Chapter 21
[Neve]
Tate’s place is absolutely gorgeous. Not ostentatious like some homes along the coastline can be, but comfortable.
Bigger than quaint, but still cozy, and situated in a way that he can’t see the schoolhouse from here, although I’ve seen this house on my walks to the cliff.
A staircase rests between both homes but was never used much by either of us.
I was always working.
And Tate was absent.
But now, he’s so present. Present in more ways than I’d ever expect from anyone, which makes it all the more unsettling that it’s Tate’s. My unknown neighbor. My one-night stand.
And yet, it feels like Tate was never meant to be only one night of my life. For years, he’s been right here, around the corner, and I’ve simply missed him. Or he’s missed me.
Only, he isn’t missing anymore.
I tally up all he’s done for me like it’s a scorecard when this isn’t a game.
He surprised me with the car show. He took me to lunch. Heck, even before today, he took me apple picking and brought me pumpkin-flavored donuts and muffins. He pays attention to details, like my orange toes, which I wiggle as I sit on the swing, gently pressing my feet back and forth.
He’s done so much for me without asking for anything in return, and I don’t exactly know what to do with that. With the feelings he’s stirring inside me. The hope he’s igniting.
It’s strange to consider that in only a matter of days, Tate has become important to me.
The proof is in my reaction to the days he didn’t call me. I missed him. And the feeling is completely foreign to me.
All my emotions feel out of whack. Autumn should be a time for retiring, but everything is blooming inside me. Tate, being Tate, consistent, steady, uncomplicated, is planting thoughts in my head and my heart. Thoughts I don’t think I can ignore for much longer.
When Tate returns to the porch, he has two bottles of water between the fingers of one hand and a blanket draped over his shoulder.
“It can get breezy out here.” He sets the water bottles on a narrow table beside the swing and opens one, handing it to me.
I take a short sip while Tate sits beside me, draping the blanket over my belly.
“I thought some movie star owned this place,” I state.
“I rent it out long term. Movie stars. Musicians. A politician or two.” He grimaces like the last option didn’t please him. “I block off the weeks I want to be here.”
“Like New Year’s Eve,” I tease, bumping my arm against his.
“Visiting then was sort of last-minute. And the place was already rented, so I didn’t stay here. I stayed with Fisk.”
“Ah,” I reply, recalling how I dropped him off at his cousin’s home in the dark, cold hours of a new year.
He’d wanted to see me again, but I had plans with my sisters. Well, at least, Isolde.
“How could you get into your own place now? Didn’t you have a renter here?” I squint toward the calm ripple of water in the bay.
“I canceled a pending one for the next few months. I wanted to be here for you.”
I stare at the side of his face. His wavy hair blowing in the breeze. The scruff on his jaw a little thicker. There are wrinkles near his eyes when he squints. Then he glances at me.
“Here.” He shifts so he can swing one leg behind me. Then he moves me, so I sit with my side against his raised knee. His other foot rests on the floor, gently moving us back and forth. He sets my water bottle on the floor as well.
With my back to his front, he tucks the blanket over me again. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You okay with this?” he softly asks behind me.
It’s nice. A position I’m afraid to get too comfortable in. I tell myself he’s only here until the baby is born. Just a few more weeks and then he’ll be gone. He’ll whisk away to the big city and forget all about Little Wrench and me.
But Tate must sense the tension in me, and he cups my shoulders, massaging over the long-sleeved shirt I’ve tucked into another pair of overalls.
At the doctor’s office, Tate was respectful, stepping out while I undressed and slipped into the unflattering paper gown.
He held my hand during the exam, squeezing like he was just as anxious as I was, when all I kept thinking about was how I was naked underneath a thin barrier of paper. And he was right beside me.
He could have shredded the material. I wouldn’t have been opposed to him taking me. Feet in the air, those stirrups supporting me. I squirm at the thought.
Damn Dr. Julie and her orgasm suggestion.
She’d given the medical advice during my last visit, knowing I’m a lone ranger in the bedroom. Still, it’s been a while since I touched myself, not finding the desire in my present condition.
But as I lean against Tate, who massages my shoulders and digs his thumbs into the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, all I can think about is desire. And how mine is imbalanced on the scale of Tate.
I want him when the last thing I imagine him wanting is to sleep with a pregnant woman.
Suddenly, Tate’s hand slips over my shoulder, and he unsnaps the decorative clasp on my overalls. These aren’t the typical farm ones, but feminine ones with large snaps down the front and wide pockets on the side. They’re comfortable and easily stretch over my stomach.
He pops the other strap and shoves both straps aside, continuing to massage my shoulders and down my arms, squeezing my biceps.
I melt into him.
“This okay?” he asks again as my eyes close and I nod, unable to find words.
I don’t know that anyone has ever been so tender with me. Not when I typically like things a little rougher, a little faster, a little harder. Our position surprises me, because I don’t hate it.
He works down to my wrists, then presses into the palm of my hands and along my fingers. I’m nearly numb, I’m so relaxed.
