by Ivy Layne
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.
Chapter Eleven
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 happen, 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.
A part of me wanted to crawl into Tate’s lap and let him fix everything. But he couldn't fix this. I was broken, and no matter how good I got at handling my anxiety problems, the media circus was always going to be a part of Tate’s life. A tiny sliver of me resented him for it. It wasn't fair to resent him for my problems. I knew that. But kneeling on the bathroom floor, puking up my guts after being ambushed by reporters and fighting back flashbacks from the worst part of my childhood, I didn't care about fair. I just wanted to go back to being okay.
"Go away," I rasped. "Go away, please, Tate."
After a minute, he did, leaving me alone.
I don’t know how long it took me to get myself together, but eventually, I got up off the floor. I was still a sweaty, shaky mess, and I couldn't stand it a second longer. I turned on the shower almost hot enough to burn and stood under the steamy spray, letting my mind drift.
Tate was still there when I came out, my hair combed straight, bundled in a thick fuzzy robe. His eyes flashed to me, dark with worry. He started toward me, then stopped.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out a hand, then dropping it to his side when I kept my distance. Jo looked between us, frowning, and said,
“I made you some tea.” She set a mug on the kitchen table, and I lowered myself into a chair, feeling ancient. After an episode like that, every muscle in my body hurt. I was exhausted, and I wanted to be alone, but I had to do this first.
“Can you sit down?” I asked, looking up at him. The expression on his face, worry mixed with frustration, made me want to cry. I fought it back. I needed to keep it together long enough to talk to Tate. Once that was done, I was going to crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.
“Was that a panic attack?” he asked gently.
“Yeah," I said. "I haven't had one in over a year."
"Was it the reporters?" Tate asked, looking at Jo and then back at me. Then she hadn't told him. Jo was the best, and she knew how to keep a secret.
"When I was nine, I went on a play date with my best friend," I said. Tate looked confused. I didn't blame him, but I didn't know how else to do it. I had to tell the story, and then he would understand. "It was a day off school, a teacher workday or something, and Kelly's mom took us to one of those arcades for kids with the cartoon animals and the pizza. We were there about an hour when a man came in and started arguing with a woman who worked there. He was her ex-husband. They’d been fighting over custody, but I didn't know any of that. I just heard the yelling, and it scared me. I was in the ball pit with Kelly. She ran for her mom, but I hid in the balls. The woman was screaming back at him, and he hit her. When she got back up, he pulled out a gun. He started shooting. He didn't stop until everyone was dead. I was the only one who survived. I hid in the bottom of the ball pit, and I didn't come out until the police found me."
"Emily," Tate said, his voice heavy with pain and the horror of what he'd heard. His hands reached across the table for mine, but I sat back, gripping the warm mug of tea. I wanted his comfort. Half of me wanted to burrow into him and let him wrap his strong arms around me and keep me safe. The other half couldn't forget that he was the reason we'd been ambushed by the reporters in the first place. They hadn't been shouting my name. They'd been shouting Tate's.
"They wouldn't leave me alone," I said, wanting to finish it. "They followed me everywhere, the reporters, taking my picture and yelling at me. They waited in the street outside my school." I shook my head as if trying to banish the memories.
"I didn't start having the panic attacks until later. I don't know, maybe it took time for everything to filter through. But it started then, at the shooting and right after."
I looked down at my cup of tea and took a long sip. When I thought I had enough courage, I looked back up at Tate and said, "I can't do this with you. I want to. I do. But I can't. I can't face that kind of attention. I won't be able to handle it."
"Emily, don't. That doesn't happen all the time. It doesn't even happen often. Something is going on with my cousin, Jacob—that's what it was about. It wasn't even me. We can handle this."
"No, we can't,” I said, feeling sick and hopeless. “I can't. I worked so hard to get here, to have a life that was even close to normal. Now I feel it all sliding away. I've gone a year without having any panic attacks, and now I've had two in three days."
"You said the other day wasn't a panic attack," Tate argued.
"I have too much at stake, Tate,” I said. “I don’t want to go back to how I was before, living at home, scared to leave the house. I'm better off alone. I'm sorry."
"So that's it? Just I'm sorry, and it's over?" Tate shoved back out of his seat and stood, glaring down at me.
"You don't understand," I said. "You don't understand how bad I was and how hard it was to get better. I care about you. I care abou
t you a lot. But I can't do this, Tate. I can't."
I was so tired. My head hurt, and I still felt queasy. I risked a look at Tate and immediately wished I hadn't. His deep blue eyes were dark with anger, his arms crossed over his chest. Maybe being mad at me would make this easier for him. I didn't want to hurt Tate. That was the last thing I wanted, but I'd been crazy to think I could make a relationship with him work. With another guy, maybe—someone low-profile who lived a quiet life. I couldn't handle Tate Winters. This morning had proved it without a doubt.
Suddenly desperate to end the whole thing, I got up from the table and said, "I'm sorry," before turning and fleeing down the hall to the safety of my bedroom.
Jo came in a few minutes later and sat on the edge of my bed.
"You need to get some rest," she said. "Sit up and let me braid your hair so it doesn't get all tangled."
I did, turning my back to her, and felt my tight muscles relax under the soothing strokes of the comb against my scalp, the tug of it pulling on my hair. She sat there and combed my hair, waiting for me to calm down. Finally, she gathered the wet strands and began to braid them.
"Are you sure about this, Em?” she asked quietly.
I sighed. I didn't want to be sure. I wanted Tate. But just the memory of the shouting reporters and the flashing lights was enough to remind me that it couldn't happen.
"No," I said honestly. "But I can feel myself falling apart, Jo. Everything has been so good, but since I met Tate, I feel like I'm sliding closer and closer to the edge. It scares me," I whispered.
"I know," Jo said. "But you need to think about this, Emily. He really cares about you. He wasn't just mad when you made him leave. He was hurt."
A tear slid down my cheek. The idea of hurting Tate was a knife in my heart. I cared about him—more than I should, when we’d known each other for less than a week.
“I know you're scared,” Jo went on. “And you need to do what's right for you. But Emily, don't think about what's right for you from a place of fear. How did your therapist help you get over your agoraphobia?"
