Chapter 11 #2
“This is excessive,” I say, eyeing the table as I pour drinks.
“It’s necessary comfort food” he says, handing me a plate.
Tate sighs and grabs a fork. “It’s anxiety manifesting in soy sauce.”
Carter shrugs. “Whatever works.”
We eat at the table, shoulder to shoulder, half-laughing through failed attempts with chopsticks and teasing jabs. Tate insists on stealing from both our plates. Carter complains, but offers him extra anyway.
For a minute it’s easy. When I glance between them, I feel it settle inside me. The ache, the hope, the way I want this to work so badly it almost hurts. I don’t say that, instead I finish my noodles and nudge Tate with my foot under the table. He kicks me back, gentle.
An hour passes and the kitchen is clean, the table cleared, the apartment is quiet except for the low buzzing of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards as we move around each other.
Tate leans against the counter, nursing the last few sips of his drink. Carter finishes wiping the stove, then tosses the towel over his shoulder and turns toward us with that soft little glow he always wears when he’s proud of himself.
“So,” he says, dragging out the word, “which one of you do I have to bribe for bedroom rights tonight?”
Tate lifts a brow. “You’re on the couch.”
Carter freezes. “Wait—what?”
“Haven asked me to stay in her room.”
Carter blinks. “So I don’t even get a vote?”
“You got the bed last night.”
“I shared the bed last night.”
Tate smirks. “Not with me, you didn’t.”
I try not to laugh as Carter glares at him. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I want that thick blanket.”
Tate tosses him a pillow from the hallway closet after I tell him where they are without missing a step. “You want a nightlight, too?”
Carter catches it one-handed and shoots him a look. “You’re so lucky I’m the emotionally stable one.”
I walk over and tug on Carter’s sleeve gently. “Thank you for dinner,” I say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I loved it.”
He softens immediately. “I’ll cook again tomorrow.”
“You better.”
He heads to the living room, still pouting a little, but not mad. I hear him flop onto the couch dramatically as Tate and I disappear down the hall and into my room. My bedroom is dim, the light from the hallway spilling in faint and golden as I sit on the edge of the bed.
Tate closes the door behind him and stretches, cracking his neck. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I feel like I’m about to collapse.”
He chuckles and toes off his shoes, dropping them by the wall. “Turn around.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because your posture’s shit and I know your shoulders are screaming. You want to sleep or lie awake overthinking until sunrise?”
I hesitate, but do as I’m told. I scoot to the edge of the bed, sitting cross-legged, back to him.
He kneels behind me, the mattress dipping under his weight. He pushes my hair to the side, lets his palms rest on my shoulders for a moment, just heat, just pressure before he starts to move.
His hands are rougher than Carter’s. More deliberate, but gentler than I expected. He kneads tension from my neck, thumbs dragging down into the tight space between shoulder and spine, and I groan without meaning to.
“That good, huh?”
“Shut up.”
He laughs softly, and I feel it, warm against my back. He keeps going, slow, firm circles, the heel of his palm pressing into places I didn’t realize were holding stress. I melt under his touch, my body going loose and warm and heavy. “No one ever did this for you?” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
He grunts. “Idiots.” His hands slide lower, rubbing long lines down either side of my spine, careful not to push too far, too fast. He’s not trying to turn me on. He’s trying to take care of me. “Lay down.”
As I do he stretches out beside me, strong arm sliding beneath my head, guiding me down to his chest. My cheek presses against his sternum, the steady thump of his heart beating beneath my ear. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. One hand rests lightly on my waist.
The other brushes slow, lazy lines down my spine. Neither of us speaks. For the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe longer, my body lets go. I close my eyes.
Before sleep finally drags me under, I hear him whisper it, barely loud enough for me to catch. “I’ve got you Haven.”
The room is quiet when I wake. It’s late, I glance at the clock on my desk, three am. My body’s too warm. I blink once, twice, disoriented in the dark.
Tate is still asleep beside me. One arm slung over my waist, breathing steady and deep against the back of my neck. His body heat is a furnace behind me, and everything feels… heightened.
I shift, just slightly, and the ache between my legs pulses hard enough to make me gasp. God. I’m soaked. Every nerve is on edge. Every breath feels like a tease, the ache doesn’t go away it builds. I squeeze my thighs together, of course it doesn’t help.
I try to roll onto my back without waking him, slow and careful. His arm slides down, loose now across my hip. My fingers slip under the hem of the oversized shirt I’m wearing, his shirt that he gave me after the massage and I bite my lip as I trail them lower.
Just a little. A light press between my legs, testing. My breath stutters, the first touch sends a jolt through me. I drag my fingers in slow circles, barely brushing over my clit, just enough to push the ache higher. My hips shift against the mattress, desperate and slow.
The softest sound escapes me. That’s when he moves. I freeze but it’s too late.
He stirs behind me, lifts his head. His voice is sleep and shadow. “Pretty girl, are you touching yourself right now?”
I don’t answer, can’t. The room is pitch black. But I feel the way his energy shifts, the way stillness evaporates like smoke.
“Fuck, Haven.” His hand slides under the covers before I can stop him, it finds mine. Pushes it away and replaces it with his own like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I gasp softly and he covers my mouth with his palm.
“Shh,” he whispers, breath hot against my ear. “You’ll wake Carter.”
I squirm, warmth flooding my face, my chest, everywhere but I don’t stop him. Tate’s fingers are rougher, meaner. Perfect.
He strokes me in tight circles, slow enough to make me whimper, fast enough to keep me trembling. I’m already close. I was halfway there when I woke up. But with him, god it’s dangerous.
His lips graze the top of my ear. “You wanted me to catch you.”
I shake my head.
He chuckles. “Such a bad liar.” He presses two fingers lower, slipping them inside, the stretch makes me gasp louder.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You were gonna come all over your own hand without even waking me up?” He thrusts deeper and crooks his fingers just right, making my back arches off the bed.
“You’re mine right now,” he whispers. “You don’t come without me. Got it?”
I nod desperately. My whole body goes rigid.
He grins against my neck. “Oh,” he murmurs. “You like that.”
He curls his fingers again, he knows exactly what he’s doing, knows the exact pressure, the pace, the way my hips jerk the moment he adds just enough intensity to ruin me. My orgasm hits like lightning, silent but devastating.
I clutch the sheets, my breath caught in my throat, every muscle tight as I fall apart under him. He doesn’t say anything when I collapse against the pillow, shaking. Just kisses my jaw then slides his hand back up to my waist and pulls me in closer.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper.
His breath is warm on my neck. “So are you.”