by Elise Faber
A curse. Two sets of fumbling fingers trying to unlatch the clasp.
And then finally he was free, tugging her close again, and stepping from the car. He paused for a second, but before she could worry that he was going to peruse his way through the house or ask for a tour or, well, delay a trip to her bedroom, Tate scooped her up into her arms, located the door leading to the house, and beelined for it.
They were inside a few moments later, the only illumination a couple of lights she had on a timer in her living room.
“That way,” she said, pointing to the way to her bedroom.
A nod, brisk steps leading toward the stairs.
She lost focus on giving directions after that, too distracted by the heat of his embrace, the spicy masculine scent in her nose. Giving in, she nipped at his throat, lapping up the slightly salty tang of his skin.
Bang.
Sera hardly had a moment to see that they’d made it to her bedroom before Tate was tossing her on the bed and coming down on top of her a heartbeat later.
He paused, flicked on her bedside lamp, and met her gaze. “You sure?”
The growled-out question had every hair on her body rising, every nerve on high alert. By now she’d seen Tate nice, angry, and she’d even seen him tease, but this Tate? He was on razor’s edge.
And Sera fucking loved it.
She was riding that fine line, too, the draw to him intense enough that she was thinking of little else aside from getting naked, sticking his cock inside her, and riding him like a fucking unicycle—
Or whatever.
Bad analogies aside, all she knew was that she had wanted Tate forever and being this close to finally having him, she wasn’t thinking of stopping or how sure she was.
She needed him.
But that he asked the question at all, and especially when their desire made the air heavy, their passion growing by the second, and logical thoughts on the way out . . . well, that he’d asked made it mean so much more.
Reaching for the hem of her shirt, Sera said, “Yes, I’m sure.” One tug and it was up and over her head.
Tate’s eyes left hers, drifting down to her breasts.
Air hissed out between clenched teeth. “Baby,” he gritted out. “I’m not going to ask again, but are you—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
She reached behind her, undid her bra and slid it free. His curse should have turned the air blue, should have made her embarrassed, but all that rasped out word did was make her nipples hard and pouty and desperate for his mouth.
Thank fuck, he didn’t wait, didn’t ask any more questions.
He bent, sucked one of her nipples deep into his mouth while his hands got busy, massaging her breasts, pinching her neglected nipple lightly, squeezing and shaping and all but driving her over the edge.
Funny how her breasts had always seemed too big, too unwieldy. She’d always been embarrassed by their size.
But when Tate stared at them, touched them?
He made her feel different. Fucking incredible and mad with passion, of course, but also . . . Tate made her feel like she was more than just a sum of her parts.
She gasped when he switched breasts, when his slightly-roughened palms brushed over her stomach then lower, flicking open the button on her slacks, pushing them down and off her hips.
He slid down to remove her heels then tugged her pants free. The sensation of his fingers on her bare skin had her eyes drifting closed, her thighs parting in anticipation, and then . . . she jumped, those lids flashing back open.
His smile was wolfish as he licked her again through her underwear. “Just checking,” he said, tongue dipping under one side of the waistband, thumb on the other.
“Mmm.” Sera’s head flopped back when he found her clit without a roadmap.
“This?” A flick. “Or this?” A firm circle.
And considering the second had her all but climbing the headboard, Tate got the hint. Her underwear disappeared in a flash, and a heartbeat later, his thumb was back and getting busy making those firm circles. She was absolutely soaked, throbbing and aching. Because as good as it felt to have him rub her, it also wasn’t enough.
“I—” She shook her head. “I need—”
Nonsensical, but thankfully Tate seemed to know what she needed. He slipped a finger inside her, curled it up at the same time he dropped his mouth to her clit and sucked hard.
“Fuck,” she groaned. “Fuck, that’s . . . so fucking good.”
Tate didn’t respond to her excessive use of the f-word except to keep moving his fingers, to keep sucking, and then she wasn’t even aware of the words she was using. Sera couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, couldn’t open her eyes.
She could only soar.
Tate made her soar.
Pleasure twisted through her center, spreading out to her limbs, coiling her tighter and tighter until finally, thankfully, finally she exploded.
The world stopped. Or maybe that was just her heart.
She managed to lift a hand to her chest, attempted to find her pulse, but her lungs were sawing in and out as she tried to catch her breath.
“Are you okay?”
Sera shook her head. “You killed me.”
Tate chuckled, and because his mouth was still against her clit, aftershocks of pleasure coursed through her. He sat up, fully dressed, eyes still hot, but she could read his expression. He was considering stopping.
Probably worried it was too much too fast.
And Rachel had been right. There was something about honorable men.
She reached into her nightstand, pulled out a condom. She did risk a quick glance at the expiration date; her sex life hadn’t been what one would call active. But luckily, it was still good.
Tossing it on the bed next to her, she sat up and reached for Tate.
