Chapter 14
Stella
I followed Tate into the house on legs that felt like jelly, my entire body humming with a satisfaction so deep it bordered on intoxication.
When he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look at me, I saw the question in his eyes—the hesitation, the uncertainty about what came next.
I didn’t have an answer. Didn’t have the brain cells to form one.
So when he bent down and swept me up into his arms like I weighed nothing, I didn’t protest.
I just let my head fall against his shoulder and closed my eyes.
He carried me up the stairs, his footsteps steady and sure, and I breathed in the scent of him—sweat and grass and something darker underneath. Something that smelled like us. I felt boneless, wrung out, completely and utterly spent in the best possible way.
Tate shouldered open my bedroom door and carried me through to the adjoining bathroom. I felt him shift me in his arms, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes. Couldn’t seem to do anything except float in this hazy, golden space he’d created.
“Can you stand for a second?” he asked gently.
I nodded and he set me on my feet, keeping one hand on my hip to steady me. He reached over to the tub and turned on the spigot, letting the water fill the bath. He poured in some of the scented crystals from the decanter on the rim, then he turned back toward me.
I watched him through half-lidded eyes as he lifted my top and pulled it over my head carefully, his movements clinical despite what we’d just done. He helped me step out of my heels and stripped off my skirt, now grass-stained and wrinkled from our…activities.
The bathroom was warm now, steam rising from the tub, and the scent of my lavender bath soap filled the air.
He helped me into the bath and I sank into the hot water with a moan that probably sounded obscene.
Every aching muscle in my body relaxed simultaneously, the heat soaking into places that were already pleasantly sore.
I could only watch as Tate rolled up his sleeves and reached for my sponge. He lathered it with soap—my expensive French soap that I only used on special occasions—and began to wash me with slow, methodical strokes.
It felt incredible.
Not sexual, exactly. Something deeper and more personal than that. He cleaned my arms, my shoulders, my back, his touch firm but gentle. He continued on with my breasts, my stomach, and down between my thighs. He was thorough, careful, treating me like something precious that needed tending.
When he moved to my hair, working shampoo through the strands with his fingertips, I nearly cried. No one had washed my hair for me since I was a child. Now, it felt so intimate. His fingers massaged my scalp, working through the tangles, and I melted back against the porcelain.
“Why are you doing this?” I murmured, my eyes still closed.
“It’s called aftercare.” His voice was quiet, steady. “You would have known this if you’d stuck around at The Players Club that night. I’m taking care of you—making sure you’re okay. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.”
Aftercare. Yeah, this was…nice. “I’m more than okay,” I murmured softly.
He didn’t respond, just continued rinsing the shampoo from my hair, then adding conditioner, his fingers gentle against my scalp. The silence stretched between us, comfortable but weighted with things unsaid.
I thought about what had happened in that backyard.
It had been so wild. Primal. Completely unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
He’d chased me down and taken me like an animal, and I’d loved every second of it.
I’d felt his lust, his hunger, the raw need he’d been holding back for days.
I’d felt how much he wanted me—and I’d seen the part of him he hadn’t wanted me to see.
And now, watching him through the steam, I could see the conflict on his face. The guilt settling in. His jaw was tight, his movements becoming stiffer, more mechanical. He was pulling away, retreating back into that professional distance he tried to maintain.
I recognized the signs. He was about to apologize. About to say something that would create space between us and rebuild the walls I’d just torn down.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Stella, I’m—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” I said before he could say the words.
His hands stilled in my hair. “That never should have—”
“Don’t you dare say it never should have happened,” I added just as firmly.
I turned in the tub to face him, water sloshing against the sides. His eyes were dark with emotions that made my chest feel tight. Guilt. Shame. Fear. “You gave me an out, Tate. You gave me a safeword. And I didn’t use it.”
He swore beneath his breath. “You were caught up in the moment. You didn’t know what you were agreeing to.”
“Don’t patronize me. I knew exactly what I was agreeing to.
” I held his gaze, refusing to let him look away.
“I wanted it. All of it. The chase, the fight, being pinned down and taken like that—I wanted it. That’s why I didn’t use the safeword.
