My breath hitched. I followed the trajectory of the bottle as Tate tipped it up. Dark amber liquid squirted onto the swell of my breasts, then drizzled between my cleavage. Bending his head, he lapped up the syrup, an appreciative groan easing from his throat. I wasn’t sure whether that was meant for me, or the syrup, but either way, a rush of wetness pooled between my legs. I clenched my thighs together, desperate for something, anything to alleviate the ache, although in truth, only Tate’s cock could do that.
Or his tongue.
Or maple syrup and his tongue.
Or maybe maple syrup and his tongue and his cock.
Oh God, this is so erotic.
My knees trembled in anticipation of what was to come, and Tate must have sensed it because he gripped the hem of my negligee and lifted it over my head, then lay me down on top of the bed. He straddled me, his strong, muscular thighs either side of my waist. He mustn’t have put the bottle of maple syrup down, or maybe he had, and I was too lost in pleasure to notice, but he held it in his hand again. This time, he poured a trail over my breasts and my abdomen. His head dipped once more, and his hot tongue lapped at me. I tried to arch my back, but Tate kept me pinned. I couldn’t move my legs either. The inability to writhe as much as I usually would have concentrated the pleasure right at my core.
Oh, and then I got my wish. Tate removed my panties, and the syrup mingled with my own wetness. And then his tongue was there… there. Now I could arch, and writhe. I thrust my hips upward, pushing my pussy into his face, daring him to be rough, be hard, just… be.
It felt almost painful. I needed… God, I needed. I understood Tate’s earlier desperation to come, because my core ached, its demand for release so intense I might die if I didn’t climax soon.
I lifted up onto my elbows and watched Tate’s dark head bob as he pleasured me.
“Tate,” I breathed. “God, please.”
He nipped at my clit, then pushed his tongue inside me again, his ministrations enough to send me over the edge. My pussy gripped his tongue, pulsing, burning in hot, agonizing, pleasurable waves. I cried out. I might even have screamed. My climax went on and on, and I rode Tate’s face like a woman possessed. In that moment, I lost myself, I didn’t want it to end.
Still teetering at the height of pleasure, I watched through half-closed eyes as Tate shoved off his jeans, dragged his T-shirt over his head, donned a condom faster than I’d ever seen it done before, and pushed inside me. He knelt up, lifting my ass, his eyes glued to the point where we were joined. I leaned up again because I wanted to see, too. I stared, transfixed, as Tate pulled out of me almost the entire way, then with a sharp thrust of his hips, slammed forward. I grunted, the sudden violent movement cracking my skull against the headboard. Tate curved a hand behind my head and repeated the movement over and over. I struggled to catch my breath, gasping, gulping in air as Tate pounded into me, hard.
And then he lay on top of me, our bodies rubbing together, hot and sticky from our sweat and the syrup. I wrapped my thighs around his waist and tilted my pelvis.
Oh yeah. That’s what I need.
The head of his cock ground against my sensitive front wall every time he pulled out then pushed back in, his pelvis brushing my clit with every thrust, driving me closer to my ultimate goal.
“Come, Madison,” he demanded, his jaw clenched tight, a nerve beating furiously in his cheek. “Come with me. I want us to come together, but I can’t hold on much longer.”
His words finished me off. I let go, coming hard, my climax unbelievably even stronger than before, driven on by the feel of Tate’s cock inside me, the weight of his body on top of me, the smell of him, and of sex, his mouth by my ear, his breathing coming in short, sharp pants. He muttered something, but I couldn’t make it out, and then he caught my lips in a searingly hot kiss, his cock jerking again and again.
He raised his body a couple of inches off me but lingered as though he couldn’t bear to break our connection. I held him tightly, pressing kisses to his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, his lips. My way of thanking him for giving me more pleasure than I ever thought possible, and I wasn’t talking only about the sex we’d shared.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I whispered.
