“Why do you have to be so difficult,” she grumbled, but she was smiling and she straightened out the knot in his tie.
“Pardon me for saying so, but that is very much the pot calling the kettle black.”
The tub was only about half full, but she leaned back and turned off the faucet. Then she gingerly lowered herself into the hot water, hissing and breathing fast as she adjusted to the temperature. She bent her legs at the knees, her feet braced on either side of his.
“This feels amazing after that cold water outside. Sit down,” she ordered. He refused to look at her, instead staring at the back wall.
Walls are safe. Walls can never look back at you and judge you or read your mind.
“I told you, I am not bathing with you,” he repeated himself. She laughed and he felt her gently kick him in the ankle.
“Sandy, we're both fully dressed and there's hardly any water in this tub. We're warming up. Sit down.”
He frowned even more, but did as he was told. It was awkward – he was lankier than her, his legs needing more room than hers. But eventually they were situated with Tate sitting upright, her legs on the inside of his with his knees bent and his feet almost under her butt.
“This isn't so bad,” she said in a soft voice, pulling at a loose thread on the sleeve of her shirt.
“No, it isn't,” he agreed. His suit was most likely ruined beyond repair now, but the hot water did feel good. They sat in silence for a moment, just soaking in the warmth, when she suddenly made a gasping noise.
“I forgot! I got us something to celebrate,” she said in an excited voice. She leaned over the edge of the tub and pawed at her purse, dragging it close. He heard the sound of glass clinking.
“Please, I do not want to drink whiskey tonight,” he begged. She snickered and pulled the object free of her bag.
“I figured, so I got you this,” she replied, holding up a bottle of Veuve champagne.
“Now that I'm pretty sure my palate can handle,” he told her, watching while she unwrapped the foil and expertly pulled out the cork. “I can go get glasses so we can ...”
His voice trailed off as she lifted the bottle to her lips and started chugging down the expensive bubbly alcohol. It was several swallows before she finally came up for air and she laughed at his expression.
“Here's to you, Sandy. May your next steps in life be almost as awesome as the ones before,” she toasted him, handing over the bottle.
“Glasses would be easier,” he insisted, but he took a sip straight from the bottle.
They didn't move for a while. Tate chattered on about odds and ends, as she was wont to do, and Sanders fell into a comfortable silence, just enjoying her voice. Her expressive face and animated hand gestures. They continued passing the bottle back and forth, sipping and laughing at her stories.
I should really never doubt her. This has been quite an enjoyable last weekend together, ruined suit and all.
“Sandy.”
Her voice interrupted his thoughts and froze him in place for a second. Contented feeling gone. It wasn't her normal voice, the one full of naughty laughter and innocent teasing. No, this was her husky voice. Breathy, with raspy fricatives. He'd heard that voice often, but never directed at him. No, she'd never used that voice on him.
Only one person got to hear it directed at them.
“What?” he asked, instantly on guard. He even looked around, halfway expecting to see Jameson in the doorway. But they were still alone, and when he looked back, she was shifting around. She moved until she was on her knees, sitting back on her heels.
“There's some things I want to talk about,” she said, some of the sexiness gone from her voice, but not entirely. She was still speaking in a low tone, and was making very direct eye contact with him. She had dark eyes, ringed in thick lashes. Even without her signature makeup, which she'd left off for him, they still stood out.
“What things?” he asked. She shrugged and he became aware that she was walking her fingers very slowly up his shin.
“You're very good looking,” she informed him, her fingers finally reaching the summit of his knee.
“Thank you,” he replied, not sure how to respond. Her fingertips were now tap dancing on him. Making him edgy. Nervous.
“And I'm not just saying that because we're close. It's fact. Other people have noticed it, and when you're alone in the world, without me next to you, or Jameson looming over you, more people are going to notice.”
“I feel that is very presumptuous of you. Just because you find me attractive does not mean other -”
“It's fact,” she insisted. “Empirically speaking, you are good looking. It's just how things are, and girls will be all over you.”
“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, but even if that is true, I highly doubt they will be 'all over' me. And even if they are, I am pretty sure I can defend myself,” he told her. She smiled and her hand went flat over his knee. The water had grown lukewarm during their time in it, but suddenly he felt himself warming up again.
“You're so sure?” she asked.
“Yes. I -”
His voice caught in his throat as she suddenly sat up on her knees, her hand sliding down the top of his thigh. She followed behind, crawling between his legs until she was leaning over him. Boxing him in. He held his breath and looked over her shoulder.
“You don't seem so sure now,” she whispered, her face only inches from his own. He swallowed thickly.
“Tatum. What are you doing?”
“It's okay,” she said, propping herself up with one arm and letting her free hand smooth its way up his chest. He took a shaky breath.
“This is not okay,” he whispered back. Her fingers came to rest against his cheek and her thumb hooked under his jaw, pulling his head around until he was forced to look her in the eye.
