth. I reach up and touch his stomach, his abs firm. He tilts my chin upward, brushing his thumb over my lips, and lowers himself to kiss me. I close my eyes, his lips soft and slow at first, like they are remembering what I feel like, what I taste like. “I’ve missed you,” he says again, and I feel the words all through my body. His other hand glides over my bare leg, my thigh, stopping at the line of my underwear. Then his hands travel up to my waist, over the dark fabric, his thumbs pressing into my hip bones. I kiss him deeper, harder, willing him to not let go.
I slide down onto the bed, melting, liquefying, and his body follows. He positions himself above me, kissing my throat. And every second feels like I’m about to come undone, my thoughts scattering, my body trembling beneath his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly when I suck in a deep breath.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His hand inches upward, gliding smooth and effortlessly across my body. A slow trickle of desire begins to build.
“You’re so soft.” He places another kiss against my throat and I tilt my head slightly, widening the space for him to kiss me again. But instead he whispers, “Has any boy ever touched you like this?” His voice is low and calm, deeper than I’ve ever heard him speak before, and I feel my legs go weak.
“No,” I say, my voice thin.
Tate doesn’t slow the rhythmic way his hands seem to know every curve of my flesh, moving like liquid, spilling over my skin like heat.
I reach up to feel the hardness of his chest. My fingers travel down to his abs flexing above me, and then I find the edge of his jeans, sagged low on his hips. I circle the metal button with my fingertip, then start to slide it free, but Tate stops me, touching my hand gently.
A smile reaches his slightly parted lips. “Leave those on for now.”
I lift my head, starting to protest, but his mouth presses over mine, kissing away the words. His hand skims down my body.
“Is this okay?” Tate’s voice vibrates against my flesh and my body pulses around him. I start to murmur yes but my body takes over, arching toward him. Blood rushes into my ears, my toes curl, and my palms press against the mattress, gripping the sheets—my lungs gasping for air as I cry out.
I collapse beneath him and his mouth lifts. Slowly, I release my grip on the bed, and Tate’s fingers glide back up my thigh. His other hand lingers for a moment against my trembling skin, holding me still so that his lips can kiss me one last time, soft and sweet.
He smiles and rolls over on his back, pulling me with him. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You all right?” he whispers.
“Mmhmm,” I reply, unable to say much more, not yet.
“Good. I’m going to do things different this time,” he tells me. “I want to make sure you’re ready.”
I lift my head to study him. “I am ready,” I assure him.
I curl my body around his, and he reaches up a hand to touch my face. With his lips near my ear, he hums a melody against my skin.
“Is that a new song?” I ask.
“It’s something I’ve been working on.”
“I like it,” I say in an exhale, still feeling heady and like I’m made of air.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m going to record a new album.” His breath tickles my hair. “I’ve already written most of the songs, thanks to you. You’ve inspired me.”
I wonder how I—Charlotte Reed, invisible bookworm and colossal nerd—could have inspired him. It’s so absurd I almost laugh.
“My manager used to tell me that I needed a muse to write meaningful songs. I didn’t really know what that meant, until I met you,” he continues, his thumb rubbing my bottom lip. “When I’m with you, the lyrics just appear in my head. I’ve never experienced it before. The songs are just pouring out of me and I can’t wait for you to hear them.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, but my heart is starting to thump erratically, the light-as-air feeling quickly fading away. I try not to think about the articles I read about Tate, how things were before he met me, when he was Tate Collins the pop idol. The girls, the drugs, all the wild things he’s alluded to. I let out a breath. “But what will all of this mean for us?”
He slides himself over top of me so we’re face-to-face, so he can look me in the eye. “It’s going to be a lot of studio time,” he admits. “I have to get this album just right. It’s a new sound, a new direction for me, and I need it to connect with my fans in a big way.” His gaze locks with mine, intense and searching. “But I promise I’ll make time to see you as often as I can, Charlotte. You’re everything to me. I hope you know that.”
I nod, trying to ignore the sense of dread that’s lingering deep within me.