My body protested as I rolled onto my side. Everything ached, but in a good, highly satisfying way. Last night was… epic. Tate and I had devoured each other for hours, followed by an amusing fifteen minutes in the shower getting rid of all the sticky stuff. Who knew syrup and chocolate and strawberries could be such fun? They’d unquestionably need to form part of my weekly food shopping going forward.
I slipped out of bed and used the bathroom. Tate was still fast asleep when I returned. I padded into my living room, closing the bedroom door behind me.
And then I remembered, and a different kind of ache hit me hard in the chest. Dean’s twenty-second birthday had arrived. I crossed the room to my bookcase and lifted down a silver picture frame. Mounted inside was a photo of me and Dean on his eighteenth birthday, one year and ten months before the crash that had stolen his life, leaving him forever young, and me forever bereft.
A fat tear spilled down my cheek, soon joined by several others. I cried, silently, hugging that picture to my chest, wishing for things that could never be. For Dean to be here, living his life, maybe fulfilling his dreams, not lying in a graveyard with his body burned to ashes, the memories of his family and a marble headstone the only thing that showed he’d existed. That he’d lived and loved, and been loved.
I’d rarely cried since Dean’s funeral, locking up my feelings as tight as I could, but whether I was finally allowing my grief to break free, or my growing connection with Tate had freed my emotions in an unexpected way, tears for what I’d lost were becoming far more frequent.
“You were right and I was wrong, Dean,” I whispered, looking up because, for sure, my brother resided in Heaven where he belonged. Where the good people went. “Tate was worthy of your adoration. And he is worthy of mine.”
“Who are you talking to?”
I spun around, Dean’s photo still clutched in my hands. Tate must have noticed I’d been crying, because the sexy smile he’d greeted me with fell. In an instant, he was by my side. He cupped my cheeks, drying my tears with his thumbs.
“What’s wrong, Madison? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” He patted me all over as though expecting to find a visible wound. Except my wounds were all inside, tucked away.
I shook my head. “I’m not hurt.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I slowly turned Dean’s photo around and held it up so Tate could see. “Today would have been his twenty-second birthday.”
Realization crossed his face, and he grimaced. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”
He held me, and I held Dean. We stood like that for several minutes, the hard edges of the photo frame between us. Eventually, we broke apart.
“I need to go soon,” I explained. “We always visit Dean’s grave on his birthday, as well as at Christmas, and on the day he died.” I winced. “I go at other times, too, usually when I need to run something by him. I still talk to him, you see. That’s what I was doing when you walked in just then.”
“What do you talk to him about?”
I shrugged. “Anything. Everything. Right then I was talking to him about you.”
Tate’s forehead wrinkled. “Me?”
“Yup.” I smiled. “I admitted to him he’d been right about you. That you had deserved his adoration. That you’re a good person. Dean would’ve loved watching me admit my mistake. He adored being right.”
Tate plucked Dean’s photo out of my hands, stared at it for a few seconds, then carefully replaced it on the bookshelf. He even managed to guess the correct shelf.
“Just gonna set you down here, buddy,” he said, turning the photo slightly away from us. “You can face that way because I’m about to kiss your sister, and you really don’t need to see that.”
He knitted his ha
nds in my hair, tilting my head back. I opened my mouth, readying myself for his kiss, and clung on to his shoulders for support. When he drew back, I expected to see a wide grin on his face; instead, he looked more serious than I’d ever seen him.
“What do you need, Madison? To help make today ever so slightly less painful.”
I stroked his face. “I’ll take another one of those kisses please.”
He brushed his thumb over my lower lip. “Consider it done.”
I parked my car on a side street a short walk from the cemetery. I’d offered to pick up Mum and Dad—same as always—but they’d refused.
Same as always.
Mum always gave the standard excuse. “It’s so out of your way, Madison. Your Dad and I can easily catch the bus. It stops right at the end of our street.” I wasn’t sure if they preferred it this way, so that when we finished visiting with Dean, they didn’t have to cope with my pain as well as their own.