“It is,” she insisted. “We wanted to give you a going away present you would remember forever. Something that would help you. Make you more … comfortable.”
“I am very uncomfortable right now,” he assured her. She chuckled low in her throat. That bawdy sound he loved so much. Then she was leaning even closer, her cheek pressed to his and her lips at his ear.
“You won't be for long,” she whispered, her lips catching his earlobe.
What most people – including Tate – never understood about Sanders was that though he presented himself as an uncaring, aloof, detached individual, he was far from it. Inside him was an ocean of emotion that he'd never been properly taught how to navigate. He kept it passive and calm by ignoring it. But sometimes it was like a storm raged through him and he couldn't handle it. He couldn't control it, and Sanders hated nothing more than being out of control.
He lurched forward, forcing her back. She didn't say anything as he abruptly stood up and climbed out of the tub before hurrying from the room. He didn't care that he was soaking wet and trailing puddles of water behind him. Didn't even think about it as he sat down in the chair with a loud squelching sound. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the front door.
Nothing. Nothing. Think about nothing. The square root of thirty-two is five-point-six-six. Thomas R. Marshall was the twenty-eighth vice president. Control yourself. Control your environment. Don't do anything rash. The twenty-ninth president was Calvin Coolidge. Four hundred and thirty-two divided by seventeen is twenty-five-point-four. Control yourself.
*
Tate took a deep breath and ran a hand over her hair. She'd known this wouldn't be easy, but she was ready for the battle. She slowly climbed out of the tub and walked into the bedroom.
Sanders was sitting in the shitty chair at the foot of the bed. His arms were folded sternly across his chest and he was refusing to even look in her direction. She smiled to herself and came to a stop in front of him. When he still didn't acknowledge her, she put her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to ignore me for the rest of the night?” she asked. His mouth was set in a
stern line, but he surprised her by responding.
“If that's what it takes to make you realize you are being absurd, then yes.”
“If a woman throws herself at you, the last thing you should do is call her absurd.”
“But it is absurd when that woman is involved with another man. And especially when that man is practically family to me,” he informed her.
“It's not when it's a carefully considered choice made by both that woman and man,” she replied. Even Sanders wasn't able to hide the shock a statement like that induced and he finally looked at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Sandy,” she sighed, dropping her hands and slowly moving around him. “I worry about you. More than you could possibly know. The idea of … of just anyone being your first time. I can't handle it. You're so different. You deserve perfection. You are perfection. I refuse to send you out to the wolves. I can't let it be awful or awkward or uncomfortable or wrong. The idea of you possibly feeling bad about it, or somebody treating you badly, it kills me. I just … I can't, Sanders. I can't.”
She was behind him when she finished speaking, and she lightly rested her hands on his shoulders. He was completely stiff, his body locked up into one giant charley horse.
It's gonna take a lot of work to loosen him up.
“What, exactly, are you suggesting? You and I have sex, just so you can feel assured that I've lost my virginity to someone deserving?”
“No,” she laughed. “I don't deserve it. I doubt anyone does – you're too good for mere mortals. But you can relax with me, there'll be none of that awkwardness that usually comes along with a first time or when you have sex with someone you don't really know. You can be yourself with me. We can talk to each other. You can ask me anything, do anything. Like I said once before, I've had a lot of practice. I can show you the ropes.”
That hit a note. She felt a shimmy under her hands. A slight tremble rippling through his system.
He remembers. I'm winning.
“This is a bad idea,” he breathed. Tate bent at the waist, running her hands down the front of his body. She kept moving till her chin was on his shoulder.
“Trust me, you'll feel differently in about fifteen minutes,” she whispered back, deftly undoing one of his buttons.
“I don't want to do this.”
“Liar.”
Another button. He was still refusing to move, but he wasn't stopping her.
“Please,” his voice was hoarse.
“I'll stop when you make me stop,” she informed him, now working at the knot in his tie, pulling it loose and slipping the loop free of his collar.
“I don't want him to hate me,” he finally voiced his fear.
“Do you think I would be doing this if that was a possibility?”
“I think that the two of you rarely think through your actions.”
“You think wrong, Sanders. We would never do anything to hurt you. This is a limited time offer. A very special present for a very dear friend who is going so far away. Just accept it. It's like a band aid – just rip it off. Get it over with.”
He was breathing fast, and when she turned to press her lips to his cheek, she saw that he was again staring at the wall.
“I don't want you to hate me,” he whispered.
“Not possible.”
“But what if I don't -”
Enough.
Using both hands, Tate grabbed either side of his shirt and jerked them apart. The remaining buttons popped and flew across the room. He was forced to uncross his arms and she pushed the wet material back over his shoulders, slid it down between him and the chair, then let it fall down his arms.
As his shirt fell away from his hands, she stepped to the side of the chair. She held onto his tie as she went and pulled it free over his head. Then she bent over again, cupping his face between her hands.
“I promise,” she whispered, so close her lips were brushing his. “You won't regret a moment of tonight.”
