by Sarah Smith
I inquire again about this weekend.
He sighs. “It’s our high school reunion. Brendan, my sister, and a few other people have been hounding me to go, to catch up with old friends, but I’m not into it.”
“You’re not into spending time with your friends?”
“I spend enough time with my friends. I just don’t want to spend a Saturday evening at my old high school surrounded by people I couldn’t stand ten years ago.”
“Well, it obviously means a lot to your sister and Brendan.”
He leans down, rubbing his face in his hands, then stares ahead. “I wasn’t the most popular person in high school. I was moody and quiet and pissy.”
“You’re moody and quiet and pissy now. What’s the difference?”
“Most everyone hated me. Except for a handful of friends and my sister.”
“So just go and hang out with your sister and Brendan. It’s a few hours of your life. Then leave.”
He leans his head against the cabinet behind him. “They’ll spend the entire reunion catching up with old friends about the good old days while I’ll be the quiet weirdo in the corner.”
His chest heaves when he inhales. I resist the urge to lick his stomach.
“At least you’ll be a hot quiet weirdo in the corner.”
He chuckles and skims his thumb along my arm. “That’s the first time anyone’s called me that. ‘Hot,’ I mean.”
I rest a hand on his shoulder. Never in a million years would I have pegged Tate as the type of person who’s too insecure to go to a high school reunion. He seems ruthlessly confident. I assumed being nervous was beneath him.
“What if I go with you?”
He squints at me. “You’d do that for me?”
I run my fingers through his soft curls. He closes his eyes and moans.
“Absolutely. That way you won’t be alone, and you’ll be doing something nice for your sister and Brendan. Think of it as a date, if it makes things more enticing.” With both hands on my waist, he pulls me against him. “We’re a couple now. We should be there to support each other.”
He pecks me on the lips, then leans back to gaze at me. His mouth is a flawless line of pink. “No one’s ever gone out of their way for me like this.”
He gives me a proper kiss this time. Pulling away, he types a text on his phone.
“Don’t make plans for Saturday evening because you’ll be my date to the reunion.”
His hand falls to my waist, and he runs his thumb along my stomach. It causes the most divine shiver. He pulls me closer.
“Watching you play a full game of rugby would have been a fun date.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving slowly along his neck, daring me to lick it.
“I’m covered in sweat and dirt, crashing into a bunch of dudes. We’re all grunting and shouting. Sometimes we fight. That would be the worst date ever.”
“You are sorely mistaken about what I like to do on dates.”
Now his gaze holds me hostage. The fronts of our bodies are still pressed together, but I want to press something else. I nibble his bottom lip, and it’s like a match falling in gasoline.
He grabs me by the sides of my face and pulls me in for a deeper kiss. Instantly, we sink into each other. My arms are wrapped around his neck. His hands wander all over my body. First my waist, then my hips, then my ass, then up my back. My fingers are tangled in his curls by the time he reaches my breasts. When his mouth reaches mine, I bite his lip playfully and he backs off, leaving his hands to set up camp at my waist. I want to give him all the hard and soft stuff that he wants.
Minutes pass as we kiss. I bite again, he nips me back. I slurp, he sucks. Every morsel of contact I have with Tate’s lips and tongue is heaven. His mouth is the best taste I’ve ever known, and I can never get enough. I want more, as much as he’s willing to give me.
When his hand wanders to my right lower abdomen, there’s a squeeze. I squeal at the sharp pain.
“Shit, sorry!” he cries out.
“It’s fine.” My pained tone is not convincing. I’m leaning over, holding the side of my stomach. “It’s still a little tender. Hard pressure aggravates it.”
He kneels down and looks at my stomach. He’s eye level with my navel, pulling up my tank top to examine me. My breath catches. This is an interesting position. The flesh between my thighs aches again when his exhale bounces off my stomach.
He presses a featherlight kiss against the tiny incision before standing back up to face me. I almost choke.
“I guess I got a little carried away.” He blushes, and it’s adorable.
I clear my throat. “I like how carried away you get around me.”
“Can I make it up to you?”
“How would do you that?”
He leads me by the hand to his sectional, and I take a seat. When he kneels on the floor in front of me, my breath catches.
“I know you’ve still got a couple days left until you hit four weeks, but you feel good, right? As long as there’s no hard pressure on your abdomen, you’re okay?”
“That’s exactly right,” I answer too quickly with a smile that’s probably too wide for my face.
“I’d like to make good on my comment from earlier today.”
Goose bumps flash across my skin. I hope that he’s talking about those six words that propelled me to sneak to his rugby game this evening.
He asks if I’m okay lying down on the couch. Instead of answering, I fall flat on my back. Slowly, his hand glides up my thigh to the hem of my leggings, then the waistband.
“Okay if these come off?”
I moan an “mmmhmm.”
Lycra fabric soon pools at my ankles, and the hot moisture of his breath is all I feel on my thighs. I lean my head up to gaze at Tate. Cloudy eyes and kiss-swollen lips greet me. Then he scoots closer between my legs, his face at my thighs.