I picked up the flowers from the passenger seat, made sure I locked the car, then jogged across the road. As I weaved between the rows and rows of gravestones, so eerily quiet, a shudder ran through me. The thought that each one of these stones represented a lost life, a family destroyed, hearts broken beyond repair, well, it felt almost too much to bear. But still I returned, time and again, almost as though I needed to feel the pain, that it had become a friend, a companion, my one link to Dean that I simply refused to set free, because once I did, I might lose him for good.
I spotted my parents already kneeling next to Dean’s grave, Mum tending to the ground surrounding it, pulling out weeds and dead flowers, and replacing them with fresh ones. She’d left space in the vase for mine.
“Hey,” I said as I approached. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
Dad helped Mum to her feet, and we group-hugged.
“Not at all, darling,” Mum said, her eyes red-rimmed. “We’ve been here no longer than five minutes, isn’t that right, Jonathan?”
Dad nodded. “Yep, no more than five minutes,” he echoed, as though the timing was so terribly important.
“That’s good,” I said, dropping to my haunches so I could add my flowers to Mum’s. “Hey, Deano,” I whispered. “Happy birthday, bro.”
Mum sniffled behind me, and I didn’t need to look to know that Dad had put his arm around her. It gave me comfort to know they relied on each other, and stopped me from worrying quite so much, especially as I spent so much time away with this new job. When Dean had first died, Mum hadn’t coped at all. She’d spent hours in Dean’s room smelling his clothes and sleeping in his bed. For months I’d worried she wouldn’t recover, and I’d lose Mum, too. But she’d surprised everyone with her strength, her ability to move on with her life in the firm knowledge Dean would have wanted her to.
My mum was my hero.
I reached into my purse and removed the tiny replica Formula One car Tate had given me this morning. After I’d told him about Dean’s birthday, he’d called up his assistant and had her stop by his apartment to collect it, then bring it over to my place. His thoughtful gesture touched me so deeply. It was painted in Tate’s racing colors, the number one engraved on the front, representing Tate’s supremacy as World Champion.
“What’s that you’ve got there, sweetheart?” Dad asked.
“A race car.” I held it out so he could see.
His eyes flared with recognition, and also a tinge of relief. “Does this mean you’re finally letting go of some of your anger?”
My throat tightened. I placed the car next to the vase and stood. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I nodded. “I’ve kind of been… seeing Tate Flynn,” I said, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment, partly because I’d spent the last two years lambasting him, and partly because talking to my parents about the man I was seeing, and knowing they knew what that meant, well, it was… uncomfortable.
“Kind of?” Dad asked, an arch to his eyebrow, and a quirk to his lips. “Does he sleep with one eye open?”
I playfully bumped his shoulder. “Daddy!” I said reproachfully.
“Oh, Jonathan,” Mum chided. “Leave the poor girl alone.” She hugged me. “I’m glad you’ve finally realized Dean’s passing wasn’t anyone’s fault, least of all Tate’s. An accident, that’s what it was. And Dean adored him, so that’ll do for me. I’m pleased for you, darling.”
My parents were pretty awesome people. If only I’d had their capacity for forgiveness earlier, I might not have spent so much time hiding my grief beneath misplaced anger. Still, if I hadn’t carried out my one-woman crusade against Tate, I might not have been so keen to cover Kaz’s sabbatical, and Tate and I likely wouldn’t have had the chance to get to know each other.
“Are you still coming for dinner tonight?” Dad asked once we’d finished paying our respects to Dean.
I nodded. “Wouldn’t miss Mum’s lasagna for anything.”
“Why don’t you bring Tate?” Mum suggested. “There’s plenty of food to go around.”
Yikes! Not sure I was ready for that. And I’d take bets that Tate most certainly wasn’t.
“Um, I don’t know what his plans are,” I stalled.
“You won’t know unless you ask him,” Mum said. “And it would be nice for us all to spend Dean’s birthday with his hero, don’t you think?”
She’d cornered me, and she knew it. “Okay,” I mumbled. “I’ll call him.”
