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“Confessionals,” he replies patiently. He smells so good, like fresh rain and testosterone. I lean around further so that I can look at his little silver cross.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”
I smile as his hands tighten their grip on the wheel and he readjusts his lower body against the seat.
“Go on,” I whisper teasingly, “say the bit that comes next.”
He inhales slowly and his chest swells. His voice is low when he looks at me again. “What would you like to confess.”
A thrill jolts through me. My eyes are burning a hole into his mirror and molten caramel is pooling in my belly. Why shouldn’t a God-fearing motorbike-racing jock have a thing for the little librarian emo? I want to grab a handful of his soft chocolate hair and make him beg for me to forgive him. I want him to utilise every muscle on his body for the sole purpose of my pleasure. I think I’m accidentally telepathically transmitting these thoughts to him because he’s running his hand down his face and swallowing like we’re in the Sahara.
Where is my confidence coming from? I know better than to fight it, so I lean into it instead.
Bending forward again, my hands hesitate momentarily in front of his heaving shoulders and then I carefully wrap them around his throat. It’s so hot and thick, and his sharp stubble scratches at the skin of my fingers. I’m so much colder than him that I cause his whole body to shudder, and a rumble sounds deep in his chest as he indicates to Mitch’s street.
“It’s your fault, you know,” I whisper quietly, rocking when we hit a speed bump because, feelingque cera cera, I didn’t strap myself in. “I thought you were my best friend, and you ruined it. And now I have to sleep in your bed and I can’t get this itchoff of me. I want this feeling to stop, but there’s only one thing I can think of to solve it, and we… we can’t do that.”
We’re parked up outside Mitch’s house now and the warm porch light is on, but I don’t think that anyone is home. I assume Tate is thinking the same thing because, whilst one hand is still on the wheel, the other is pressing firmly against the tent in his jeans.
“Why can’t we do that?” he pleads, eyes imploring, veins cording.
I throw myself back against the seat and smack my skull against the rock-hard headrest. I rub the ache and a distant déjà vu flashes through me. I shake it away and narrow my eyes on him in a dare.
“Because priests are celibate,” I conclude.
Suddenly he throws open the driver’s door, slams it shut, and then I’m being yanked into the storm outside. His hands grip my waist and his eyes are aflame.
His voice is nothing more than a growl when he finally says, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a priest.”
He tosses me over his shoulder and thunders into the house.
Chapter 14
Three Years Ago
Tate is at the door before my fist even meets the pane. He’s grinning down at me with freshly-showered tousled hair and his eyes are all twinkly.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for my bag strap so that he can pull me into the house. I see Madden leaning on the kitchen counter and he rolls his eyes when he looks over at me. He shuffles past, hands in his pockets, and mutters Tate a begrudging “see you” as he trudges out of the doorway.
Tate laughs and hauls me fully inside, unzipping my jacket pockets so that he can put his hands in them. I’m still a bit shaken by what happened with Hudson and I want to tell Tate about it, but I can smell the heady boy-soap scent exuding from the warmth of his skin and I don’t want to spoil the moment. He rotates us one-eighty so that he can kick the door shut and then he walks me backwards to the kitchen stools.
“Homework time?” he asks as he pushes me down onto the chair. He unfastens my jacket and slips it off my shoulders after I disentangle myself from my bag. “Or can we just forget about the homework and go hang out in my room?”
He hangs my jacket over the chair and then drops to his knees, undoing the laces on my shoes before sliding them off my feet. He sits them neatly down next to me and gently cups my ankles, looking up from between my knees.
“My room?” he urges. “Before our moms come home?”
I deliberate for a few moments. Then I say, “That does seem like the most logical option.”
Our fingers are entwined and suddenly we’re rushing up the stairs. Once we’re at his door Tate moves to stand behind me and we enter his room as one.
His room is much better than my room. He has a hand-carved wooden bed frame and a matching set of drawers that look artisanal in style. There are motorbike posters on the walls, sports trophies across his desk, and, most intriguingly, a glass jar filled with dollar bills, with a large label that reads “TATTOO MONEY”. The whole space looks lived in by someone with a full and exciting life.
“Okay, close your eyes,” he says, moving us in front of the mirror so that he can check to see if I’m peeking.
I turn around, surprised. “But I just got here,” I exclaim.
He laughs and presses a kiss to the top of my cheek. My eyes instinctively flutter shut and when he pulls back he whispers, “Just like that.”
