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Vote Then Read: Volume II

Page 57

by Lauren Blakely


  10

  Emily

  I couldn't believe I was naked in bed with Tate Winters. When I’d freaked out the night before, I thought it was over. I'd been terrified I was going to mess things up again, right up until he kissed me. He'd known what he was talking about. Once he was touching me, I wasn't scared. I wasn't anxious. All I could do was feel, and I wanted more.

  He pressed his finger inside me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, seeing sparks behind my closed lids, my head spinning at how good it felt. His finger was nothing like mine. It was thick and long, and I had the hazy thought that if one finger filled me up this much, I had no idea how his cock would fit. I trembled at the thought and let out a moan, sinking one hand into his thick, silky hair and kissing him harder. His thumb slid against my clit, and I ground my pussy against him, my body out of my control.

  A second finger joined the first, the stretch just on the edge of pain. I leaned into him, raising my knee, opening myself further, as if that would make it easier to take his fingers. I thrust harder against him, my body finding its own rhythm, chasing the pleasure of being so full. My head fell back, breaking our kiss, and I heard myself cry out as my orgasm hit. His fingers worked me through the waves of sensation, drawing out my release.

  I wanted to give Tate the same pleasure he'd given me, and I reached down to close my fingers around his cock. I had the brief impression of length and impossible girth before he moved his hips back and said, “Not yet, baby."

  Before I could worry that I’d done something wrong, he leaned in and kissed me, then said, "I want nothing more than your hand on my cock, but I'm way too close to the edge, and I want to fuck you, not come on your leg."

  At his graphic language, I felt my cheeks heat. I used those words in my mind when I thought about sex, but somehow, that was nothing like hearing Tate say the word cock in his husky, aroused voice.

  "I love the way you blush," he said, making my cheeks flame even hotter. "I was wondering how far down it would go."

  He leaned back and stared at me, a satisfied smile on his face. His fingers were still inside me, and slowly, they started to move again. I squirmed against him. Abruptly, he slid his fingers from my body and sat up, stacking pillows against the headboard of his bed. He leaned back into them and tugged on my arm. Following his lead, I rose to my knees. I watched with wide eyes as he rolled on a condom. I really wasn’t sure he was going to fit. Biologically, I knew it was possible, but still.

  With his hands on my hips, he guided me to straddle him, positioning me so that the head of his cock was right against the gate of my pussy. He looked up at me and said, "I don't want to hurt you. This way, you can take your time with me while I distract myself with these perfect breasts."

  Keeping his hands on my hips, he urged me down an inch, just enough so he was barely inside me, the stretch not too much more than his fingers but already giving me a taste of how big he was.

  "Take your time, love." His hands left my hips and rose to my breasts, cupping their full weight, squeezing and lifting them. The look in his eyes, hot and absorbed, made me want to laugh even as it sent a bolt of heat between my legs. His fingers found my nipples, squeezing and pinching just hard enough, sending bolts of tingling bliss through my body. I wanted to move. I needed to move. And I realized where I wanted to move.

  Down.

  I wanted to take that thick, long cock inside my pussy and ride it. I wanted to make him come. And I wanted to come again, this time with more than his fingers inside me. I spread my knees a fraction and sank down, just a little, biting my lip at the pinch of pain as his cock pushed into my untried pussy.

  Logically, I knew it was going to hurt the first time. Maybe if he'd been smaller . . . but I didn't want smaller. I wanted Tate. I could do this. I wiggled my hips from side to side, working my way down another inch, distracted by his hands kneading my breasts. When his mouth closed over one hard nipple, I let out a squeal that might have been embarrassing if I'd had enough operable brain cells to think about it. Instead of worrying about the sounds I was making, I arched my back, offering my breasts into his hands and sinking down another inch.

  Lost to instinct, I dropped a hand between my legs and stroked my fingers over my clit, shocked at the intensity of the pleasure and thrilled at the feel of his cock partially buried inside me. I slid my fingers down his length and then back up, skating again over my clit and sinking a little farther down.

