by Sarah Smith
“That’s the kicker. She always sticks up for me. Whenever someone would try to compare the two of us or make me feel bad for being closed off, she always shut them down. Even our parents. She tells them over and over to quit comparing us. It’s yet another reason why she’s the greatest. She has a giant heart and she goes out of her way to protect her grumpy, unlikable twin brother, who doesn’t deserve her support.”
“Stop. You deserve it. It’s proof you’re an incredible person that your sister would defend you so adamantly, especially to your parents.”
“It’s why I got into social media, actually.” He lets out an amused laugh, then stops to stare at the open kitchen behind the front counter. One of the cooks is flipping sesame chicken over and over in a massive wok. The aroma of sesame oil and peppers wafts over to us. We both watch for a long moment, hypnotized.
He pivots his focus back to me. “I wanted to prove to everyone who ever thought of me as a standoffish prick that I could be social. In my own way, of course. As it turns out, you don’t actually have to be all that social to work in social media. You just have to be good at Twitter, Facebook, and Google Analytics.”
“What a devious rebel you are.”
“It’s a huge yet acceptable middle finger to them all,” he says. “The irony of my profession is not lost on me, believe me.”
He runs his fingers up and down my arm.
“This explains so much. Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Our food arrives, and we chow down. I’m savoring every bite, but it’s not just because the meal is delicious. This conversation, this dinner, it’s a level of comfort I’m not used to on dates. Even our awkward moments I adore. It’s only our first meal together, but I already know I want to do it again.
Staring at his plate, Tate spears a chunk of fried tofu. “Thanks for listening.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
He chews, swallows, then offers a lips-only smile. “It’s easy telling you difficult things. I feel so comfortable around you. Like I can be myself.”
I beam at him, then at my half-eaten plate. All the gold stars in the world can’t compete with the bliss his words give me. This new comfort floating between us gives me the confidence to ask him about another difficult thing, to see if we can cross over from comfort to intimacy.
“If I ask you something, will you promise to answer honestly?”
He levels me with a you-should-know-better frown. “Okay.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Jamie called when I was in the hospital?”
seventeen
He opens his mouth but is drowned out when a gaggle of little kids dressed in T-ball uniforms enters the restaurant. All we hear are giggles, endless babbling, and high-pitched shrieks.
“What?” I shout.
“I said—”
A half dozen screaming five-year-olds push together the three tables next to us. Four of them immediately haul themselves onto chairs and begin jumping up and down. Two crawl under the tables and start smacking each other.
“Fucking hell,” Tate mutters under his breath.
“Hey. Language,” I scold.
“Like they can hear me.”
He stabs his fork into a strip of beef, then levels the lone adult in charge of this mini motley crew with a death glare. The man flinches when he makes eye contact with Tate, and I feel a pang of pity for him. Dining out with six rambunctious five-year-olds is a punishment I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
He attempts to reason with the kids in a hushed, unsure voice. “Guys. Hey, guys. That’s enough. Sit down. I said sit. Come on now.” The kids continue to yell while treating the tables and chairs like a jungle gym.
“We should just leave,” I say.
“And go where?”
An earsplitting scream invades my eardrums. Two kids are warring over the same chair.
“To the Dumpster, into a sewer, I don’t care. Anywhere but here.”
He packs up our leftovers, we leave cash on the table, and we bolt out the door.
“Dear God,” I say while rubbing my ears. “The best birth control you could ever ask for is in that restaurant.”
Tate lets out a proper belly laugh. My heart stops for a split second. I could listen to him laugh forever.
“Wow. And you had the nerve to lecture me in there?”
“I didn’t drop the f-word in front of a bunch of kindergarteners. I get points for that.”
“So what now?” he says after chuckling.
I think about repeating my question about Jamie’s call, but I lose my nerve. He’s opened up plenty to me this dinner. I feel good about where we are in this moment.