“About what the doctor said.” His voice is rough near my ear, gravelly and low, and another ripple cascades down my spine.
“What did she say?” My voice is just as bumpy.
“About orgasms.”
I clench my thighs like the word itself could set me off.
“Would it help?”
I have no idea, but all I want to answer is yes.
Instead, I shrug, and Tate runs his cheek along my neck. The bristly scrape forces my skin to pebble. I tip my head to the side, almost begging him to do it again. He does not disappoint. He simply brushes his jaw and chin along the column of my throat.
A purr rumbles out of me. My hands were originally on my belly, but now one cups his raised knee and the other rests on his opposite thigh.
One of his hands scoops over my shoulder and across my chest, just above my breasts.
“Your breasts are so huge,” he hums against my neck, his nose runs around the shell of my ear. “Do they ache?”
Desperately. “Sometimes.” I swallow thickly, keeping my eyes closed and tipping my head again as he brushes harder at my skin. His jaw firm. His chin sharp.
“Like now?” he whispers right into my ear.
“Yes.”
He slips his hand to cup one, feeling the weight of it. He flicks his thumb over my nipple, finding it already peaked and pebbled. He pinches me, and I arch my back, squeezing my thighs together.
As he slips his hand to the other breast, he asks, “Do you ache in other places?”
“Sometimes,” I tease, smiling shyly.
He runs his hand inside the overalls and over my stomach. “Like now?” His voice holds a smile as well.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
“Maybe?” His voice rises only slightly above a hush. “Maybe I should check for myself. Give you a thorough assessment.”
“Oh, are you suddenly interested in being a doctor again?”
“Maybe,” he teases as well, slipping his fingers lower, brushing over the stretched skin of my abdomen where my shirt rides up before he reaches the edge of my panties. I could wear supportive pregnancy ones, but I’ve opted for a larger thong that sits below my belly and stretches over my hips.
Tate slides his hand between my thighs, finding the material thin and wet.
“Soaked,” he hums into my ear. “This is a good sign.”
“A sign of what, Doctor?” I joke, tilting my head to look at him over my shoulder.
His eyes are bright and campfire warm as he glances back at me. “A sign that you need relief.” He holds his gaze on me. “Let me give it to you.”
“Take it from me,” I whisper back.
As his fingers brush aside the saturated silk, I slip my head back to his shoulder and suck in a breath when he easily slides into my body. I clutch harder at his kneecap and dig my fingertips into his thigh as he drags a finger in and out, coating it in sloppy essence.
I’m wetter than I’d expect, more sensitive than I ever remember being. And when his thumb flicks that sensitive spot, I bow up and off him a second.
Tate wraps his other arm around my chest again, gently bringing me back to him. He slips that hand over my breast, teasing over my nipple with the brush of his thumb while working me faster down low.
The push and pull of one finger inside me is eventually joined by another one. His thumb races faster against my clit. I spread my legs wider, wanting him deeper. Wanting him to fill me up.
He presses a kiss to my hair, then pulls his fingers out of me, circling that trigger point with just the right amount of pressure. Round and round, tighter and faster. I rock into his touch, clinging to his legs.
The swing gently moves side to side.
I’m hyperaware of everything around me. The breeze. His breath.
“Tate,” I whimper, a warning as I wind tighter. The tension builds, spinning faster.
“I’m right here, baby,” he coos into my ear, teasing me, twirling me around those fingers until I snap.
“Tate,” I scream, launching forward a little and letting my knees fall to the sides. He shoves his fingers back inside me and presses the heel of his hand against my clit as I ride his hand, making the swing move back and forth instead of side to side.
Tate moves with me, making me aware of the hard length at my back.
But I can only focus on his fingers inside me and that heel applied against me, as I come undone like I haven’t since the last time he touched me.
All these months, alone, without him. Touching myself didn’t compare. Only he could do what’s being done. The unraveling. The unwinding. The release, making me as loose as the air around us.
I drift. And I rock. And I come down, collapsing against his chest, while his fingers still tease me, turning gentle, turning worshipful.
“Tate,” I whisper, and he tenderly draws his fingers free of my body. He pulls his hand to his mouth and sucks them clean, humming as he does.
I glance up at him, watching him, disbelieving I’m in this position again. With him.
“Better than pie filling,” he says, meeting my eyes, and I laugh, as my belly tightens a little.
I clutch at my stomach, looking down at it.
Tate must look in that direction as well, and he lays his palm against my belly. “Everything alright in there?”
I breathe through the tightening and almost hold my breath until it doesn’t happen again.
I don’t know if the baby is alright, but I’m certainly not.
“I think we’re all good,” I whisper.
“Only good?” Tate snorts. “Next one will be better.”
“Next one?” I tilt my head.
“Yep. You need to get used to this. There are more to come.” His eyes dance, playful with the innuendo.
“What about you?” I ask, hesitantly.
“This isn’t about me. You need these.” He nods toward my belly like the baby is the only reason he’s giving me orgasms.
Still, I sit upright, and he gives me a little shove to assist me. Then I stand on shaking legs and turn to face him.
“And what do you need?”