9. Piper
CHAPTER 9
Piper
T he next day is Tate’s day.
In retrospect, this whole plan was a terrible idea.
After I finally convinced Dalton to leave yesterday, I took a minute to gather myself. I’d just had not one, but two mind-shattering orgasms. Two more than I’ve ever had with any other man, mind you.
I wanted to re-evaluate the rules, because the whole no-kissing thing is kind of dumb when you think about the fact that someone is literally inside of you. But I also stopped myself.
It would be unfair if I kissed Tate and Brent and not Dalton. I need to make sure that I’m being fair. To all of them.
So today, I’m here to take pictures of Dalton for the little blog I started for the farm. It’s a good way to build up content with some of their target market, because while we can definitely snag people with great pictures, the blog gives us an opportunity to really dig into who each guy is and what they’re doing.
I’ve seen Dalton work with horses before, of course. He’s definitely a natural. Growing up around horse people, you can always tell when someone has a gift with them. Dalton definitely does.
I’m actually getting kind of hot and bothered just watching him. The copper-colored mare that he’s been working on training is ten pounds of dynamite in a five-pound sack. She’s a small horse, only about fifteen hands high, which puts her right above a pony. However, she makes up for her lack of height in pure attitude.
I’ve taken tons of great photos, and I’ve been laughing every time Dalton tries to get close to her. The mare is hilarious; she lets him get close enough to think she’s going to actually let him win before she dances away. Or tries to bite his fingers.
Through all of it, though, Dalton is totally calm and collected. He isn’t fazed by any of her antics, and I’m impressed by that.
He’s going to make a great father.
I push the thought aside. I have no idea how this is going to work. I guess if I do get pregnant, I’ll probably need a paternity test to know who the father is, because they’ll want to know. Right?
I chew on my lip. Like my sister, a couple of my girlfriends from college are in unconventional relationships with more than one man. I’ll have to ask them. But then I’ll have to tell them what I’m doing. And then they’ll offer me some kind of opinion, which will make me feel bad or second guess myself. And then?—
“He’s going to get kicked right in the chest by that little filly,” Tate says, coming up next to me to lean against the fence.
I shake my head. “No way. He’s doing great. She’s just spirited, that’s all.”
Tate grins. “Takes one to know one, huh?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly spirited. You’re thinking of Blaire.”
Shaking his head, Tate leans against the fence, giving me a lascivious once-over. “I know which Cassidy sister I’m referring to, Piper.”
I flush, pulling the camera up to my eye. “Sometimes I don’t know if I should take you seriously, Tate Kirkland.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I pull the camera down and look at him. He’s dressed like a chef today; he has a black henley on and his very manly-looking canvas apron over it. There’s flour on it, which makes me wonder what he’s been working on and if it’s tasty.
I wave a hand at him. “You know. Your whole ‘flirt with everything’ vibe.”
He tilts his head. “What makes you think I flirt with everything?”
“Um. The fact that you flirt with me every time you’ve seen me. Since we were ten years old.”
Tate’s oddly solemn right now, and when he looks back over, his blue eyes don’t have any of the glitter of mischief that they usually do.
“Why is flirting with you the same as flirting with everyone?”
“Um. Well. I just kind of assumed that since you did it with me, you did it with everyone.”
Tate’s facing me fully now. He studies me, then sighs. “Piper, did it ever occur to you that you’re the exception, not the rule?”
I blink. I don’t quite know what to do with that information.
Tate looks out at Dalton, giving him a wave. Dalton waves back. Tate turns to me, holding out a hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
His eyes sparkle now, almost a cornflower blue in the light.
“It’s my day, and I baked you something special to celebrate.”
Following Tate back to the kitchen, I’m almost as nervous as I was yesterday with Dalton. Well. Maybe even more nervous? I can’t tell. My emotions are bouncing all over the place like a toddler, and the only thing I can do is just… keep moving.
Breathe.
I can’t back out now. It would be wildly unfair to give Dalton his day and then say no to Tate and Brent, because then it might seem like I prefer Dalton over them. Or like I am okay with ruining my relationship with Dalton, but I want to preserve Tate and Brent…
This was a freaking awful idea.
I really have screwed everything up. Like, the whole delicate balance that we had around our friendship, the way we’ve related to each other for the past fifteen years… gone. And I did that.
I’m going to have to work hard to make sure the relationship that I have with Dalton isn’t permanently broken. That we can still salvage it. That we’re still friends.
I’m not sure that I want to do the same thing with Tate and Brent, but I can’t back out now. I’ll figure out a way to fix this. Even if I have to completely take that on all by myself.
When we get to the house, I’m immediately paralyzed by the smell of something totally amazing.
“Holy cow,” I murmur, my feet on the back step as Tate opens the back door that leads to the kitchen. “What on earth is that?”
He winks. “Come inside and find out.”
I roll my eyes but follow him in. “Tate. You’re giving Hansel and Gretel vibes.”
He laughs. The kitchen is relatively clean, with no signs of what’s clearly making the amazing smell in the oven. The island that Tate custom made with a wood butcher block top is lightly coated in flour, though, so I wonder if there’s still a lot to do.