I gaze across the parking lot to the street. “It’s dark. I should probably head home. I’ve got a bit of a walk.” The moment I say it, I realize that I don’t yet want to leave him. I don’t know how to say it and not sound like a desperate weirdo, though.
“Let me drive you.” Tate points to his car.
“Remember the first time we were in your car?” I let out an exasperated laugh. “I’m supposed to be resting and recovering, right?”
We let the intensity of our first kiss in his car shuffle in the air between us. The instant I mention it, I’m reminded of his soft tongue and lips, the way he moaned against my mouth.
Even in the darkness, I can see the faintest hue of pink on his cheeks. “I promise to keep myself under control if you do.”
I slide in the passenger seat. He starts the car and blasts the AC. When I buckle my seat belt, I wait for him to pull out of the parking lot, but he doesn’t move.
“Do you honestly want to know why I didn’t tell you about Jamie’s call?” His eyes fix ahead.
I nod.
He shoves both hands in his hair, pulls, then lets go. “I was afraid that if I told you he called, you would ask him to come take care of you and tell me to leave. I wanted to be the one there with you.”
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. His admission sends a wave of all-consuming warmth through my body. The intimacy I was so curious about is right there in this admission. He trusts me enough to open up about a vulnerable moment. I grab his hand, hoping my touch reassures him.
“Tate, no. I’m grateful you were the one with me. You shouldn’t have been afraid to tell me he called. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“You can honestly say that?” His eyes bore into me. “You can say in that moment, without question, you wouldn’t have wanted Jamie there instead?”
“I wanted you there and you only. No one else.” I squeeze his hand, hoping he believes me.
With a nod, his gaze falls to his lap. I wonder what he’ll say next, what he’ll do. Seconds pass and he doesn’t budge. The air in the car grows frosty. I rub the goose bumps on my arms.
“Sorry. I always crank the air. Bad habit.” He turns off his car and cracks the windows open, then refocuses on me.
It’s another long, aching second before he leans to me. Softly, he presses his mouth to mine, then pulls back. It’s only our third lip-to-lip kiss, and I immediately regret holding off for so long. One touch of his lips is the first hit of a mystery drug. All I want is more of him on me.
I laugh softly to myself. “Such a tease.”
“Excuse me?” he scoffs through a smile.
“You’re not leaving me with that sorry excuse for a kiss, are you?”
He grabs me by the chin, leading me in a full-blown, tongue-heavy kiss. A proper kiss. It’s our first kiss at Jimi D’s cranked up to eleven.
Twelve seconds in and the world around me is forgotten. The wetness of his mouth, the firmness of his tongue, the way he seals his lips against mine makes me forget everything that isn’t this kiss. It’s hungry, electrifying, soul shaking, and can convert even the most stubborn bodies, mine included.
/> His hands don’t let me off the hook either. One is thrust into my hair, fisted against my scalp. The other is loosely gripped on my shoulder, daring me to pull away. Joke’s on him though. A raging bull couldn’t pull me from his mouth and this kiss.
I balance myself with one arm on the center console. My other one pulls at his hair. We’re at it like starving creatures whose mouths are food. I was wrong. This is not a proper kiss. It’s a fucking dynamite, earth-shattering kiss.
He jerks back. “Are you in pain?” He sounds completely robbed of breath.
“No,” I blurt, then pull him back to my mouth. He continues the desperate rhythm for what feels like minutes, then pushes me away.
“Good. Because I need you on my lap. Now.” He reaches under his seat and slides it back all the way.
“Fine,” I snap, as if he just inconvenienced me with a request to take out the trash. It’s an understandable request, and now that I think about it, I would most definitely love to plant myself on top of his thighs. But that means fewer seconds to kiss, and I can’t say I support that.
Nevertheless, I maneuver myself awkwardly on top of him. I’m all elbows and knees for several seconds until I’m straddling him. He chuckles at what I imagine is an amusing scene.
