Chapter 23 Tate
TATE
My heart’s racing as we reach the door.
“Did he say what was so urgent?” I ask in a rush, my mind racing with possibilities of something happening to Molly, or him, or both of them.
“He didn’t,” Cliff replies. “Only that I should bring you back as soon as possible.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say as Cliff opens the door to Sullivan and Molly’s penthouse.
I rush inside and Cliff closes it behind me, remaining outside. My heels click on the floor until the sound of the piano overtakes them.
Rushing into the main living area I spot Sullivan, head hung over the piano, eyes screwed shut, the haunting melody of Lacrimosa by Mozart spreading like a cloud of darkness around him.
“Sullivan?”
He stops abruptly.
One lone lamp is on, casting the room into shadows.
“Where’s Molly?” I look around for signs of her, my feet slowing from Sullivan’s lack of urgency. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Fast asleep,” he says, his voice a rough whisper.
He’s sitting with his head hung. His broad shoulders lift, then slowly drop as he breathes deeply.
“Then… what’s happened?” I drop my purse on the floor and reach down to pull my shoes off. My heart continues to hammer as I study him.
Something isn’t right.
I walk toward the piano.
“Stop!”
His sudden outburst has me freezing on the spot and staring at him in shock. He lifts his head and despite the darkness, his eyes shine like bright blue daggers as he looks at me, before his attention drops to my feet.
On the floor in front of me are pieces of a broken vase.
“You could cut yourself,” he warns.
His body goes taut as he watches me navigate the shards carefully on my way toward him. Once I pass them, he exhales, turning his attention back to the piano. He starts playing again.
“Sullivan?” I frown. “What’s going on?”
“Claudia kissed me,” he rasps.
“What?” I scoff out a surprised snort, swallowing it back down as his pressure on the keys ramps up and he plays with more determination. “You asked Cliff to come in and tear me away from my date and bring me here, so you could tell me your ex kissed you?”
“He had to tear you away, did he?”
The snarl in his tone has the tips of my fingers tingling by my sides.
“What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t because I’ve given you no reason to understand.” He snorts as he continues to play the piece so beautifully, like he doesn’t even need to think. His fingers glide over the keys effortlessly.
“I—”
“She kissed me. And she tried to undo my pants, telling me she was going to suck me off.”
I recoil. “Are you drunk? Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not drunk,” he snaps, sneering like the suggestion disgusts him.
“Then, what—”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. On your date with Vincent. How was it? Are you going to marry him and have his babies?” he snipes cruelly.
“What?”
What the hell has gotten into him?
“If you must know, it was great. We talked about music. He made me laugh and feel relaxed. And I even saw an apartment block for sale on the ride there and took a photo of it to show you for Molly’s portfolio.”
I cross my arms, irritation slithering up my spine as he continues playing, not even having the manners to look at me after he ended my evening prematurely because for some unknown reason it suited him.
He’s so used to people bending to his whim.
But I can’t figure out what his angle is right now, and why he’s being like this.
“Not interested in whatever building you saw, Tate,” he says without an ounce of enthusiasm.
“But it was—”
“Not. Interested,” he repeats.
He’s an asshole. An uptight, arrogant prick. So what? He thinks because I saw it that it can’t possibly be a good investment? That the area can’t be right? That I wouldn’t know what I’m talking about?
“I live here, too. I know the good neighborhoods,” I argue. “I—”
“I only bought your building to get you new dryers,” he hisses, moving seamlessly into another song on the piano, his playing unaffected despite his harsh tone.
“What? Why?”
“Because!” he thunders, his lips twisting into a grimace as he plays.
“Because what?” I step closer.
“That uniform,” he spits, like it’s a curse word.
The music flows effortlessly around him. It’s as if the angrier he gets, the better he plays.
“Oh my God! Because you hated it that much? Because it offended you that much when it shrunk? That’s…wow…” I blow out a breath, all of my nerves from being around him evaporating as they’re replaced with white-hot rage.
How dare he?
I’m never going to let him make me feel intimidated or awkward again.