“Let’s see how I compare to your hand.”
twenty-one
He raises an eyebrow, smug confidence seeping into his expression. “If anything hurts or feels uncomfortable, just say so, and I’ll stop.”
Christ almighty, I’ve been aching for this. Another “mmmhmm” is the only sound I can make when my heart is beating this fast. Tate is about to explore a part of me that hasn’t been touched by another person in nearly a year. My mind goes straight back to our car make-out after our Chinese food date, to the moment his tongue slid over my breasts. A shiver pulses through me.
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” he says.
“Nerves and all that,” I babble. “I was thinking of us in your car, when you pulled down my shirt and bra and—”
He reaches up and puts a hand over my mouth, pushing me back down flat. The ache between my legs spreads. I moan, then chuckle against his palm.
“Get out of your head. Let me in for a bit.”
This tiny show of dominance drives me wild. His stubbled cheeks slide against my inner thighs, and a satisfied sigh pushes my mouth open. Pleasure and anticipation pulse through me. Then he mumbles something I can’t hear. For a moment, I wonder if I should ask him to repeat himself, but then I feel his finger hook over my panties, pulling them to the side, and I forget how to use my words.
An instant later there’s contact, followed by softness, wetness, circular motion. Delicious, divine circular motion. It starts slow in a teasing, clockwise manner. I try to count the seconds, but I forget what number comes after six. All I can focus on is the wet slide of his tongue. Then he has the audacity to change to counterclockwise movement and speed up.
My head falls back, my mouth falls open, and I make a noise. It doesn’t sound human, but it is human since it’s coming from me and I’m a human being.
Time passes. I’m not sure how long because my brain is trapped in a pleasure fog. When I
finally muster enough strength to speak, I sound desperate.
“How . . .” I gasp. I press my eyes shut, hoping it helps me concentrate on speaking. “How are you . . .”
A little further, but still a challenge. I can either speak or moan. My brain won’t let me do both.
I inhale. “How are you so good at this?”
He stops and lifts his head. I tilt up, and our eyes meet.
He shoots me a heart-melting smirk. “Practice.”
“Fucking hell.” It’s all I can say without losing it.
Without another word, he lowers himself back down. He’s a man of few words when it counts, and I like it. I like it even more when I feel his teeth gently bite the inside of my thigh. When he resumes, I’m a yelping, writhing mess.
It doesn’t take long before I’m screaming and shaking, a convulsing heap on top of his couch. One of my hands grips the back of his head. The other wrenches the cushion above me. I start to speak, but the sounds I make are muddled and incoherent. I stare at the ceiling, my vision blurry and my ears ringing. Spots of black and white speckle my field of vision. I’ve never orgasmed that hard, that quickly with anyone before.
It’s a minute before I can see clearly.
“Are you okay?” Tate’s head pops up from under my thigh. His lips glisten in the dim light his living room lamp casts. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, his brow crinkled in concern.
“Holy shit,” I finally say. My hands are useless flesh gloves compared to the pleasure Tate just delivered to my body.
“Emmie.” The soft palm of his hand finds my knee. He props me into a sitting position, but I’m so dizzy, I nearly topple over. “Easy,” he coaxes.
“Water,” I rasp.
He darts up to the kitchen and fills a glass. I follow him on wobbly legs. When he spins around to find me standing behind him, his worried frown turns into a frustrated one. He touches my forearm. “What are you doing up?”
I grip the counter to steady myself, glass of water in one hand. It’s drained in seconds. Leaning my butt against the edge, I break out into a string of pitchy giggles.
He pulls me into a hug. “You’re okay, then?”
The water seems to have restored a bit of the strength that Tate pulled from me just minutes ago, because I have the energy to push him back while still laughing.
“Of course I’m okay. I’m freaking fantastic. Tate Rasmussen, that’s one hell of a mouth you have on you.”
Gripping his chin with my hand, I pull his face to mine. Our foreheads touch, and he finally lets a smile break free.
“You had me worried for a sec.”
“The only thing you should be worried about is how I’m going to get you back for that.”
My free hand falls to the waistband of his gym shorts, which are highlighting his rather impressive hard-on. I begin to tug his shorts down, but Tate stops me with a soft hand on my wrist.
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?” I whine.
“This was enough for one evening. You should rest.”
“But what about you?” I point my eyes back down to his burgeoning erection. Even in the passing seconds, it loses zero steam.
“I’ll be fine.” Pink cheeks flank his flustered smile.
“I want to, though.”
“I do too. But tonight I wanted to just focus on you.”
I bite back my grin, but my face still heats. He is too good to be true. Again my gaze falls to his nether regions.
“Your concern is sweet, but I’m a dude. I’ve been waiting out boners since I was eleven.”
My head falls back in a laugh. In this moment, it’s like we’re horny high schoolers aching to round the bases.
When I turn my head, I catch a glimpse of a paper taped to one of his cupboards. A list of Ilocano words are printed on it, along with their English definitions. Manang (older female sibling or cousin). Ading (younger sibling or cousin). Wen (yes). Escuela (school). Ubbing (child).
