“Look,” I say, opening the door. “I’m sorry.” Oh god, his eyes. Dark and flashing. Tight jaw. Even mad, he’s hot. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
He steps across the threshold. Has he gotten taller? “No. You shouldn’t have.”
“I set a bad example for her, but I just couldn’t sit by and?—”
He kisses me.Hard. Takes the breath right out of my lungs with his lips on mine, thorough and furious.Taking. His hands are in my hair and my backside hits the kitchen counter but my senses are overwhelmed with Tate, with his scent in my nose and his warmth surrounding me and the way he’s breathing hard, his tongue between my lips and the way he makes a low, pleasured noise of agony as I melt against him, kissing him back.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine as we both catch our breath.
“You’re not mad?” I whisper, searching his eyes.
“No, honey.” His chest rises and falls fast. “I’m not mad. Thank you for what you did. It meant a lot to her and showed her how much you care.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “I do care about her.”
“I know.” Something that looks like longing flickers in his gaze. “I know you do.” He sighs, eyes closing. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m feeling...”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish. “Feeling what?”
Hesitation? Remorse? Regret?
His expression is so lost and frustrated and agonized. “Like I can’t control myself around you.” His hand threads into my hair, tightening his hold on me, the other fisting the front of my sweater. He blinks at it, a funny smile tilting on his mouth. “You’re wearing my sweater.”
Self-conscious heat prickles through me, crawling up my face. “I was cold.”
His eyebrows flick up in amusement. “Did the stylist not include a few sweaters? I’ll have a word with her.”
I’m smiling. “Fine. I like wearing it. It smells like you.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and Tate glances at it, frowning. “And I don’t want you to control yourself around me.”
That agonized look is back. “Jordan.”
“Tate.” I lift up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his jaw. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
The breath rushes out of him as I kiss across his jaw, down his warm neck, inhaling him.
“What have you been thinking about, honey?” he asks, the line of his throat moving as my teeth nip his skin.
“You touching me.” My hands wander down his chest, down his abs, skimming over the soft t-shirt, until I find the thick ridge of his arousal. “And making you come. I think about it constantly.”
He’s hard. A low whimper slips out of him when I squeeze his erection, warmth pooling between my legs.
“Me, too,” he admits, eyes closed and hand still in my hair as I stroke him over his pants.
God, his reaction. It’s like he’s never had sex before or something. It’s different for me with him, a hopeful little part of me says, so maybe it’s different for him, too.
He’s practically a monk, Noah said, and I shouldn’t like that Tate has a hard time taking pleasure for himself, but I do love that he’s letting himself do it with me.
His mouth finds mine and he delivers another deep, searching kiss, his fingers tangling in my hair. The urge to push him rises inside me. To see his pleasure. To let him lose control.
“We should, um...” He trails off as I sink to my knees. “What are you doing?”
I tug his pants and boxers down enough to let his cock free. Three months ago, knowing what Tate Ward’s cock looked like would have made me furious. No man should be endowed like this. I can’t get my fingers fully around him as I stroke, gaze shifting from his impressive length to his face. He’s looking down at me like he’s in pain, like he can’t believe this is happening, like this might be a dream.
I hold his dark eyes as I lean forward and bring my tongue to the tip, swiping the bead of salty arousal off.
He makes a desperate noise, hands flying to my head, curling forward with a slack jaw. “Jordan, no—oh, fuck—not like this.”
I run my tongue up and down his length. In my hand, he pulses, hot and impossibly hard, more moisture appearing at the tip.
