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He runs his hand through his hair, breathing jagged, and then nods down at the floor. “I’ll get that for you,” he breathes out, and then he carefully steps around me and heads out of the door.
As soon as he leaves I throw myself onto the bed, moaning. Why the hell is he acting like this? And, more importantly, why the hell amI?
I think back to the Halloween dance and maybe Tate’s right – maybe I was spiked – but a little shot of liquor in my system isn’t the sole catalyst for these feelings. They have been festering since the moment I saw him again, as soon as I stepped foot in this room, as soon as I started sleeping in his sheets.
I pull off my uniform, leaving only my thermal vest, and I shuffle into my pyjama shorts. What the hell is wrong with me?
When Tate comes back into the room, he closes the door quietly behind him and holds out the glass of water for me. I go to take it but then he lifts it just out of my reach.
“I want a truce,” he demands. He’s using his low and commandingwhat would you like to confessvoice that runs like a shot of whiskey down my naval.
“You’re a jerk,” I retort, but then I squeal because I feel something icy splash against my leg. He tipped a drop of thewater on me and, when I get a good look at the glass in his hands, it’s full of frozen ice cubes.
“Truce,” he says again, expression unwavering.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Only if you give me what I want in return.”
His eyebrows pinch in surprise but he quickly shakes it off. “You won’t want that when you’re sober,” he replies. Then he yields, passing me the water and making me feel a little smug.
When he goes to exit the room I quietly ask him, “But what if I do?”
Tate’s body stills, the large expanse of his back facing me for a few moments, and when he turns back around I can see that wild animalistic need has smothered all moral and rational thought. His body is thrumming with the want to satiate himself, and I am devoted to helping his plight.
I sit up onto my knees so that I’m closer to him, and he seals the space between us in one easy stride. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me to the edge of the bed so that our torsos are flush against each other. I cup his jaw in my hand and he leans into my touch, only tilting so that he can kiss the base of my thumb. I run my other hand up his abs until I meet his crucifix, and I grip it in my fist, causing him to release a deep strained breath.
“Will you do that for me, when I’m sober?” I whisper, euphoric at the realisation that – for some unbeknown reason, call it his conscience – Tate will do anything that he can to make amends. I grip the pendant a little tighter.Thank you, God.
He nods, his head ducking down so that our faces are at a more equal height and his fingers holding me firmly in place.
I think for a moment. “And will you tell me what your tattoo says?” I ask, because why not.
“John 7:38,” he murmurs immediately as he laces his fingers through the red ribbon at the front of my pyjama shorts. His breathing is so laboured that he’s practically panting.
“Thank you,” I say, making a mental note to check that out later. I watch him pinch the ribbon between his fingers and then he tugs it roughly. I make a small quivering sound and Tate’s eyes flash upwards. His hand leaves my shorts and it moves around to the back of my neck, clamping it as if he’s trying to squeeze more noises out of me. It works, and immediately his whole body is humming.
“One kiss,” he whispers, and his eyes flicker down past my lips, to my throat. He lowers his mouth so that it’s hovering over my pulse point and he murmurs, “Just here.”
Once I give my small confirming nod he crushes his lips against my neck.
He laps at my skin, groaning at the taste, and then he sucks it hungrily into his mouth. One of his hands descends down my back, and when he reaches my behind he kneads the flesh desperately. His other hand climbs upwards until it reaches my chest, at first tracing gently around the curves and slopes, but then gradually pressing harder until he’s palming me in frenzy. I lock my hands in his hair, holding him against me as he works my body into a grinding mess.
Suddenly I’m pushed backwards and I sink against the thick quilt, need coursing through me as I look up at Tate towering over me. He smoothes my wrists down against the bed, caressing the soft skin with his thumbs, and then he eases his groin between my hips. My body is thumping harder than the storm outside as he sinks his teeth back into my neck, the taut muscles of his back rolling effortlessly as he grinds against me, and his sharp stubble grazing at my sensitised skin.
I’m drowning in the pleasure of my willing surrender until I hear a gruff voice grit out, “You really are a piece of shit.”
I gasp and startle, at first thinking that the words came from Tate, but in a second Mitch is hauling his son off my body and slamming him into the dresser.
Shit. I quickly look to the doorway to check for my mom but luckily no lights are on and I think that Mitch is here alone. I close my legs and try to balance myself on my elbows.
“Are you kidding me?” Mitch growls, his eyes boring into Tate. “This chick hates your guts, and the one time she has liquor in her system I find you pinning her to her bed and warming your dick between her thighs? Explain this,now!” The words are being spat out through clenched teeth, but his voice is hushed enough for me to realise that he has no intention of my mom finding out about this.
Tate rubs his head and looks down at the floor. “It’s not like that,” he replies.
“I am dating hermom,Tate – and if hermomfinds out what you’re trying to do, she will literally kill you. And then I’ll have to break up with her, because I can’t be in a relationship with the woman who murdered my son.”
Mitch runs his hand over his face and turns around, but as soon as he remembers that I’m still here, he spins right back.
“She’s not going to be here.” Mitch jerks his thumb at me from over his shoulder. “She’s going to go to college, and you know it.”
