Chapter 9 #2
“My mother finally left him when I was seventeen,” he continued, not looking at me.
“She moved to Florida and started over. I stayed behind to finish high school. I thought I could handle him on my own, thought maybe he’d be different with just the two of us.
” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I was wrong.”
I wanted to reach for him, but something in his posture warned me not to.
“Shortly after she left, he got into a bar fight. Beat a man to death with his bare hands.” Tate’s voice was utterly flat now, like he was reading from a report. “He went to prison. Six months later, I turned eighteen and enlisted.”
“He’s still in prison?” I asked quietly.
“Died there. Five years ago. Had a heart attack.” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were dark, shuttered. “I didn’t go to the funeral.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. I could sense there was more—layers of pain and history that he was keeping locked away—but I understood that he’d given me more than he probably gave most people.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “That you grew up with that. That you had to survive that.”
Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Like he hadn’t expected understanding.
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still affect you.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying me intently. “No,” he finally said. “It doesn’t.”
There was something in his voice that made me wonder what else was he carrying. What other scars, visible and invisible, had that childhood left on him?
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.
His expression shuttered immediately. “Nothing that matters.”
“Tate—”
“We should probably get some sleep.” He abruptly stood up. “It’s late.”
But I wasn’t ready to let the moment go.
I moved around the island before I could think better of it, closing the distance until I was standing right in front of him.
Close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the guarded look in his eyes, and the way his chest rose and fell with carefully controlled breaths.
“Thank you,” I said. “For telling me. For trusting me with that.”
“Stella—”
“I know it wasn’t easy.” I reached up, my hand moving almost of its own accord, and cupped his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my palm, rough with stubble. “I’m sorry you had a father like that. You deserved better.”
Something cracked in his expression. The walls he’d been holding up wavered, and I glimpsed something raw underneath—a hunger, a longing, a need that matched the ache building in my own chest. His breath came faster, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrayed the calm he was trying so desperately to project.
I knew I should step back, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor, my hand still pressed against the warmth of his face, my entire body leaning toward him like a flower toward sunlight.
“Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I breathed, even though I knew exactly what my eyes were saying. I want you.
“Like you want me to kiss you.”
The words hung between us, charged and dangerous. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it. Every rational thought I’d ever had screamed at me to step away, to preserve the fragile professional distance we’d been pretending existed.
Instead, I tilted my chin up and held his gaze. “What if I do?”
His hand came up, wrapping around my wrist where it rested against his face.
His fingers were warm and strong, and I felt the contact everywhere—sparking along my nerve endings, pooling low in my stomach.
But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t push me back.
His thumb pressed against my pulse point, firm and deliberate, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing.
Could feel the evidence of exactly what he did to me.
A clear struggle flickered in his eyes. “This is a bad idea,” he murmured, but his thumb was still stroking my pulse, slow circles that made it hard to think.
“Probably.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. I stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that if I rose onto my toes we’d be breathing the same air.
His free hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach for me. “I’m your bodyguard.” It sounded like a warning.
“I know,” I whispered and still didn’t move away.
“We agreed to keep things professional.” His voice had dropped lower, rougher, and the sound of it sent shivers cascading down my spine.
“We did.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
Who is gay. The way Tate looked at me was like a dare, as though he was challenging the validity of who Oliver was to me. There was something knowing in his gaze, like he’d already figured it out and was waiting for me to confirm it. Testing me.
But even if Tate suspected, I couldn’t out Oliver.
His career, his relationship with Carl, his entire carefully constructed life—none of that was mine to expose.
Which left us at an impossible stalemate.
Tate couldn’t ask directly without revealing what he knew, and I couldn’t confirm without betraying my friend.
Unless I found a way to tell the truth without telling all of the truth.
“It’s all a ruse,” I said before I could stop myself, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We’re using each other as nothing more than a convenient cover. A shield against our families’ expectations.”
Tate’s expression shifted, tension bleeding from his shoulders that I hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. Relief. And beneath it, satisfaction, as though he’d been waiting for this confirmation, holding himself back until he had it.
“I figured that was the case,” he said gruffly. “Doesn’t make this any less complicated.”
How had he known? The question burned on my tongue but my body was demanding other things right now.
The questions could wait. The answers didn’t matter right this moment, not when Tate was standing this close, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb still pressing against my racing pulse.
Not when the last barrier between us had just crumbled to dust.