“Quiet,” I scold, but smile at him immediately after. It’s a cramped fit, but it’ll have to do.
He guides me back to his mouth with a hand at the back of my neck. The tip of his tongue teases the tip of mine. This time it’s slower, deeper, more controlled. He’s showing me what he likes, what rhythm he wants me to mimic. I’m more than happy to follow his lead.
Now that I’m firmly on top of him, he lets his hands wander. First my neck, then my shoulders. He fingers both straps of my bra for a beat, then slides his thumbs under each one. I open my eyes to peek at him. His eyes are covered in a hypnotic film. I reckon he’s equal parts aroused, fascinated, and comatose.
One of my legs starts to fall asleep, and I shift in his lap slightly. I feel an unmistakable hardness underneath me and smile against his mouth.
“Enjoying yourself, then?” I ask. His hands wander up and down my back.
He laughs in the middle of our kiss. “Hell, yes.”
I nibble at his bottom lip, and he groans. One more nibble, and he groans again, this time louder. The guttural sounds coming from his throat are like catnip, and I’m the greedy feline who can’t get enough.
Soon I feel his grip on my ass. It’s a long, gratuitous squeeze with both hands. He throws his head back, bumping his headrest. He gazes at me with cloudy eyes.
“Your little shorts. Your tank top. Fucking hell, Emmie,” he says between desperate breaths.
“You like my outfit?” I trace my fingers down his throat while he’s leaned back, then bite lightly at his neck. A sound somewhere between a deep yelp and the word “fuck” slips out of his mouth. I bite again, this time harder.
He growls, leans up, then smiles. “Fuck, I love it when you’re rough.”
“Seriously?”
“Fuck, yes. I go crazy for you when you’re hard with me, when you’re a boss at work, laying down the law.”
I press a light kiss to his lips.
“I like your soft side too,” he rasps. “Every bit of you. I can’t get enough.”
His words would be an epiphany if I weren’t so turned on. My boss persona may be more a part of me than I thought, and in this moment, with Tate writhing under me, the thought drives me wild.
I continue my kissing trail to his collarbone. My finger hooks over the neck of his shirt and I gently pull, exposing more of his stunning skin. A small tuft of curly white-blond hair peeks out. I nuzzle it with my nose.
Finally, I get to enjoy all the parts of him I missed during our first kiss. There was no time for any horsing around that night. It was rushed and desperate and shocking. Tonight is different. We exist in this car and can do whatever we want. In this car, there are no rules, no time limits, no etiquette to abide by. Only whatever our mouths and hands feel like doing. And right now, I feel like digging my fingers into the meaty muscle of what I assume are his impressive pectorals. At least, they feel quite impressive under the thin cotton shirt he’s wearing.
His body flexes under me, pushing my fingers back. I quiver at how solid he feels. His eyes drop from my face to my chest to my legs.
“Look at you. Fuck. The moment you walked into the restaurant, I wanted to do so much—”
My tongue meets the base of his neck, and his voice drops. I give him another soft nip and he lets out a deep, hot breath.
“You need to wear this every day. Every single goddamn day.”
I giggle and look up at him. His eyes remain clouded over, signaling he’s in a pleasure-filled state and it’s all my doing. What a strangely empowering feeling. This tough, imposing man has been rendered helpless by little ol’ me. With his size and strength, he could normally push me up or hold me down with ease, but not now. Not in this hot and blissful moment. If I could bottle this smug, satisfying rush inside of me, I could sell it in department stores. I’d call it Domination and charge fifty dollars a bottle. People would kill to feel this desired and in control. I’d make out like a bandit.
Burying my face in his chest, I take in the musky, spicy scent of his skin. I’m gently biting him over his clothes when he leans up and pushes me against the steering wheel. He locks eyes with me and smirks. The rush it gives me makes my legs buckle. I yelp. Good thing I’m already sitting. My back is arched at an unnatural angle, but it somehow makes this moment hotter. He’s got me by the waist; I’ve got him by the shoulders.