“It’s a twist on your favorite.” He smiles.
My eyes go round. “You made lemon cake?”
Tate makes a lemon cake that’s absolutely incredible. Like, it tastes like sunshine in your mouth. But I don’t smell lemon. It does smell kind of citrusy…
“Blood orange.” Tate smiles.
I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “But those aren’t in season.”
“I used some of the ones you canned, and the syrup. You’re so good at that stuff, Piper. Really, it could be a great add-on to the catering business. When people ask what I used, I’ll just refer them right to you.”
Warmth floods through me, and I can’t help it. I throw my arms around Tate and hug him. His big hands scoop me up, squeezing me tight before he plants me on the butcher block.
“Hey!” I squeak, looking around me. “There’s flour on here.”
Tate smirks. Then, he smacks one hand down into a huge pile of flour and presses it gently against my face.
I gasp. “Tate.”
“Piper.” His blue eyes are glowing with mischief. I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, but….
The timer dings. Tate’s grin widens. “Hold that thought.”
He turns, getting a trivet out, and quickly takes the cake out of the oven, setting it on the counter opposite from where we are. I take the time when his back is turned to dip my hands in the flour at my sides. When Tate turns back, he tugs off his apron, and that same tricky grin is back.
“Now all we have to do is wait for it to cool. I wonder?—”
I smack one of my flour-covered hands over his mouth, cutting him off. The other one comes to his chest, and a handprint appears outlined in white dust on his left pec. His t-shirt is black, which makes the flour handprint stand out remarkably well.
Tate blinks. Then, his smile turns hungry. “Is that how it’s going to go?”
I smile back. “You started it.”
“And I think I’m going to finish it,” he growls.
I giggle, hopping down from the island, my hands getting more flour as I do. Tate’s behind me in a second, pinning me to the island with his body. His hands come to either side of me, and I could duck down and run, except for the large, very hard thigh that’s pressing between my legs. My chest rises and falls, rapidly, as I try to get enough air.
Tate holds my gaze. One of his hands comes away from the top of the island and reaches for my ass. We both suck in a breath as he puts a handprint there, squeezing hard.
My head tips back. “Tate.”
His nose dips to the side of my neck. “Yes?”
“No kissing,” I warn.
He snorts, and I shiver as his lips caress my throat. “I won’t kiss your lips, Piper. Not yet, anyway.”
I go to correct him, to tell him that there will be no kissing ever because friends don’t kiss each other, but the thoughts leave my head when he licks a long, firm line up my throat. I gasp.
“Shit. You’re so responsive, Piper,” he moans.
The hand that’s still anchored to the island moves to my hair. He gathers it in a fist, tugging my neck back. My throat is bared to him, and the hand that was on my ass drifts up.
He lightly collars my throat with that hand, and between the fist tugging my hair back and the hand on my throat, I feel trapped. But I don’t hate it. In fact, the opposite is happening, and I think I really, really like it.
Tate’s knee parts my thighs, and I gasp as the iron of his quad muscles hit the center of my arousal. I’m hot and wet for him, which he could probably tell through my thin leggings if he tried. He’s wearing jeans, though. Thank goodness.
Tate’s hands slide down my torso. They tug at my thin cotton shirt, and I hold my arms up so he can pull the material up and over my head. He pulls back slightly, standing so he can see me. I resist the urge to pull my arms to cover myself. Instead, I toss my hair back and meet Tate’s gaze.
His blue eyes are dark again. Slowly, he leans forward, patting his hand in the flour before he gently presses it over one of my breasts. The handprint that he leaves behind makes both of us gasp.
He looks up at me, his face all seriousness that’s so unusual for him.
“You’re mine, Piper.”
I don’t want to correct him. I’m not his. Even if I did want to… romantically pursue something with one of these guys, I couldn’t pick just one. I would have to be equal. And that thought is more than a little intimidating.
Tate moves. In one fluid motion, he grabs my hips, tugging the fabric down. He turns me around, bending me so I’m face-down on the butcher block. I gasp as he kicks my legs apart, and I feel him behind me.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, Piper,” he growls.
I whimper in response. His hands ghost up my sides as he slowly presses inside me, and he unsnaps my bra. I feel his hands tangle in my hair again, and he tugs, pulling me so that the tips of my nipples are just barely grazing the wood of the island.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Tate growls in my ear. I moan as the hand that wasn’t tugging my hair kneads my breast. “I have to be inside you.”
I’m not sure if he’s asking for permission, but he definitely has it.
“Please.”
I’m begging. I know I am. But I kind of don’t care.
Tate pushes slowly. He’s not as big as Dalton, but he’s thick, which makes me shiver at the intrusion. When he’s halfway in, I hear a loud noise from outside. I freeze.
“You okay, Piper?” Tate rumbles.
“Yeah. Um. Really good. But… what if someone comes in? What if Dalton or Brent walks in and sees us?”
Tate pauses for a second. He leans forward, his lips on the edge of my ear. I shiver as they move.
“Then they can join.”