Tate
“You have reached your destination,” the mechanical satnav voice informed me as I stopped outside number thirty-eight Edgerton Drive. Madison’s parents lived in a nice semi-detached property on a leafy street in a London suburb. I spotted a parking space a short distance away. It was a tight squeeze, and most drivers wouldn’t have been able to make it.
Lucky for me, I wasn’t most drivers.
My nerve endings tingled with anticipation. I’d never met a girl’s parents before. Strange, considering my thirtieth birthday was fast approaching, but facts were facts. I’d had invites, but whenever a girl I’d been seeing had tentatively broached the subject, my brain had screamed too serious. I’d make a piss-poor excuse, wait out the obligatory forty-eight hours, then break up with her under the guise of “It’s just not working.”
I picked up the bouquet of flowers I’d bought for Mrs. Brady and a decent bottle of scotch for Mr. Brady, and knocked on the door. I wished Madison was beside me, but when she’d called to invite me tonight, she’d told me she’d decided to spend the day with her parents and I should come on over at seven. I was still reeling from being invited, especially given the importance of today to the family.
The door opened, and Madison stood on the other side. My chest constricted at the sight of her. I prayed to fucking God my cock behaved itself. The last thing I needed was to greet Madison’s parents with a raging hard-on.
“Hey, beautiful.” I went to kiss her cheek, because that seemed like the right thing to do considering her parents were right inside, but she turned her face at the last minute, capturing my lips.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Mum insisted. I know it probably feels really awkward for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Not at all,” I said, and then I frowned as a thought occurred to me. “Are you okay with me being here?”
She twisted her lips to one side. “It’s not that. It’s just… this all feels a bit serious, and you and me, well, we haven’t talked about serious. I mean, I know you’re not serious, right? You don’t do serious.”
I stuck the bottle of whisky under my arm, leaving one hand free. I traced her soft cheek with my knuckles. “This is the first invitation I’ve ever accepted to meet a girl’s parents, so I guess that means I might do serious… with you.”
Her mouth parted, but before she could respond, a voice very like Madison’s called out.
“For goodness sake, don’t leave the poor boy standing on the doorstep. Fetch him in here.”
Madison raised her eyes heavenward. “Brace yourself,�
�� she said.
I grinned. “Bring it.”
She tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and led me down the hallway and into a cozy sitting room. Both her parents were on their feet.
“Mum, Dad, this is Tate,” Madison said.
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Brady.” I handed her the flowers and then passed the whisky to Mr. Brady. “Sir.”
“Now, now, none of that,” Mr. Brady scoffed. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, lad. I’m Jonathan, and this is Claire.” He took the bottle from me and made an appreciative sound. “Ooh, good brand. You’ll do for me, lad. I’ll be sure to have a snifter of this before bed.”
Claire buried her nose in the flowers, then smiled. “These are lovely, Tate, but you shouldn’t have. Thank you, though. I’ll just pop them in some water. Jonathan, stop gushing over the poor boy and fix the drinks.”
“Yes, dear,” Jonathan said, then winked at me.
I decided I liked Madison’s father—a lot. This house emitted real warmth, despite the pain they’d suffered. What a contrast to my own familial home. I may have benefitted from a privileged upbringing—materially speaking—but I’d choose Madison’s welcoming and loving family over my own every day of the week.
“What can I get you, Tate?”
I pointed my chin at the bottle of whisky in his hand. “How about a wee dram.”
Madison raised an eyebrow. “You don’t drink.”
“It’s summer break,” I said, grinning. “One won’t hurt.”
By the time we sat down for dinner, I couldn’t feel more at home, or have been received more warmly. Jonathan asked me a multitude of questions regarding Formula One ‘behind the scenes’, and I happily answered each and every one. Madison’s father was incredibly knowledgeable, and we even got stuck in to a good debate about the upcoming changes to the qualifying sessions, aimed at making them more competitive and giving the lower-level teams a chance to prosper.
“Have you ever been to a race?” I asked.
Jonathan shook his head. “Claire doesn’t mind watching on the TV, but she’s not exactly chomping at the bit to go to an actual race, are you, love?”
The Full Velocity Series Box Set Page 32
