“Penelope,” Artemis cautions.
“Listen to my teammates, She Devil.” He takes a step toward me and on instinct, I step back, bumping into poor Mikko who’s more concerned with his bowl of ice cream.
“Come here.” He points to his feet, and for a beat I expect him to stamp his foot.
“Ask nicely.” My face is on fire.
The team’s amused attention volleys back and forth between Tate and me. I’m not backing down just because he’s in front of his peeps. He was a dick to me and ignored me for two whole days. I want to strangle him with his red flag before I give him another chance.
He clears his throat. “Penelope Lindstrom.”
Oh shit. He full-named me. Adding that straight to the hot as hell list.
“I’m going upstairs to my room where I’m going to wait for you to come up so I can make you scream my name all night long. I’d love it if you’d join me.”
My mouth falls wide-open.
Should have known he wouldn’t have risen to the bait. Or at least not risen the way I expected him to. He’d never show weakness in front of his friends. God forbid they know he’s human.
Except since his injury, they’ve probably all seen his tender underbelly, which makes him even more determined not to show weakness.
Except seeing a man’s vulnerability is hot, too.
He’s been drinking, though, so I’m not letting him do much of anything until I can be sure he’s sobered up, but the declaration of what he wants to do to me in front of his boys has my panties somewhere in the region of “wring out the excess moisture” level of wet.
“I’ll put all of this away.” Artemis lifts the bags and starts toward the kitchen.
Apollo grins at me. “Get it girl.”
My skin’s on fire. Partially because the boys are all staring at me, and partly because I want to ride Tate like a bucking bronco.
When I make it to the top of the stairs there’s exaggerated grunting coming from Tate’s room. Fucker’s either jacking off, or pretending to. If the house wasn’t full of men who could walk up on me at any second, I’d stick my hand in my pants in the corridor outside Tate’s room and give him a taste of his own medicine. Instead, I walk into his room and find him grinning at me.
His cock is at full mast, and there’s what seems to be a line of fruit leather curled around it. “What are you waiting for? It’s not going to lick itself.”
“Do you have a death wish?”
He shrugs. “Depends on if you’re going to forgive me.”
The drama of this man. “Not at all toxic or manipulative, Satan. Very healthy.”
He chuckles. “I’m kidding. I really do want you to forgive me though. I was a dick.”
Nodding, I approach the bed. “You were. But I feel like that’s standard for you.” I sit on the edge of the bed and lean over to plant a soft kiss on his mouth.
“I can’t wait to taste you, Pitstop.”
Not sure where that admission came from, but the five-alarm fire in my pants just went thermonuclear.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m getting emotional whiplash over here, Satan. You wanna pick a lane?”
He snorts. “What? I can’t want to fuck you senseless and be sorry at the same time? I have to choose? Not cool.”
“You’ve had a few drinks. I’m not letting you fuck me senseless until you sober up.”