Neither of us moved. The kitchen was silent except for the pounding of my heart and his ragged breathing. The space between us felt electric, alive, like the air itself was holding its breath.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
The look was slow. Deliberate. It traveled over my lips like a caress, and I felt it as vividly as if he’d actually touched me. My lips parted involuntarily, and I heard his soft groan—a small sound, barely audible, but it sent a rush of heat flooding through me.
He wanted this. Whatever walls he’d built, whatever professional distance he was trying to maintain, his body was betraying him just as surely as mine was betraying me.
“Stella...” My name was a plea on his lips, half warning and half surrender.
I rose onto my toes, bringing my mouth within inches of his. I could feel his breath ghosting across my skin, could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes and watched his pupils dilate as the last of his resistance disintegrated.
“Stop talking,” I whispered, “and kiss me.”
For a heartbeat—an eternity—nothing happened. His grip on my wrist tightened almost painfully. His jaw clenched. I could see the war playing out behind his eyes, duty fighting desire, reason fighting need.
I thought he was going to pull away, and then something in him snapped and his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss was nothing like our first night together. That had been electric, yes, but controlled. Tate testing the waters, establishing dominance, taking his time. This was different. This was desperation. Like he’d been holding himself back for days and that restraint had finally unraveled.
His hands gripped my hips and lifted me onto the kitchen island like I weighed nothing.
I gasped against his mouth, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer.
His tongue swept against mine, tasting of chocolate and something darker and more forbidden, and I moaned in a way that would have embarrassed me if I’d had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.
“Fuck,” he growled against my lips. “You taste so good.”
His hands slid up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin silk of my camisole. I arched into the touch, needy and shameless, my fingers tangling in his hair to keep his mouth right where it was.
He kissed down my jaw, my neck, finding that spot behind my ear that made me whimper. His teeth grazed my skin, followed by his tongue, and I felt the sensation all the way to my core.
“Tate—” I gasped.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was ragged, his breath hot against my throat.
“Don’t you dare.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating against my skin, and then he claimed my mouth again.
This time the kiss was even deeper, more consuming.
His hands found my thighs, squeezing, spreading them wider so he could press closer.
I could feel the thick length of his cock through his sweatpants, and the knowledge that I did this to him, that he wanted me as badly as I wanted him, made me dizzy.
I tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, and he pulled back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it onto the counter beside us.
Then my hands were on his chest, his abs, those muscles I’d been fantasizing about for days.
He was even more beautiful than I remembered—solid and strong and mine.
At least for this moment. At least for now.
He kissed me again, softer this time but no less intense, his hands cradling my face like I was something precious. I melted into him, my whole body aching with how much I wanted this—wanted him—
And then he abruptly stopped.
He pressed his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. His hands were still on my face, his body still between my thighs, but something had changed. I could feel him pulling away even before he moved.
“Tate?” I whispered.
“We can’t do this.” His voice was strained, rough with the effort of holding himself back. “We’re crossing lines we shouldn’t.”
“I don’t care about the lines.”
“You should.” He stepped back, putting space between us that felt like a chasm. His expression was conflicted—desire warring with regrets. “There are things about me, Stella. Things you probably wouldn’t like.”
I stared at him, my entire body aching with denied want. “What things?”
He shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Just... trust me. This isn’t a good idea.”
“Why? Because you’re my bodyguard? Because we had one night that was supposed to stay one night?” I slid off the counter, moving toward him. “Because you think there’s something wrong with you that I couldn’t possibly understand?”
He flinched, like I’d struck a nerve.
“Tate.” I reached for him, but he stepped back. “Whatever it is, whatever you think is so terrible, I don’t care. I want you. I want more of what we shared at the club.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes at that. Something hungry and almost dangerous. For a moment, I thought he was going to close the distance and kiss me again.
But then the walls slammed back up.
“You need to get some sleep,” he said, his voice flat. “I’ll clean up here.”
“Tate—”
“Good night, Stella.”
He turned away, picking up the plates from the counter, and the dismissal was clear. I stood there for a long moment, anger and frustration and hurt churning in my chest.
Just like everyone else. Just like my parents. He thought he knew what was best for me. Thought he could make decisions about what I could handle, what I should want, what was good for me without ever asking what I thought.
I’d had enough of people deciding things for me.
“This isn’t over,” I said quietly.
He didn’t turn around. “Good night, Stella,” he said, more firmly this time.
I left the kitchen with my hands shaking and my lips still tingling, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to cry. Because he was wrong. Whatever darkness he thought he was protecting me from, whatever demons he was carrying, I could handle it. I wanted to handle it.
And somehow, I was going to make him see that.