“We don’t—”
“Do you want me?” she asked or rather, she blurted, pulling at Tate.
In answer, he took Sera’s hand, placed it on his cock. It was hard and throbbing, and even the feel of it through his pants was enough to have her thighs quivering all over again. “I’ve wanted you since you showed me that house on Pacific.”
Her eyes went wide.
“You were wearing that tight skirt that shows off your ass, and I spent the whole time trying not to be a giant pig.” His hands dropped to the mattress, slid under the ass in question and squeezed. “You have the best ass.”
She smirked, did a little squeezing of her own. “Pot meet kettle.” A beat as they both laughed. “Do you really remember that house on Pacific?”
“It was fucking incredible,” he said. “I wanted to buy it on the spot.”
“What?” She blinked, grabbed his hand and tugged him down to the bed next to her. “You shredded that house to pieces, made me think you couldn’t stand it.”
He gave her a chagrined smile. “You were the first agent who seemed to get what I wanted from the beginning. But—”
“What?”
“I got one look at you, and I didn’t want it to end. And it wasn’t just the skirt, fuck, just seeing you made me feel lighter.” He rolled to his side, facing her. “You were so excited about the house, your eyes lighting up about the inlay on the floor, the size of the kitchen island. You had this glow . . . and as creepy as that sounds, I just wanted to bathe in that.”
Wow.
As in, just wow.
“That is creepy.”
He froze then laughed. “It is. Romantic words aren’t my strong suit, sweetheart, but—and I’m probably insane for this—but . . .”
“What?” she asked again, knowing that she needed to find another word but not able to.
“I want this to work out between us,” he said. “I don’t want it to be business or to get back at your mother. I just want you, baby.”
I just want you, baby.
The most romantic words a woman could hear.
“I want that too,” she said softly. Th
en frowned. “I mean, I don’t want me, I want you. Just you. No one else. Just—”
“A blurt and a ramble in less than a minute,” he teased. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”
Sera smiled. “I think I like it.”
He kissed her. “I think I like it, too.”
“Good,” she said, reaching for the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head. The sight of all that bare flesh had her mouth watering, so she pushed him onto his back and climbed on top. Hands tracing, tongue following suit, she took her time on that incredible chest, licking her way south until he was groaning and cursing and she’d reached the waistband of his pants.
A flick to undo the button, a few seconds to slide down the zipper, to free him from his boxer briefs.
And God, yes.
He was hard and hot and long, but just as she bent to take him in her mouth, she found herself flat on her back on the bed.
“Next time,” he said, reaching for the condom and rolling it on.
She pouted, but that lasted all of two seconds because then his hands finished with the condom and focused on her again, teasing her breasts, slipping between her legs, winding her tighter and tighter until she was worried that she’d go over the edge again.
Normally, that was a good thing. An excellent thing.
Tonight she wanted to go over with him.
So she brushed his hands away, threw a leg over his hip, and used it to draw him close.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
And yes, she might have hissed it, too.
Because it was perfection, a scalding brand filling her to capacity, stretching her and—
Then he moved.
Shocks of pleasure rippled through her, gathering under her skin, sparking her nerves, heating her skin. Sweat broke out on her forehead, on the backs of her knees, and she shot up the edge of that peak.
Everything tightened as he moved in and out—her muscles, the pleasure, Tate.
He was living granite inside her, on top of her, under her fingertips.
“Tate,” she pleaded.
He reached a hand between them. “Come for me, baby. You feel so good.” A groan. “I’m so fucking close.”
She was the one that was close, so close that it only took one press of his hand against her clit to send her toppling. Tate pushed in once, twice more and then cursed as he followed her over the edge.
They lay entwined for long moments, catching their breath as he rolled to the side and held her close.
He brushed his fingers through her hair, gently untangling the strands.
And it was peaceful.
So damned peaceful that she asked, “Can we do it tomorrow?”
Silence, then, “Do what?”
She risked a glance up at him, heart pounding, feeling so deeply connected to him that she didn’t give one damn about the beach wedding. She just wanted him. “Can we go to Vegas tomorrow?”
His mouth curved, and he nodded. “I’d like that.”
A brush of her lips against his, but just as she opened her mouth to reply, his stomach growled. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she grinned at him. “We forgot the Netflix part of Netflix and Chill.”
His hand rubbed his stomach. “Does that mean snacks?”
She grinned, reaching over him to grab his pants and pulled out his cell. “I have no clue, but I’m starving, and I think we covered the Chill part, don’t you think?”
They had covered the Chill part.
At least for the hour it took for the food to come and them to eat.
Then they covered the Chill part again.
Just to be sure they had all the finer points perfected.
Sixteen
Tate
He glanced over at Sera, saw her eyes were closed, her head propped against the plane’s window.
He’d offered to rent a private jet, but she’d refused, telling him it was a waste of money and that she’d use points to buy their last-minute flight.
