Chapter 75
JORDAN
That evening, I’m staring at my laptop on the kitchen counter in my guesthouse, trying to focus on game tape, but I just keep thinking about those fucking kids from today.
My phone chimes with a text from Tate. Can you come here, please?
A nervous groan slips out of me, and I toss my phone onto my bed before turning back to my laptop.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. I don’t move.
“Jordan.” His low voice comes through the door and my stomach dips in a bad way.
He’s mad. Furious, probably. He’s so rarely mad that he’ll probably trigger a thunderstorm or something, like a Greek god.
“Not home,” I call back.
I’m not fit to babysit Bea anymore. He’s disappointed in how I behaved today. I embarrassed him and Bea and the team.
“Open this door, please.”
The deadly calm of his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. With my heart in my throat, I head to the door.
“Look,” I say, opening the door. “I’m sorry.” Oh god, his eyes. Dark and flashing. Tight jaw. Even mad, he’s hot. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
He steps across the threshold. Has he gotten taller? “No. You shouldn’t have.”
“I set a bad example for her, but I just couldn’t sit by and—”
He kisses me. Hard. Takes the breath right out of my lungs with his lips on mine, thorough and furious.
Taking. His hands are in my hair and my backside hits the kitchen counter but my senses are overwhelmed with Tate, with his scent in my nose and his warmth surrounding me and the way he’s breathing hard, his tongue between my lips and the way he makes a low, pleasured noise of agony as I melt against him, kissing him back.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine as we both catch our breath.
“You’re not mad?” I whisper, searching his eyes.
“No, honey.” His chest rises and falls fast. “I’m not mad. Thank you for what you did. It meant a lot to her and showed her how much you care.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “I do care about her.”
“I know.” Something that looks like longing flickers in his gaze. “I know you do.” He sighs, eyes closing. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m feeling . . .”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish. “Feeling what?”
Hesitation? Remorse? Regret?
His expression is so lost and frustrated and agonized. “Like I can’t control myself around you.” His hand threads into my hair, tightening his hold on me, the other fisting the front of my sweater. He blinks at it, a funny smile tilting on his mouth. “You’re wearing my sweater.”
Self-conscious heat prickles through me, crawling up my face. “I was cold.”
His eyebrows flick up in amusement. “Did the stylist not include a few sweaters? I’ll have a word with her.”
I’m smiling. “Fine. I like wearing it. It smells like you.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and Tate glances at it, frowning. “And I don’t want you to control yourself around me.”
That agonized look is back. “Jordan.”
“Tate.” I lift up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his jaw. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
The breath rushes out of him as I kiss across his jaw, down his warm neck, inhaling him.
“What have you been thinking about, honey?” he asks, the line of his throat moving as my teeth nip his skin.
“You touching me.” My hands wander down his chest, down his abs, skimming over the soft t-shirt, until I find the thick ridge of his arousal. “And making you come. I think about it constantly.”
He’s hard. A low whimper slips out of him when I squeeze his erection, warmth pooling between my legs.
“Me, too,” he admits, eyes closed and hand still in my hair as I stroke him over his pants.
God, his reaction. It’s like he’s never had sex before or something. It’s different for me with him, a hopeful little part of me says, so maybe it’s different for him, too.
He’s practically a monk, Noah said, and I shouldn’t like that Tate has a hard time taking pleasure for himself, but I do love that he’s letting himself do it with me.
His mouth finds mine and he delivers another deep, searching kiss, his fingers tangling in my hair. The urge to push him rises inside me. To see his pleasure. To let him lose control.
“We should, um . . .” He trails off as I sink to my knees. “What are you doing?”
I tug his pants and boxers down enough to let his cock free.
Three months ago, knowing what Tate Ward’s cock looked like would have made me furious.
No man should be endowed like this. I can’t get my fingers fully around him as I stroke, gaze shifting from his impressive length to his face.
He’s looking down at me like he’s in pain, like he can’t believe this is happening, like this might be a dream.
I hold his dark eyes as I lean forward and bring my tongue to the tip, swiping the bead of salty arousal off.
He makes a desperate noise, hands flying to my head, curling forward with a slack jaw. “Jordan, no—oh, fuck—not like this.”
I run my tongue up and down his length. In my hand, he pulses, hot and impossibly hard, more moisture appearing at the tip.
“Would you prefer to lie down? Or do you want to keep standing so you can fuck my mouth?”
His eyes widen and a spark of pleasure goes off in me. “What? No. I wouldn’t—we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s—” He tries to pull me up. “I want to go down on you.”
“No. I’m busy.” I take him back in my mouth, suck hard, and another strangled noise rushes out of his mouth.
“I don’t know if I can—shit, Jordan, I can’t think when you’re doing that—”
I take him all the way to the back of my throat, along the flat of my wet, warm tongue, again and again. Slowly, because the disbelief on his face, the way he can’t seem to catch his breath, hearing the curses and my name on his lips, it’s perfect.