  Tate groaned and said, "Jesus, fuck, but you're hot. Keep fucking doing that."

  I did it again, my fingertips wet from my pussy, easily sliding over Tate's cock and up again to circle my clit. I did it over and over, each time taking more of him inside me until I had him to the root. I was stretched full, and it hurt, but I didn't fucking care, because it felt better than anything had ever felt in my entire life.

  Tate raised his hips, thrusting up into me, and I fell forward, bracing myself on one hand. My nipple rested against his cheek, and Tate turned his head to take it, his hot mouth sucking hard. I rolled my hips into him, unable to stay still, rocking and grinding on him, hearing my own gasps and moans as if from a distance. It was too much, his mouth sucking my nipple, his cock so deep inside me, my hips moving, dragging my clit against him, everything swelling and rising until the pleasure crashed over me and I screamed out Tate's name.

  The second my orgasm hit, Tate rolled me to my back, rising above me and fucking me hard, his hips pounding, his cock filling me to the hilt over and over. I held onto his arms and wrapped my legs around his hips, my eyes on his as the sharp, hot pleasure took me again, this time with Tate.

  I don’t know how long it was before I could catch my breath enough to say anything, and then when I could, I didn't know what to say. Everything that came to mind was inadequate. Amazing. Mind blowing. Stupendous. Best thing ever, and can we do it again? None of it was enough. I waited for the merry-go-round of thoughts that would lead me from concern to anxiety, but they didn't come. Every muscle in my body was relaxed. I was curled into Tate, my head on his shoulder, his arm tight around me and one leg thrown over my hip. Just as I was settling in, he kissed my forehead and said, “Be right back."

  He returned a moment later, and I realized he'd been taking care of the condom. He slid into bed and pulled me back into his arms, tucking my head beneath his chin, his fingers stroking up and down my spine. "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I'm good." I thought about it for a second. "I'm very good."

  "Yes, you are," he said. I giggled, a lighthearted, silly sound. I couldn't remember the last time I'd giggled. I wasn't a giggler.

  "So what do we do now?" I asked, feeling a little stupid but wanting to know. If Tate was waiting for me to leave, I didn't want to worry that I was missing his signals.

  His arm tightened around me, and he said, “We stay right here until I get my breath back, and then we do it again."

  "You want to cuddle and then do it again?” I asked, relieved that he wasn't trying to think of ways to get me to leave.

  “Unless you want to go?" he said with a note of uncertainty in his voice that reassured me.

  "No. I don't want to go, but you have to tell me . . . I don't—"

  Tate gave me another squeeze and admitted, "I don't know what I'm doing here either. I don't usually cuddle women after sex."

  "You don't?" I rose on one elbow to look down at him. His eyes were serious as they studied me.

  "No. Normally, at this point, I'd be telling you about my early meeting or some other bullshit excuse to get you moving so you could go home. But I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay. This isn't just sex for me, Emily. I want more than that with you, and I can honestly tell you I've never said that to any woman before."

  "Oh," I said, wonder spilling through my chest. I hadn't really thought Tate would want more with me. Part of me had assumed once we had sex, we'd be done. Tate brushed my hair off my face, his blue eyes searching mine.

  "I want more too,” I whispered
.

  Relief washed over his expression as he pulled me in for a kiss—a kiss that quickly got out of control. I was ready to have sex again, but Tate stopped me, saying, “You're too sore. You need a break. Let's try this instead."

  He pulled me from the bed and led me into his bathroom, where he had an enormous soaking tub. I couldn't imagine Tate as the type who liked to take long baths, but the tub was more than big enough for the two of us. The short walk from the bedroom to the bathroom proved he was right. Despite the care he'd taken to get me ready and how much I'd enjoyed it, losing my virginity had left me raw and sore. Maybe I didn't want to have sex again just yet.

