Chapter 17 #3
“I can tell. Your honey is flowing like a river.” He brings his hands back and holds my hips, lifting me.
“Put me inside you,” he says. Caught up in that erotic look of want, the sensual quivering of his mouth as his passion rises, I do what he says.
As his cock slides home to my center while he lowers me onto him, I let out a long low moan of tense satisfaction, the kind that anticipates so much more to come.
He keeps his hands on my hips and his eyes on mine as I settle against him, leaning forward to feel the pressure against my clit, to feel my breasts against his chest, my nipples against the rough hair.
I move my hips up, raising on his cock, slow and easy, feeling every bit of the tight slick pressure inside me.
When I’m almost at the tip, when he’s about to come out of me, he tightens his grip on my hips and plunges me down hard until our bones crash together and my ass slaps against his balls and my pussy cries out in pleasure.
“You are so amazing,” he says as we move up and down again, his voice tight, barely in control. “So beautiful, inside and out.”
I cry out and I don’t know if it’s his words or his thumb finding the sensitive swollen nub and circling, caressing as I ride him.
He circles his hips, his breathing rough, and I feel like I’m on the sexiest bronco in the rodeo, riding, wild and spiraling to a pinpoint of pleasure as his cock gets so hard and big, so tight inside me, that I feel like he’s part of me.
The bursting release of my orgasm clenches my muscles and he groans loud.
“Chloe . . . I’m coming . . .”
I love his words, revel in them, revel in the feel of the spasming as he pumps inside me, love the feel of the hot cum as it leaks out of me and the waves of orgasmic clenching again and again as he pulls me down on top of him, holding me close, murmuring my name, whispering into my ear tender words.
Words of love.
The morning is a hot scramble because we’ve slept later than we should. The contentment of waking in his arms is abolished when he sees the time.
“Fuck. You’re dangerous, lady. I need to get out of here.”
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” I say without thinking because desperation has me panicked.
I can’t let him find out from anyone else but me.
I know Henry is going to air the show at some point.
Sarina will put it together, put something together.
Neither of them is going to let it go now.
Tate jumps from the bed with only a slight wince from the sudden movement and throws on some gym shorts and a jersey. I find my clothes from last night and dress as fast as I can while he’s in the bathroom.
He comes out and takes me in his arms, “Whatever you need to talk about will have to wait until later.” He has not a flicker of worry on his face, confident that he can handle whatever it is, and that gives me hope, banishes that sense of dread.
Partially. Because I know betrayal is the farthest thing from his mind.
We leave the condo and ride down in the elevator. No coffee and I’m still fitting my foot into my heels.
He says, “We have a walk-through and films today.”
“I’ll see you after that.”
He shakes his head. “Mom and Dad are coming in. I’m picking them up. Then Monday is game day and I’ll be tied up. How about if we have brunch on Tuesday morning? This is a big game and I need to focus.”
He sounds so reasonable and his dimples are showing.
I nod because what else am I going to do?
He’s out the elevator door and headed for his car and I can see he’s already in game mode.
If I tell him now, how messed up would that be?
He hauls me into his hard body, kissing me, and I kiss him back like there’s no tomorrow.
Reluctant to let go, I finally do. His face happy, his dimples deep, he gets into his car and I run to mine.
Those dimples haunt me as I drive away. The blissful state he’s in because we’re falling for each other is so fragile.
I’m so afraid that I’m about to bring it all to a crashing end when I tell him about the story.
But I need to do it. I figure it can wait until Tuesday, after his parents leave. There’s no way Henry and Sarina can put the story together before then.
I go home because that’s the only place I have to go now that I’m jobless. Pacing around is only winding up my tension. But I can’t eat and even though I could use some sleep, there’s no way that’s happening.
There are things I need to do. I need to call Maguire and I need to call Cat. Maguire is the easy call so I take out my phone and tap in his number.
“What the hell’s going on, Smitty? The shit’s hit the proverbial fan around here today,” he says. “Henry’s called an all-hands-on-deck and gave me the third degree in a closed-door meeting.”
“I’m sorry, Duff. I should have called sooner.” But it’s only nine in the morning on a Sunday. Henry is in a hurry. “Let me guess. He asked you about my research for the Perspective feature.”
“I told him I didn’t know a thing. Because I don’t. Not really. Not officially.”
“Thanks.” Even though Maguire wasn’t officially involved in my research, I’d picked his brain and run some things by him. “You’re good people.”
He grunts at that. “I’ll keep you posted about what they’re up to. As much as I can.”
We end the call with me telling him I owe him my firstborn and him saying that’ll never happen. The idea of me having a firstborn, or not having one, is disquieting. But I move onto my next call. I owe Cat an apology, even if she doesn’t realize it.
I tell Cat the whole story of the feature, how it started out as a grand idea but ended up tasting bad. I told her how I erased the computer drive and stole the file and zip drives and brought them home. Chloe gets it but she’s not sure about Tate, says he may need time to adjust.
“He doesn’t understand the business, the media, like I do,” Cat says.
“No kidding,” I say, feeling better. The confession to Cat is like a no-pressure dress rehearsal of the performance to come where the stakes are higher than career stakes, higher than any I’ve ever played for before. My heart is involved and stakes get no higher or scarier than that. I shudder.
“Thanks for listening, Cat. It’s been swell working with you.”
“Don’t leave town yet. There’s always room for a good sports reporter around Boston.”
In truth, I’m surprised when she says this because I have no intention of leaving Boston. It would be the equivalent of leaving Tate.
“I’m not giving up on Boston,” I say, knowing she’ll understand what I’m saying. That I mean everything, using Boston for a shorthand way of saying sports reporting, broadcasting, my dreams, and my friends
And most of all, Tate.