He’s unraveling for me. It’s the fantasy I never knew I had. Or maybe it’s what I wanted all along—to break him. To make him snap.
Just not like I thought.
“I need to tell you something,” he says.
I pause, his cock still in my mouth. “Right now?” I say around him.
“Yes,” he grits out. “Right now. I don’t want to keep it from you anymore.”
I rub the flat of my tongue against his tip, and his eyelids dip. “Fuck, Jesus, shit. Jordan. I can’t think when you do that.”
I know, so I keep doing it.
“I’m going to get you back for this,” he promises with his eyes closed. “Okay, the clothes the team bought you?”
With his free hand, he pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s having a hard time focusing, and a ping of smug pleasure bursts inside me. I let my free hand wander to his balls. I tug lightly and his teeth clamp together to hold in a stifled groan.
“I bought them. They were from me.”
I pause with his cock resting on my tongue.
“Are you mad?” he asks, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down.
That Tate spent way, way too much money buying me everything I need?
“No.” My mouth twists into a smile. “But I should have known.”
I sweep my tongue over the sensitive part on the underside of his length, and his eyelids dip. His thighs tense. Not long, now.
“You take care of everyone but yourself.” I give him a few hard strokes, fascinated by the way his head falls back. “That’s okay, though. That’s what I’m for.”
The noise that comes out of him is equal parts comfort, like this is what his body and mind have been craving, and concern, like he’s getting closer to losing control.
“Can you, um.” His head rolls to the side like he’s having a hard time staying upright.
“Can you take your pants off? And your panties? I don’t know why I like the,” he pauses while I slide them off, eyes on his as he gazes down at me, dark and unfocused.
He swallows, “I like the idea of you bare and getting wet.” His eyes drop to my body. “Are you? Getting wet?”
“Mhm.” I take him back into my mouth, and his eyes close again.
“Fuck. Okay. We should stop.”
“Just a little bit longer,” I say before taking him deep. “One more minute.”
He’s nodding, breathing hard. “One more minute.”
I find a rhythm that makes his eyes go unfocused and thighs tense.
His hips start to thrust, and I know I have him.
His hand shifts in my hair, taking the length of my ponytail and wrapping it around his fist, and the delicious prickles from his grip dance across my scalp and down my spine.
Between my legs, heat gathers and aches.
“Fuck, okay. I’m going to come in your mouth,” he says, eyes like sin. “I’m going to come right down that throat, Jordan.”
Shivers run across my skin as his cock pulses between my lips, and Tate’s expression as he comes is obscene, lips parted, eyes on me, and a frown of shocked disbelief.
“Oh, god, honey, it’s so good,” he moans like he’s begging as he releases into my mouth. “It’s so good with you. You’re exactly what I need.”
It’s a struggle to keep up with it, but the way he looks down at me with hunger and need keeps me swallowing.
This is what I’m for. I’m many things—images of my bar, my team, my friends, and Bea revolve in my head—but I’m this, too. Tate’s. A way for him to let go. A way for him to lose control and take exactly what he needs. A way for him to feel like he’s worthy of pleasure, too.
He drops down to kiss me, raw, claiming, and greedy, and a moment later, I’m in the air, over Tate’s big shoulder, and being flipped onto my back on the bed.
I don’t have a second to respond before he pushes my thighs apart and his mouth is on me, tongue dragging long lines up my center like he’s trying to get every drop of my arousal.
A high noise comes out of me at the hot, slippery friction against my sensitive nerves. My body is already shaking and clenching, toes curling and intimate muscles tightening as I reach for the sweatshirt to take it off.
“Don’t.” Tate’s voice is sharp. “Don’t take it off.”
His tongue circles my clit, so fucking good but not quite enough, before he sinks two thick fingers into me. I bow off the bed, eyes wide and unseeing as the pressure low in my abdomen swirls.
I’m already close. How? “I don’t come this quickly.”
“With me, you do.” His voice is hoarse as he crooks his fingers and desire slices through my body. “God, I love to watch you squirm.”
He works his hand hard against a spot I wasn’t aware existed. He’s neither gentle nor calm, and this. This is Tate untethered. This is Tate completely out of control.
I love it. I need it. I’m racing toward an orgasm that’s going to snap me in half, and I already can’t wait to do this again.
“Don’t stop,” I beg as he sucks my clit and stars burst behind my eyes. “Please, Tate.”
My fingers thread into his hair, and his low noise of approval pushes me over the edge. Heat shatters through me, making me cry out as waves of pleasure crash through my body. I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can’t breathe, I can only beg Tate’s name as he drags out my orgasm on his tongue.
When I come down, he’s above me, smiling and pressing sweet, soft kisses across my face.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, clutching me like he needs me. Like that meant as much to him as it did to me. “You’re so beautiful.”
Half an hour later, we’re back in the main house, in his bed. His hand toys with my hair and I’m sprawled across his chest, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat, tracing the lines of his tattoo in the moonlight.
Beneath me, Tate starts shaking with laughter. “I can’t believe you called that kid a rat-faced fuck.”