“Nice way to tear a woman down, hey? Tell her you hate clothing that shows the shape of her body. So I have hips and breasts. And my thighs touch in the middle. So fucking what?”
Sullivan stops playing and flies to his feet, knocking the stool to the floor.
The sudden stillness in the room heightens the sound of my angry breaths as my chest heaves.
He steps toe to toe with me, blue eyes burning.
“You think I hated it because I didn’t like the way it clung to you?
The way your shirt looked like your breasts were going to spill out of it any minute?
The way your skirt showed these…” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes dropping down my body.
“These curves near your hips… like fucking handles made to grip on to?”
“What?” I choke.
He rakes his gaze over my body, his tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip.
“So your date?” he whispers darkly. “How was it?”
He continues his perusal of me without apology, drinking me in with heated eyes.
“Over now… thanks to you.”
His lips curl a little on one side. But it isn’t a smile.
“Before it ended? Do you like Vincent? Would you have gone home with him? Fucked him?”
“Fucked him?” I echo in a disbelieving gasp.
I take him in, dressed in his suit pants, his white shirt undone to the top of his chest, showing a hint of dark hair disappearing beneath the fabric. His brows are pulled together in his signature scowl.
“No,” I say, not sure why I’m sharing this with him. It’s none of his goddamn business. “I wouldn’t have. There’s no spark. It was a fun evening with a new friend. But it was comfortable.”
I regret the shred of information I let slip free instantly. Sullivan homes in on it like a shark after a drop of blood.
“Comfortable? You don’t want comfortable?”
“No.”
His eyes pass over my folded arms, before settling on my cleavage in the plunging neckline.
“What do you want?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He finally looks up at me, hitching one brow in question. He isn’t going to let this go until I answer him.
I swallow. “I want more… I want my heart to race when I see him… I want my spine to tingle, knowing he’s close… I want a rush when I lock eyes with him and see the way he looks at me… I want… I want something that’s almost frightening because of how intense it is.”
I’m pinned in place by show-stopping bright blue irises.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
“Ask me what I want, Tate,” he says, his voice a rich husky gravel.
I pause, my pulse galloping in my ears. I should keep quiet. This is… this is too much… He can’t honestly think that he and I…
“What do you want?” I whisper, unable to stop myself, the urge to have him finally share his private thoughts with me too great of an opportunity to pass up.
He reaches up and brushes the back of his fingers over my hair, stopping before he reaches the ends that fan over the swell of my breasts.
“I want you.”
“But… you don’t like me,” I splutter.
“I’m good at hiding things I don’t want other people to know about. Believe me, Tate, I want nothing more than you out of this dress right now.”
I choke out a laugh. I misheard him. I must have.
He leans closer, his heady, expensive aftershave lingering in the air. The aroma is decadent and dark, mixed with warm skin. Creating a scent that’s so uniquely… him.
“I want you, Tate,” he says simply, like he needs to spell it out. “I want to kiss you, taste you… sink my head between your thighs and fucking drown in you. I want your curves filling my hands, and your moans filling my ears.”
“You what?” I squeak, my breath ragged.
Heat flares deep in my core as he looks at me with hungry eyes.
“I want you,” he rasps.
He leans down, lowering his mouth to mine.
“But I won’t touch you.” His breath fans over my parted lips. “I won’t…” He licks his lips. “Not unless you want me to.”
“Unless I want you to?”
“Precisely. The choice is yours.” He exhales, and I breathe in his air, my nipples pebbling beneath my dress.
“And if I say no?” The piano presses into my back. I don’t know when we moved, and I became trapped.
“Then we’ll forget this ever happened,” Sullivan murmurs, his attention dropping to my mouth.
“And you’ll what?” My lips tingle as I search for the right words.
Go back to looking like you hate my clothes? Go back to being curt with me, bordering on rude? Go back to scowling at me when you think I’m not looking?
“You’ll go back to—”
“I’ll go back to dreaming about if you’d said yes. That’s what I’ll do.”