  The tub filled quickly, and Tate settled me on top of him. We lay face-to-face, his already hard cock trapped between our bodies, pressing against my clit. He kissed me, and his mouth felt different, more possessive, as if it were claiming me. I liked it. I felt myself getting wet, my pussy softening, wanting his cock, leaking slick moisture. Instead of fucking me, he rocked against me, rubbing his hard cock against my clit, teasing both of us with the slippery pressure until the pleasure crested in a long, sweet orgasm. After, I collapsed against him, resting my head on his damp shoulder, knowing I never wanted to move.

  "I haven't dry humped with a girl since I was a teenager," Tate said with a laugh after he kissed the top of my head.

  "Is it still dry humping when we're in the tub?"

  "Close enough."

  We dried off and went back to bed, curling into each other as exhaustion finally hit and we fell asleep. The night was the best I’d ever had. I would have done it all over again, even knowing the nightmare we’d face when we woke up.

  11

  Emily

  I woke up to late morning sunlight flooding Tate’s bedroom, not as worried as I should have been that I was going to be late for class. I lay on my side, my head on Tate's chest and my arm wrapped around him. Slowly, I shifted to the side, not wanting to wake him, until I met his eyes and realized he was already awake.

  "I probably should have gotten you up," he said, "but I was too comfortable to move."

  On the bedside table, Tate's phone started to ring, a sugary pop song by a former child star turned singer. I raised an eyebrow at his ring tone choice, and he said, "Fucking Holden. He always does this."

  "Are you going to answer?" I asked. Tate shook his head, levering his tall body out of the bed.

  "No. He's probably just calling to tell me to get my ass into the office, which I will, as soon as I get you home. You have classes today?"

  "All day, and game night tonight with my team," I said, pulling the sheet up to cover me, self-conscious in the bright light of day.

  "Can I see you after?" He asked, his eyes level on my face. My answer mattered. He wasn't playing games with me, and I wouldn't play any with him.

  "I can't skip game night. It's a thing—no one skips—but I can come over afterward."

  "Works for me," Tate said. He disappeared into the bathroom, giving me a minute of privacy to find my clothes. I'd stashed extra underwear and a small toiletries bag in my purse. After our bath the night before, my hair was a mess, and I was grateful I at least had a comb and a hairband. I pulled on my clothes and bundled my hair into a messy pile on top of my head. It wasn't worth trying to take a shower at Tate's with my limited supplies. I'd wait until I got home. If we left in the next few minutes, I'd have just enough time to jump in the shower and change before I had to leave for class.

  Fleetingly, I thought about staying in bed all day with Tate, but I dismissed it as impractical. It was clear from Holden's call that Tate had things to do, and I had too much scheduled on Wednesdays to bail with no notice.

  Tate’s phone rang again as we headed for the door, the same ring as before. I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out. The popular song was a favorite with the tween crowd. It was so not Tate.

  “Are you sure you don’t need to get that?” I asked.

  “No, I’ll see him as soon as I drop you off. Whatever he wants can wait.”

  Tate locked his door behind us and hit the button for the elevator. The doors slid open smoothly as if it had been waiting for us. Once inside, Tate took my hand in a firm grip and tugged me close, wrapping his arms around me, tucking my head beneath his chin. We stood there in silence as we descended to the garage level, not needing to speak.

  My nerves from our first date were gone, washed away by Tate’s easy acceptance of my fears and his honesty about his feelings for me. A relationship with him wasn’t going to be easy—nothing new was ever easy for me—but after the night we’d shared, I was beginning to believe we could make it work.

  The elevator arrived at the garage level with a gentle bump, the doors sliding open soundlessly. Tate took my hand again, leading me through the doors and into my worst nightmare.

  Lights flashed in my eyes as voices shouted Tate’s name, a mass of bodies pushing and shoving in their rush to get to us. Tate stepped in front of me, using one arm to hold me behind him as he tried to push us through the crowd.