Because for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt like I was exactly where I supposed to be. ”
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or hope. But the guilt was still there, lurking beneath the surface.
“Is this what you didn’t want me to see?” I asked softly.
Tate was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat back on his heels, his hands dropping to rest on the edge of the tub.
“Yes,” he finally said. The word came out rough, like it cost him something to admit.
“That part of me... I try to keep it locked down. Controlled. I go to the club when I have to, find someone who understands, and then I put it away again.”
“Why?”
His laugh was hollow. “Because I’ve seen what happens when men like me don’t control it. My father—” He stopped, his jaw working. “My father didn’t have an off switch. Didn’t believe in one. He took what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and didn’t care who got hurt.”
My heart clenched. “Tate...”
“I swore I’d never be like him.” His eyes were distant now, seeing something I couldn’t. “Never let that part of me hurt someone. Never lose control the way he did.”
“But you didn’t hurt me.” I reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the tub. His skin was warm and damp from the bathwater. “Tate, look at me.”
He did, reluctantly.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I repeated firmly. “You gave me a safeword. And now you’re here, taking care of me, making sure I’m okay.” I squeezed his fingers. “That’s not what a man without control does. That’s not what a monster does.”
He didn’t look completely convinced. I wanted to argue, but exhaustion was pulling at me, making my limbs heavy and my thoughts slow.
Tate helped me out of the tub and wrapped me in the towel, drying me off with the same careful attention he’d shown while bathing me. Then he found one of my silk nightgowns—the pale blue one, soft and comfortable—and helped me into it.
“I’m here to protect you, Stella.” His voice was serious now, his hands steady as he smoothed the fabric over my shoulders. “And you can’t distract me from that.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Nice to know I can distract you.”
He gave me a look—half exasperation, with something more fond softening the edges. “You know damn well you can. Doesn’t mean you should.”
I laughed. “I kind of like pushing your buttons.”
He shook his head, but I caught the ghost of a smile on his lips as he guided me toward the bed. The sheets were cool and crisp when I slid between them, and the pillows felt like clouds beneath my heavy head.
“Stay?” I murmured, already half-asleep. “I want you to stay.”
Tate stood beside the bed, looking down at me with that conflicted expression I was coming to know so well. The guilt. The want. The iron will fighting against both.
“You know I can’t,” he said quietly. “Your parents could come home at any time. And I need to do another security check.”
I knew he was right, that staying would be reckless, that we’d already pushed far beyond any reasonable boundary tonight. But that didn’t stop the disappointment from settling in my chest.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He hesitated, then bent down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. It was gentle, tender—so different from the depraved claiming in the backyard that it made my heart ache.
“Sleep,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion take me.
* * *
The next few days settled into an unexpected rhythm. There was an easiness between us now that hadn’t existed before. The tension was still there but it was different now. Less like a battlefield and more geared toward the awareness between us.
Tate was still professional. Still careful to maintain appropriate distance whenever my mother was around. I understood. I even respected it, though that didn’t stop me from wanting to drag him into a closet every time our eyes met across a room.
This was a matter of getting through the threat first, I told myself. Finding out who was stalking me, neutralizing the danger, and then…well, then we could figure out what this was. What we were to each other now that we’d crossed so many lines.
I wasn’t going to push. Not right now. Tate was still doing his job, still keeping me safe, and I wasn’t going to jeopardize that just because I wanted his hands on me again.
But my feelings for him were changing. Deepening into something I hadn’t anticipated when I’d first seen him standing in my parents’ kitchen, looking like everything I’d ever wanted and nothing I was supposed to have.
So I waited. Focused on my work, on the lookbook launch that was gaining more traction every day, on the final alterations for Eleanor’s gown. I let Tate do his job and tried not to think too hard about the future.
But at night, alone in my bed, I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. Could still hear his voice in my ear, low and commanding, telling me I was his.
I caught you. Now I own you.
The memory made me shiver every time.
Whatever this was between us, it wasn’t over. We’d barely scratched the surface of what we could be to each other, and once this threat was behind us, once we could stop looking over our shoulders...I was going to make damn sure we explored every inch of it.