“I can't ...” he sighed, his eyes closed. She laughed softly, then she pressed her lips to his for a brief second.
“Oh, but you will.”
When she kissed him again, forcing her tongue between his lips, he finally broke. He hid it well, but there was a wild kind of passion in Sanders, she knew. Whenever it came out, it was like a tidal wave, taking over everything in its path.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her down onto his lap. She didn't miss a beat, quickly rearranging her legs so she was straddling him.
“What if this is a mistake,” he panted when she pulled away enough to kiss down the side of his jaw.
“Does this feel like a mistake?”
“You do not love me.”
“Sanders, I love you more than just about anything.”
“But you're not in love with me.”
That made her pause for a moment. Did Sanders really want to wait to have sex until he was in love?
“No,” she agreed, and let her hands drop to his belt buckle. “But you're not in love with me, either, Sanders. No matter what you think. We're not making love here. We're having sex, and that's very different. You'll be having a lot more sex than you'll be making love, trust me.”
If he'd argued with her, if he'd made any sort of statement about wanting to wait, or even if he'd hinted at it, she would've stopped. No real harm had been done. They'd kissed before, she'd sat on his lap before, it was no big deal.
But he didn't say anything. His hands came to rest on her hips and she leaned into him again, tracing her tongue down the side of his neck.
“I do not want this to come between us,” he insisted, clenching his fingers. “I don't want to do this if it could possibly ruin anything between us.”
Tate laughed again and as she bit down on his earlobe, she ripped his belt away from his waist, letting it fly across the room.
“This is two friends having a very good time together, and nothing more. If you understand that and you're okay with the fact that it'll only happen while we're here, then there is absolutely nothing to worry about.”
When she pulled off her top, he finally seemed to lose any reservations he'd had. His hands slid over her hips and up her back, his palms warm against her skin as he moved them up onto her shoulders.
“I don't understand why he would let you do this. Why he would share you,” he breathed, toying with one of her bra straps and gently sliding it to the side.
“Because he cares about you and he knows I'll take of you,” she told him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “And he trusts me and knows that I know what I'm doing, knows that no matter what happens, I belong to him. Besides, sex has always been different for Jameson – it's not as emotional for him. It's an act. Think of it like a pick-up tennis game. We're just playing a friendly set, you and I.”
“Whereas you and he are a doubles team.”
She let her head drop back and she laughed loudly.
“You really do understand me, Sanders. Even when I'm talking absolute bullshit.”
This time, he initiated the kiss. Tate knew she was the only woman he'd ever kissed, but he was still pretty good at it. With a mind like his, she wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd thought about it and studied the act in his mind. Going over and over it until he was confident he could do it well.
If that's true about his kissing, then jesus, he's going to be amazing in bed.
He startled her by abruptly standing up. Sanders was like chorded steel – slender and tone, and also very strong. She wrapped her legs around his waist and scratched her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. He carried her across the room, his tongue becoming very acquainted with the inside of her mouth while he moved.
“See? This isn't so bad,” she laughed when he lowered her to the bed.
“Please, don't talk. I'm trying not to think about what is going on right now.”
“Oh, you better be very aware of everything that's going on right now.”
Sin
ce the age of eighteen, Tate had never been shy about her body. Jameson had cured her of that, fucking away any inhibitions in one night. She knew what she liked, how she wanted to be touched, and she knew how she wanted to touch other people. She let her hands wander over every inch of Sanders without thought, memorizing him in a totally different way from before.
She pulled his undershirt away from his body and over his head, chucking it behind the headboard. Then moaned as he kissed along the shell of her ear, sighed as his hands ran down the sides of her body.
While Sanders may have been somewhat uncomfortable – what with being with a woman for the first time, and being with Tate at all – she wasn't. She felt more comfortable with Sanders than with anyone else, including Jameson. So touching him and playing with him were just second nature to her, even in this new way. His skin was her skin. She smiled against his kiss as she swept her hands down his chest and hooked her fingers into the top of his pants.
“I want you to talk to me,” she whispered into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut when she unbuttoned his pants.
“I can't talk like him. I don't want to,” he told her. She laughed softly as she pulled down his zipper.
“I don't want you to,” she assured him. “I want you to tell me what you want. I want you to say anything that's in your head. Anything at all. Everything.”
“I don't ...” his voice trailed off as her hand slipped inside his pants and her fingernails scratched at his boxer briefs.
“Think of this as Sex 101,” she suggested. “This is your chance to ask what goes where and what to do with what, and not feel nervous or embarrassed at all. Tell me what you want.”
“I don't know,” he said, then she could hear his breath catching in his throat. She opened her eyes wide and stared down between their bodies. Sex was usually just sex, one man was pretty much like the next, she'd always told herself that – especially in regards to this endeavor – but this was still Sanders. He could never be like any other man in any regard, and that proved to be true in more ways than one. She was a little blown away by how ready and hard and large he was.
Reception (The Kane Series Book 5) Page 8