  “Tate, who are you with?”

  “Tate, what do you think about Jacob being attacked? Is he involved with organized crime?”

  “Tate, can you tell us what happened here earlier?”

  A hand grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away from Tate. I yanked my arm back and came face to face with a woman in a red suit, shoving her camera in my face, the flash blinding me as she took picture after picture. Nausea swelled in my stomach. I was nine years old again, trying to go the school, my path blocked by a crowd of vultures shouting at me.

  Emily, are you happy the gunman is dead?

  Emily, how do you feel about watching your best friend die?

  Emily, how does it feel to be the only one left alive?

  Emily!

  Emily!

  The memories cascaded, tangling with the present, drowning me in the attack of lights and voices. The yelling blurred into one voice, shouting over and over. My heart pounded in my ears, racing, beating so fast I felt lightheaded. My palms prickled with sweat, and it felt like an iron band was cinching closed around my chest. I couldn’t breathe. My vision was going gray.

  I felt Tate pulling me through the garage, moving me away from the crowd of reporters. As if far off in the distance, I heard other voices, saw figures in black blocking the crowd from us, ushering them back to wherever they’d come from.

  It didn't matter. It was too late for me. It was already starting. A door opened, and then I was sitting. In a car. I was in a car. We were moving, and all I could think about was getting air into my frozen lungs. I leaned over, wrapping my arms around my knees, burying my face between them. I didn't want this to happen. I was not going to let this happen.

  I hadn't had an anxiety attack in over a year. I'd told myself I was done with them. I might have been if I hadn't been confronted with the very thing that had started me down this path in the first place. No normal woman would be assaulted by reporters on a regular basis. This wasn't because of me. This was because of Tate. Nausea hit me in another surge, and I bit down on my lip, desperate not to throw up in Tate's car. We were safe. We were away from the flashing lights and screaming voices, but in the back of my mind, all I could hear was the warning that I was in danger.

  I wasn't in danger. I knew that. I struggled to draw breath, to calm my racing heart. I could feel myself shaking, feel the sweat running down my back and gathering under my arms. My body was out of my control, taking me on a ride more terrifying than any roller coaster. I tried to remember everything I’d learned in therapy.

  Deep breaths. I needed to breathe and stop the merry-go-round of panic in my mind. I told myself everything I knew I needed to hear.

  I'm okay. The reporters can't hurt me. Everything is going to be okay.

  It was dizzying, being tossed back into the nightmare that had haunted me since I was a child. I'd been dealing with the anxiety attacks. I'd gotten so much better. I should have known this could happe
n, being with Tate. But I hadn't been thinking. I liked him so much, and I'd wanted him. If I’d thought it through, really considered what I was doing, this wouldn't be happening. I should have known. I should have kept myself safe.

  By the time the car slowed and pulled to a stop, I was mostly under control. My heart was still beating way too fast, and I was shaking, but at least I didn't think I was going to pass out or throw up. Tate reached down to help me out of the car, and I gripped his hand, desperate for an anchor. I let him wrap his arm around me and guide me into my building. At my door, he said, "Do you have your keys, baby?"

  I fumbled in my purse until the cool metal scraped my fingers and dragged them out, shoving them at Tate. My hands were shaking too hard to get them in the lock myself. The door swung open, and I heard Jo say, "Emily! What happened? Tate, what's going on?"

  I pulled away from Tate, trying to stand on my own. A sudden wave of dizziness hit me and my stomach pitched. I wasn't going to pass out, but I was going to throw up. Mouth watering, sweat pouring down my face, I tore my hand out of Tate’s and lurched down the hallway, falling to my knees in front of the toilet just in time to empty my stomach. I was still heaving, the muscles in my abdomen clenching and twisting in painful cramps, when I felt him behind me. His warm hand landed on my clammy back, and I flinched.

 

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