He doesn’t blink once while he presses his forehead against mine. “Emmie,” he says, like he’s just now remembering my name.
He kisses me before I can say anything in response. It’s seconds before he lets me up for air.
“Yeah?” I finally gasp.
His head dips down to my neck, and I’m shaking as he licks and nibbles. He stays on the left side of my neck at first, then lightly blows on my clavicle before starting at the bottom of my right side. The licking and nibbling commence. I’m moaning and squealing like a wounded animal. I can barely handle this. He laughs against my neck. The vibrations reverberate throughout my chest and head, intensifying the pleasure.
“Tate, please,” I whisper. I open my eyes for a moment and my vision is blurry. I don’t know how much more I can take.
Instead of easing up, he dips his head lower. He softly bites my left breast outside of my shirt.
“Fuck,” I cry. That bite is the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body. What inventive use of his mouth. Clever boy.
With slow-moving yet sure fingers, he pulls down the front of my tank top. Both cups of my black bra spill over, and his index finger traces the top of my breasts in a steady, deliberate line. Goose bumps rise up on every inch of my exposed skin, even in the heat of this stuffy car.
“What are you . . .”
My breathy, incomplete question is answered with his tongue on my nipple. By the way I nearly choke on my breath, I’m clearly shocked. Tate Rasmussen is a freaking master with his tongue. Slow, wet, warm circles soon turn into rapid, desperate ones. Then he dials back the speed and slides to the other one. Again I nearly choke on air. My eyes cross every time I try to focus my vision on the mass of snowy waves planted right in front of my face, so instead I shut them.
A warm ache spreads from my abdomen up my chest, to my legs, my arms, my fingertips. I’m writhing, whimpering. I say his name over and over. Not once does he stop. How Tate can deliver this much pleasure to my body with just his tongue on my breasts is a mystery. It makes me ache for more. A shiver pulses through me, ending at my lower abdomen. The ache intensifies, and suddenly, I want his tongue anywhere he wishes to put it.
“Yes,” I moan. “More.”
I take it back. This is the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body.
My head hangs over the top of the steering wheel, my pulse hammering at the bottom of my throat. When I open my eyes again, I notice there’s condensation coating the windows. I wonder if anyone can hear us with the windows cracked. A sweaty film covers my skin. I lean up, my face brushing against Tate’s glorious curls. He raises his head and our gazes meet once more. I could do this forever. I’m sweaty, cramped, bent out of shape, and painfully turned on. This could last for days, weeks, months, and never go any further and I would be eternally happy.
The sharp beep of my phone interrupts our wholly inappropriate parking lot interlude. We pull apart instantly, and I nearly laugh. It’s impressive how quickly we stop ourselves at the sound of a phone.
I fish it out of my purse and see an email alert.
“Everything okay?” Tate asks.
“Yeah. It’s just an email from my mom asking if I remember what her Facebook password is.”
Pearls of sweat dot his chuckling face. As muggy as it is outside, it’s worse in the car. Any residual cool air from when he blasted the AC has now disappeared.
“Sorry. We normally talk once a week when she’s home, but when she’s out of the country visiting her relatives, it’s messages like this almost every day.”
He laughs harder. I chuckle, then wince. The position I’m in must be aggravating my incisions.
I push off Tate and move back to the passenger seat. He braces me with his arms, making sure I don’t fall. When I’m back to sitting, I notice how the sweat highlights his physique. His arms are a perfect blend of thick muscle, veins, and golden hair.
“Still pretty sore?” he asks hesitantly, short of breath.
“Just a little.” I rub the side of my stomach. “It’s getting better. I just probably shouldn’t be in a position like that for long.”
Side by side, in separate seats, we steady our breathing. Tate turns on the car and cranks the AC once again. My scalp is soaking wet, as is the back of my neck. I gaze up at him, curious as to what the next step is for us.