Flower(56)

“You’re sure?”

Desire sings through my veins. “I’m sure.”

Movement in the glass catches my eye—our reflection. I watch Tate nod slowly. “I’m still going to go slow with you.”

I try to respond but then Tate’s lips find my throat, kissing me gently and traveling up to my jaw, and all I can do is gasp. I have always craved his touch, but this time it feels different—this time it feels like our bodies throb to the same heartbeat.

His fingers are slow and deliberate as they slide around my hip, then push up the hem of my shirt. Thankfully, I’d guessed I would see him today, and had made sure to wear the pale blue push-up bra I bought at Barney’s. The one that makes me feel like someone else—someone desirable and confident and sexy. My skin trembles. I close my eyes as he pulls the shirt upward, over my stomach and then to my neck. I raise my arms, and he lifts the plain green shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor. I’m standing in only my bra. My breathing deepens. His gaze meets mine in the glass, a question in his eyes. I nod wordlessly. His fingers find the button of my shorts, unfastening it deftly, then sliding down the zipper. They fall around my ankles and I carefully step out of them. Tate kicks them away with his bare foot.

I know I should feel exposed—vulnerable—but instead I feel ignited, set on fire by his breath grazing my shoulder. Every fiber of my flesh, every nerve ending is alight.

“Charlotte,” he whispers into my ear—a broken murmur—and a tingle races down my neck. Then his palms are around my torso again, sliding up my ribs like a ladder.

I can hardly breathe, barely think. My heartbeat roars in my ears and I’m shaking. Is he going to push me away? Stop us here? My mouth goes dry and I close my eyes, scared of what he might say next.

“Let’s go to my room,” he finally says, and the relief almost swallows me whole.

*

Tate’s room is huge, the light dimmed by the shades. His bed is neatly made with dark gray pillows and a charcoal bedspread.

He slides his fingers up my cheekbones, carefully, drawing my focus back to him, then pulls me into a kiss. I feel myself sink into his arms, surrendering to his touch, never wanting his hands to be anywhere else except on me.

He pulls away from me only long enough to tear his shirt over his head, revealing his hard, muscled chest, and I barely stop my mouth from dropping open. His hands move around my waist again and I glance up at him, taking in the sharp, angular lines of his impossibly handsome face. His dark eyes glitter as he reaches for me, pushing my hair away from my face. “You’re so beautiful, Charlotte,” he whispers just before he kisses me.

He turns and sets me delicately onto the edge of the bed, and I bite the corner of my mouth. I reach up and touch his stomach, his abs firm. He tilts my chin upward, brushing his thumb over my lips, and lowers himself to kiss me. I close my eyes, his lips soft and slow at first, like they are remembering what I feel like, what I taste like. “I’ve missed you,” he says again, and I feel the words all through my body. His other hand glides over my bare leg, my thigh, stopping at the line of my underwear. Then his hands travel up to my waist, over the dark fabric, his thumbs pressing into my hip bones. I kiss him deeper, harder, willing him to not let go.

I slide down onto the bed, melting, liquefying, and his body follows. He positions himself above me, kissing my throat. And every second feels like I’m about to come undone, my thoughts scattering, my body trembling beneath his touch.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly when I suck in a deep breath.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His hand inches upward, gliding smooth and effortlessly across my body. A slow trickle of desire begins to build.

“You’re so soft.” He places another kiss against my throat and I tilt my head slightly, widening the space for him to kiss me again. But instead he whispers, “Has any boy ever touched you like this?” His voice is low and calm, deeper than I’ve ever heard him speak before, and I feel my legs go weak.

“No,” I say, my voice thin.

Tate doesn’t slow the rhythmic way his hands seem to know every curve of my flesh, moving like liquid, spilling over my skin like heat.

I reach up to feel the hardness of his chest. My fingers travel down to his abs flexing above me, and then I find the edge of his jeans, sagged low on his hips. I circle the metal button with my fingertip, then start to slide it free, but Tate stops me, touching my hand gently.

A smile reaches his slightly parted lips. “Leave those on for now.”

I lift my head, starting to protest, but his mouth presses over mine, kissing away the words. His hand skims down my body.

“Is this okay?” Tate’s voice vibrates against my flesh and my body pulses around him. I start to murmur yes but my body takes over, arching toward him. Blood rushes into my ears, my toes curl, and my palms press against the mattress, gripping the sheets—my lungs gasping for air as I cry out.

I collapse beneath him and his mouth lifts. Slowly, I release my grip on the bed, and Tate’s fingers glide back up my thigh. His other hand lingers for a moment against my trembling skin, holding me still so that his lips can kiss me one last time, soft and sweet.

He smiles and rolls over on his back, pulling me with him. I rest my head on his shoulder.

“You all right?” he whispers.

“Mmhmm,” I reply, unable to say much more, not yet.