Points.
Seriously, she was so different from Priscilla.
Look, he wasn’t trying to say he was some sort of damaged hero, ruined by a woman who’d scorned him or left him at the altar or even who’d irrevocably broken his heart. Tate wasn’t any of that.
He’d broken things off with Priscilla because it had always been one more thing, just a little more money or another necklace or a bigger, more expensive . . . anything. Hell, that perpetual question of “Can I just have one more . . . ?” fill in the blank had led to his estrangement from his parents.
He owed them.
He had so much.
He . . . had felt too damned much like a bank.
And so it had been safer to keep his distance, to focus on work, especially when people made him nervous anyway.
Then FundHer. Then needing to find someone who could do what he couldn’t.
Then Sera.
Her.
She was different, made him want to be different, inspired him to go out in the world, so long as that world had her in it.
She’d grown up with Delgado money and yet, she was so incredibly normal.
And stubborn, he thought with a smile, remembering the way she’d refused to get on the private plane he’d ordered despite her protests.
“We’re not going to fly to our wedding in coach.”
She’d huffed. “The flight’s all of an hour.”
“Sweetheart,” he’d said, “Think of how much we’ll save on baggage fees.”
“We each get two free bags,” she’d grumbled, but had gotten on the plane anyway.
Then had curled up on the couch and promptly fallen asleep.
He’d dismissed the attendant, tucked a blanket over her, and had considered taking a nap himself. They’d stayed up way too late the previous night, waiting for the food he’d ordered in . . . waiting that had led to the food going cold after their delivery driver had ended up leaving it on the porch.
Still, the best pasta he’d ever had.
Though a naked Sera cuddled up next to him probably had a lot to do with that.
Tate pushed away the urge to join his fiancé on the couch, ignored the urge to sit in silence and ponder how quickly his life had changed over the last couple of weeks—going from swearing off marriage, or at least any semblance of a real one, to shedding his recluse habits. He’d been out of his house and office more in the last two weeks than the previous two years.
That probably should have scared him, but instead he felt alive for the first time in forever.
So, instead of lying down next to her and pulling her into his arms like he wanted, Tate decided to clear the decks.
He’d already canceled his meetings that day, delegated the newest rollout to the person he’d hired to be in charge of them—fancy that, trusting the people he hired to actually do their job.
Dan had been shocked at the call, but also eager to prove himself.
It would be fine. Well, not fine since this type of rollout of new features never went completely smooth. There would be fires and crises and a plethora of problems. But in the end, his team would figure it out.
The world would go on circling around the sun, his users’ experience would improve, and . . . he’d have a life.
Fancy that, he thought as he pulled out his laptop and began to go through his emails. He hadn’t told Sera, but while they’d been making their respective calls to their businesses that morning, he’d also made a few not business-related calls of his own.
To Hector, to find out if Sera could slip away for a few days.
To Heather, to see if she or any of Sera’s friends could meet them in Vegas.
He figured Sera might want some familiar, friendly faces as witnesses.
Unfortunately, Heather was traveling for business, but she had promised to call the crew of women that were Sera’s closest friends. The Sextant they called themselves, apparently, because they’d Googled “a group of six” while drunk—which was technically a sextet,
but they hadn’t Googled responsibly, and so the name Sextant had stuck.
Anyway, his thought was that she spoke highly of her friends and he knew after having talked to Bec and met with Heather, how lucky she was to have them in her life.
So, he’d invited them all.
He just didn’t know if they’d be able to make it, and so he hadn’t told Sera.
She would have told him not to bother, to not make a fuss, but Tate found that he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to make a fuss over her. She’d pulled him out of his careful little bubble over a year ago, and he . . .
He loved her.
It made no logical sense, this draw he had had to this woman, why she was so different from the rest of the female population. There was no explanation for why he was so different with her.
Except that he loved her.
He hadn’t been able to stay away because he loved her.
Her name had been the first he’d blurted out to Roche because he loved her.
He wanted to protect her because he really fucking loved her.
Terrifying . . . or it should have been.
Instead, Tate was relieved. This was what had been prickling the back of his mind, the missing puzzle piece that gave him clarity. This was the line of code that explained every feeling and connection and—
He loved her.
It was as simple as that.
Smiling, he clicked open his email and began scrolling through the messages. Work, not important. Work, important. Work—
Not work.
Definitely not work.
The subject line read: Tate Conner, you need to see this.
The sender was Abigail O’Keith.
What he read in that email had his heart sinking, his gut twisting itself into knots.
Quietly, he rose to find the flight attendant.
He needed to speak to the pilot.
They had to turn the plane around.
Seventeen
Sera
She woke up to an empty plane.
Stretching with a groan, she glanced around, confirming that she was alone. Or at least in the body of the plane. Soft voices echoed from the cockpit.