The instinct to take what I need is suddenly overwhelming, pounding in my ears, tearing at my chest.
“Take it,” I grunt.
I give her hip a firm squeeze and force out as much from my body as possible, tensing my abs and doing all I can to make sure I’m getting rid of it all.
“Fuck, Baby, that’s it.”
The final drops leave my body, and I shudder with a rough exhale, screwing my eyes closed.
“Sullivan…” Tate’s sweet voice murmurs my name and soft, delicate hands reach up, brushing my hair back from my forehead.
I can sense the happy, trusting smile on her face without needing to see it.
Fuck.
25
TATE
My ears are ringingfrom the breath-stealing orgasms as I wilt against the cool sheets.
Sullivan leans into my touch and I caress his hair. His eyes are closed, and I smile and admire how beautiful he is. All dark hair, and a strong jaw, like it was cut from glass. And those brilliant blue eyes that are like staring into the ocean under a midday sun.
He turns his face into my palm, kissing it with a deep sigh. But our moment is over before it has a chance to bloom. He opens his eyes, meeting mine for the briefest flash, and the pure relief on his face from moments ago is already replaced by terse lines between his pinched brows.
I wait for a kiss. A word. A rare smile from him.
Nothing.
“Daddy?” a small voice calls out.
Sullivan’s eyes pop wide. “Shit!” He pulls out of me and scrabbles off the bed at breakneck speed.
“Daddy’s coming, Sweetheart,” he calls, yanking his pants on.
His expression is one of pure panic as he races from the room.
A moment later, his soft, loving voice carries from the hallway. “Hey, what are you doing up? Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”
His voice moves further away, joined by a sweet, tired murmur from Molly.
I look around the room wondering what to do. I climb out of the bed and am gathering up my clothes when Sullivan walks back in.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“She’s fine.” He scrubs a hand through his disheveled hair.
I hold my clothes in front of me, covering myself, even though he still hasn’t looked directly at me.
“I didn’t know what I should do?—”
“You should go.”
“Oh.”
His shoulders are stiff, his forearms rippling with corded muscles as he keeps his gaze fixed to the floor by my feet.
“Tate,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion.
