8. Tessa
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tessa
I should tell him to leave.
That’s the sensible thing. The responsible thing. The Tessa Long thing.
Instead, I’m standing on my front walk with my heart in my throat and Nash McCoy’s mouth still a ghost on mine, my skin humming like it’s been struck by lightning.
“You kissed me,” I say, because stating the obvious feels like the only thing anchoring me to reality.
He exhales a laugh that sounds just as unsteady as I feel. “You noticed.”
I should be furious.
I should be offended, indignant, outraged on principle alone.
Instead, my pulse is still racing, my breath shallow, my thoughts scattered like papers knocked off a desk.
I take a step back toward the house.
Not away from him.
Toward the door.
Nash’s eyes flick there instantly, sharp despite the whiskey and the bedlam he’s wrapped himself in tonight. “Tessa…”
I turn the key before I can overthink it.
The lock clicks open far too loudly in the quiet street, and for a split-second panic flares, Mrs. Henley’s porch light across the road, the faint smolder from the Long House windows, my uncle’s room facing the street…
“Inside,” I whisper, grabbing Nash’s sleeve.
He doesn’t hesitate.
We slip through the door and I shut it behind us carefully, moving on instinct rather than thought. The house is dark and still, steeped in that familiar late-night quiet that belongs to old walls and deep histories.
Everyone’s asleep.
Thank goodness.
I press my back to the door, breathing hard, and for one suspended moment we just stare at each other.
This is insane.
This is reckless.
This is the exact opposite of how I live my life.
I shrug out of my coat, tossing it over the chair, suddenly aware of how warm the room feels compared to the freezing street outside.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Bedroom. Now.”
“Okay,” Nash whispers behind me. “Just so we’re clear, if I die tonight, it’s because I followed you into a haunted house.”
“It’s not haunted,” I hiss back. “And stop talking.”
“I’m whispering.”
“You’re loud whispering.”
He clamps his mouth shut immediately, eyes wide, nodding like an overgrown child who’s just been told not to touch the stove.
We make it three careful steps forward when the floorboard near the sitting room creaks.
We freeze, both staring at the ceiling.
Footsteps.
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I’m convinced it’s audible.
“Do you hear that?” Nash breathes, barely moving his lips.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “That’s my grandmother. If she comes out here and sees you, she will absolutely ask questions.”
“Nice questions?”
“No.”
“Polite questions?”
“Also no.”
The footsteps pause.
I don’t breathe.
The hallway light flicks on.
I grab his wrist and yank him backward into the small alcove by the coat closet, pressing him flat against the wall as the light spills into the hall.
He bumps his elbow and winces silently, eyes squeezed shut like that might save him.
Grandma Nell’s voice drifts down the hallway.
“Tessa?”
My soul attempts to leave my body.
“Yes?” I squeak.
Smooth. Very convincing.
“Everything alright, love?”
I glance up at Nash, who is very clearly trying not to laugh. His shoulders are shaking. He bites down on his lip hard enough to leave a mark.
I step out just enough to be seen, heart hammering. “Yes! Just… water.”
I feel like a damn teenager all over again.
A pause.
“Is someone with you?”
Nash’s eyes go wide.
I smile in a way that might look normal if I weren’t seconds from cardiac arrest. “No.”
Another pause.
Then, “Alright. Don’t stay up too late.”
The hallway light clicks off.
Her door closes.
Silence floods back in.
I sag against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest.
“Oh shit,” I whisper as I kick my boots off, barely noticing when one thuds against the wall.
Nash finally loses it.
He covers his mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes bright with barely contained laughter.
“Your face,” he whispers. “You looked like you were about to confess to murder.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, swatting his arm. “You were grinning.”
“I thought she was going to arrest me.”
“She would’ve offered you tea first.”
That sets him off completely.
He laughs, silent, breathless, full-bodied, and I clap a hand over his mouth, half to quiet him, half because the sound of it makes a reckless warmth bloom in my chest.
“Come on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We move faster this time, quieter somehow, adrenaline smoothing the edges. I slip into my room and pull him in after me, closing the door with the softest click I’ve ever managed in my life.
The world shrinks.
Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the edges of my dresser, my bookshelf, the neatly folded throw at the end of the bed.
This is my space.
Nash stands just inside the door, suddenly still, the humor has drained out of him all at once.
What am I doing?
I know this is a mistake. I know I shouldn’t be making these sorts of connections, especially not with Nash McCoy.
But at the same time, when was the last time I threw caution to the wind?
Fuck.
Should I run? Should I get out of here?
But then Nash kisses me again, and the world just drops away.
He doesn’t ease into it this time.
He takes my mouth like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally snapped.
His hands slide up my arms, down my waist, back up again, trying to touch all of me at once. I gasp into the kiss, and he makes a low sound in response, a deep, hungry rumble that shoots fire down my spine.
He palms my waist, fingers spreading, pulling me flush against him.
“Tessa…” he breathes against my lips. I’m oxygen, and he’s been drowning.
My head spins as I push his coat off his shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
His hands move again. Up my ribs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to tell me exactly how badly he wants me. His thumbs brush the curve beneath my bra, barely holding back, making my breath stutter.
