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“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take you so gentle,” he rasps, his muscles straining as he crowds me, and then, with a long, painstakingly slow push, he guides himself inside.
*
After I shower I pull on simple red cotton underwear, a fluffy green sweater, and I check my phone, albeit blurrily as I wait for my glasses to de-steam. There are two texts from my mom, which is unusual but not a total shock considering that this is the first time maybe ever that I haven’t been within arm’s reach.
The first text is a photograph of Mitch standing outside a snowy cabin. He looks a bit put out, like he didn’t want his picture taken in the first place, but he’s being a good sport about it, one hand gripping the wooden railing and the other holding a flask. He’s wearing layers of flannels and his baby blue jeans, making his tan obnoxiously dazzling. I still can’t believe that this hunk is mymom’s.
The second text is an actual message (boooo) and my stomach prickles a little as I read it.
Happy early Christmas to me! Arrived safe and enjoying Pine Hills. Did Mitch tell you about this? Anyway, do me a favour would you – hosting a house warming party when we get back, need some bits, listed them below. Can you grab them for us?
I instantly develop a minor migraine. I’m glad that my mom is enjoying her vacation but I hate the way that I’m starting to get tied to the Colesons. And it isn’t because I don’twantto betied to the Colesons, it’s because I don’t want to be tied to them inthiskind of way. As Mitch’s step-daughter. Even worse, as Tate’s step-sister. And a house warming party to officialise our move-in is only going to highlight my… role. I grimace and slide on my glasses as I walk down the stairs. This is gross.
I minutely decompress once I hop off the bottom step. Tate is cooking something in the kitchen as I approach, the broad expanse of his bare back exposed and his jeans hanging low on his hips. His hair is divinely messy and there are raised feline scratches marring his ribcage. Oops. I flush, squirm, and look away.
I must have released a little wave of oestrogen because Tate turns his head over his shoulder and looks down at me with a slightly surprised, pleased smile. He gives my outfit a once-over and his mouth lifts even more.
“Baby Grinch,” he says affectionately, his eyes gently teasing.
I scowl and flash him my underwear.
He drops his spatula, curses, and then the oil in the pan spits at his skin.
“Red,” he chokes out. Move over Keats. He turns down the gas behind him so that he can continue staring at the rosy cotton encasing my heat without risking another injury. God knows we’ve had enough of those in the past few months.
“To match my eyes,” I say as he closes the distance between us and lifts me so that I’m sitting comfortably around his waist. He holds up the hem of my sweater so that he can observe the cotton pressed flush against his abs.
“I was thinking of something else,” he murmurs and then he draws his eyes back to mine. He gives me a secret knowing smile and presses a kiss to my lips. Then another. A hum releases from his throat and his free hand moves beneath me so that he can readjust himself. He rubs his palm over my thigh and then gently hooks it around the back of my knee. His cheekbones are blushing when he pulls away. “Was… was last night okay?” he asks. His voice is quiet and husky. Hesitant. Shy.
I nod when he meets my eyes. “So was this morning,” I say, and he inhales deeply, his whole body hardening with pleasure.
His gaze dips to my throat for a moment and he lightly tugs at the neck of my sweater. He peeks in and his smile widens. “You’re still wearing it,” he says, his rough fingers stroking the chain laced around my neck.
Now it’s my turn to flush. Well, what was I supposed to do? If I’m going to enjoy my time here before I’m shipped off to college for a lifetime of academic flagellation, I may as well do it properly.
“Penance,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes, and he laughs, pressing kisses to my cheeks in contented delight.
As if reading my mind he says, “Tell me you’re not studying today. I want to spend the day with you.”
I want to stay wrapped up in his arms for this whole week, forgetting about the past anddefinitelyforgetting the future, but I also want to maintain my façade of indifference so that he doesn’t know how horribly desperately I want this. I shuffle as if to dismount but he holds me steady. “I have presents to steal,” I mutter and he buries his smile in my neck.
“Are you trying to kick me out?” he asks. His mouth is heavenly warm against my skin.
“Yes. No. Maybe.” I cringe. I’ve turned into a magic eight ball.
“I actually have to do something for my mom,” I say. “And your dad.”
That gets his attention. He lifts his head, his jaw tensing slightly, but he squeezes his hand up my thigh for me to continue.
“My mom texted me this morning – maybe Mitch did the same to you, I don’t know. They’re having a house warming thing here when they get back and she wants me to grab, like, drinks and whatever.” I shrug. I feel kind of shitty about it.
“The snow’s too deep out there for you to walk in, and groceries like that are too heavy for someone who isn’t driving.” His eyes are a little narrowed and his muscles are becoming more rigid.
I feel a bit confused so I shift in discomfort. Why is he angry? I hate to ask but, naturally, I do it anyway. “Did I… do something wrong?” Oh how the tables have turned.
His body seems to swell protectively around me as he clutches me closer to his chest, and he starts walking us to the living room. He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. “River, of course you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m… I’m not annoyed because of you.” He sits down on the couch so that I’m straddling his lap, and he rubs his hands over the backs of my ankles. “I’ll go. Just tell me what they want.”
A little shiver of relief washes over me. I really do hate shopping in town, so I’m grateful for the aid. “I’ll forward it to you,” I say. “What’s your number?” I distractedly unlock my phone to pull up the text, but Tate lightly grips my hand and pushes it back to the couch cushion.