I step away from him to get a better look. There’s a faint image in the background of the paper. As I move closer I realize it’s the backside of the android picture I pasted on his computer screen all those months ago.
“Why do you have this?” I point at it, stunned.
He swallows hard. “I thought it was funny, so I saved it.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “So you could write Filipino words on it?”
“I’ve always wanted to learn,” he stammers.
I walk up to the dark cherry cabinet and touch the paper. “You could have fooled me. You looked pissed that day. I assumed you tore up the picture and threw it away.”
I turn my gaze back to him. He’s sporting that adorably flustered look again, only this time with crossed arms. I can’t believe he kept that android picture. And I can’t believe he’s teaching himself Ilocano.
“I’ll explain in the car. I should drive you home anyway.”
He grabs his keys from the kitchen counter and heads for the door. As much as I want to demand he carry me up to his bedroom this instant so we can finish what he started on the couch, he’s right. All of my limbs tingle, and I feel the faintest tinge of soreness at the lower part of my torso. My body has enjoyed enough thrashing pleasure for one evening, it seems.
Comfortable silence accompanies our drive back to my place. It’s the perfect time to bask in my afterglow.
“Teaching myself a different language is on my bucket list,” he says, parking behind my car in the driveway.
“Ilocano is an interesting choice. I would have assumed you’d choose Tagalog. It’s more widely spoken.”
“I can’t lie; you were my inspiration. I remember you saying to Will around the time I started at Nuts & Bolts that your family spoke Ilocano, not Tagalog.”
I can’t believe he remembered.
He turns off his car. With our heads leaning against the headrests, we turn to each other. The green and yellow glow of the dashboard lights bounces off his skin. He looks like a beautiful alien.
“You could have asked me, you know. I’d be happy to help you learn some phrases and vocab.”
“I was too nervous to ask when I started learning months ago. Introvert problems. Like you said before, I’m a loner to a fault.”
“I never said it was a fault.”
The dashboard lights have faded, and now it’s the gleam of a nearby streetlamp hitting us. The silver-blond hair on his arms makes him shine like a diamond.
“You sure you’re okay with it?” he asks.
I frown at him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the most outgoing person either. Introverts unite.”
Worry clouds his face. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed when you meet everyone at the reunion.”
“Why would I be? Brendan is great, and your sister sounds lovely.”
“No, I mean, disappointed in me.”
I hold his hand in both of mine. “I could never be disappointed in you.”
He finds my gaze. Again my touch seems to unlock something inside of him. “I’m nervous that you’ll see how great my sister is, and then realize how awkward I am. I’m scared you’ll be turned off. I like you so much, Emmie. I don’t want to drive you away.”
I lean forward, my lips falling against his in a soft, chaste kiss. Such a far cry from the filthy kiss he gave me on the couch.
“Never in a million years would I think that about my boyfriend.”
I plop onto his lap. It’s the same straddling position I assumed when we fooled around in the Three Happiness Express parking lot.
He pats the sides of my calves. “Nice try. We’re done for the night. Rest and recover, remember?”
I shoot him my best pouty smile when I plop back into my seat. He grins, then his gaze narrows at his lap.
�
��What’s this?”
I squint to see black text on crumpled white paper. When he unfolds it and the bold letters come into focus, my stomach falls to my feet. It’s the relationship disclosure form I tucked into my pocket earlier today. It must have fallen out when I straddled him.
My brain sends a million panicked messages to my hands to seize the paper from his hands before he can read it, but I’m frozen in shock. It’s too late anyway. He grips it in both hands, gazing at it with a frown of concentration. What is he thinking? Probably that his new girlfriend is commitment obsessed and wants to take things to the next level way the hell too soon.
When my hands finally get the message, I snatch the paper from him and shove it back in my pocket.
“Well, have a good night then . . .” I stutter, tumbling out of the car.
He does the gentlemanly thing and waits until I’m inside before he drives away. I stumble into my bathroom and splash cold water on my face, wondering if I’ve ruined everything.
twenty-two
Lying on my couch, I’m still a bundle of nerves from last night’s slip-up. I wanted to talk to Tate about it at work today and apologize for jumping the gun, but he was stuck in meetings with Will and Lynn, then took off for the worksite.
I tangle both hands through my hair. Last night could have ended on such a high note. It had the makings of an epic night, what with a mind-blowing oral session on his couch and plans to meet his sister and friends at his high school reunion. And there I go, ruining the mood of it all because I got carried away thinking about the future.
The truth is, I’d love to make things official at work. I’d love more dates, more fooling around, but I can’t do any of that if I’ve scared him away.
I silently curse myself for the millionth time for shoving such a bulky piece of paper into my yoga pants pocket. Those types of pockets are designed to hold a phone or a key, not folded-up papers. I make a fist in my hair and groan.
I stare at my phone, aching to text Tate a million versions of I’m sorry for jumping the gun! I’m TOTALLY not planning our future like a commitment-obsessed psycho LOL! We’re still cool, right??? I have a feeling this is not an issue to be resolved via text, though.