He feels the tremor and smiles against my mouth.
“You like my hands on you,” he murmurs, low and sinful.
I absolutely do.
And I absolutely cannot say that.
Which he seems to interpret perfectly.
He steps forward, guiding me backward until my hips hit the edge of my dresser.
“Up,” he says again, darker this time.
I obey without thinking.
The second I’m on the dresser, his hands are all over me, trailing up my thighs, squeezing, guiding my knees apart so he can step between them.
He leans in, his palms sliding up the outside of my legs.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, eyes on my lips, hands stroking higher, higher. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
I grip his shoulders hard.
“Nash—”
He cuts me off with a kiss.
Hot.
Deep
Possessive.
He yanks me closer until I can feel the firm lines of his body pressed against every inch of mine, his hardness grazing me. His fingers find the dress zipper at my back, not pulling it, just toying with it, teasing me with the possibility.
“Tell me you feel this too,” he murmurs against my jaw, his hands sliding down again, gripping my thighs, dragging me closer to the edge of the dresser. “Tell me I’m not imagining this.”
I can’t speak.
I’m too busy trying not to combust.
He takes my silence as the truth it is.
“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing my neck. “That’s what I thought.”
His mouth trails down my neck, lips tracing the line of my pulse. I arch involuntarily. His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me into him, making a quiet, needy sound escape my throat.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he growls softly. “Do you know that?”
He kisses my collarbone, then along my shoulder, one hand sliding beneath the loose neckline of my dress, his palm warm against my bare skin.
“Nash,” I whisper, shaky, undone.
“Mmm,” he answers, mouth at my throat. “More.”
He presses me down on the dresser, bracing himself with one hand while the other brushes over my skin. Up my thigh, gripping, squeezing, guiding; up my hip, over my waist, slipping beneath the hem of my dress again.
He touches me everywhere but where I’m pulsing for him, and it’s maddening.
“Do you want me?” he rasps, kissing me like the words are painful to say.
I nod and tug him closer.
His eyes darken.
“Good,” he whispers.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, lifting me slightly, positioning me exactly where he wants me on the dresser. His body presses between my legs, his breath hot and ragged, his hands gripping my hips with intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
He kisses me again, deep, wild, claiming, and just as his fingers slip under the hem of my dress, just as my hands slide under his shirt to pull him closer, just as everything tips from heated to inevitable, the rest dissolves into shadows, breath, tangled limbs, and the soft, desperate sound of my name on his lips.
I splay my palms wide, gripping onto the edge of the dresser as my dress slips off my shoulders and I shimmy out of it. Before I can even catch my breath, his fingers dive into my underwear and fuck me deep. A guttural scream rises within me and explodes as he massages and explores all of me.
“Nash, oh fuck,” I cry as his thumb grazes over my clit, setting my whole body on fire. “That feels… it’s too much…”
He doesn’t stop though. He knows I need this.
He traces the most wonderful feeling patterns all over my hypersensitive nub, and at some point, I wonder if he’s writing words, communicating a message, but I’m spinning too rapidly, too deep in the pleasure to make sense of anything now.
“What are you doing to me?” I cry out as his hand whips away.
I was climbing, and he stole it from me.
“Nash, you drive me crazy.”
“That’s the idea,” he chuckles, bending to kiss me hard enough to steal the air from my lungs again.
To be fair to him, his lips do also drag away any will to fight. I was about to attack him with frustration, but not anymore.
“I kinda love it when you’re all wound up and needy for me,” he murmurs. “You’re hot as hell when you’re frustrated.”
But I can do the same thing to him.
With trembling fingers, I manage to get his jeans undone and slide my hand inside.
The power that surges through me is intoxicating as I take his thick, throbbing erection between my fingers and watch his face change instantly. He goes dark, glazed, barely holding on.
“Don’t tease me,” he growls, as if he hasn’t done the exact same thing to me.
Too bad.
I take my time.
“You have no idea how badly I want you right now,” he mutters.
“Oh, I do,” I whisper against his neck. “But that makes no difference to me.”
I slip off the dresser and sink to my knees, the hardwood floor cool against my skin. His breath shatters as I take him into my mouth, feeling him pulse against my tongue, his hands tangling in my hair.
“Fuck, Tessa,” he groans.
His need vibrates through me, through everything.
“I need to fuck you,” he whispers.
Eventually, I rise again, breathless, knowing exactly what I want.
He’s already smiling. He plans to take his time ruining me.
“Here,” he says. “Sit.”
I climb back onto the dresser, never breaking eye contact.
He strips my underwear away with his teeth, kisses up my thighs, murmuring about how badly he needs to taste me too.
And when his mouth finally finds me, the world explodes.
I fall hard, screaming his name, losing myself completely.
He doesn’t let me drift.
He’s kissing me again, desperate, claiming, and when he finally pushes inside me, it’s everything.
Every thrust is deeper, sharper, more intense.
I cling to him as we break together, messy and burning and unstoppable.
It’s madness.
What the hell am I playing at?