Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

Tate is at the door before my fist even meets the pane. He’s grinning down at me with freshly-showered tousled hair and his eyes are all twinkly.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for my bag strap so that he can pull me into the house. I see Madden leaning on the kitchen counter and he rolls his eyes when he looks over at me. He shuffles past, hands in his pockets, and mutters Tate a begrudging “see you” as he trudges out of the doorway.

Tate laughs and hauls me fully inside, unzipping my jacket pockets so that he can put his hands in them. I’m still a bit shaken by what happened with Hudson and I want to tell Tate about it, but I can smell the heady boy-soap scent exuding from the warmth of his skin and I don’t want to spoil the moment. He rotates us one-eighty so that he can kick the door shut and then he walks me backwards to the kitchen stools.

“Homework time?” he asks as he pushes me down onto the chair. He unfastens my jacket and slips it off my shoulders after I disentangle myself from my bag. “Or can we just forget about the homework and go hang out in my room?”

He hangs my jacket over the chair and then drops to his knees, undoing the laces on my shoes before sliding them off my feet. He sits them neatly down next to me and gently cups my ankles, looking up from between my knees.

“My room?” he urges. “Before our moms come home?”

I deliberate for a few moments. Then I say, “That does seem like the most logical option.”

Our fingers are entwined and suddenly we’re rushing up the stairs. Once we’re at his door Tate moves to stand behind me and we enter his room as one.

His room is much better than my room. He has a hand-carved wooden bed frame and a matching set of drawers that look artisanal in style. There are motorbike posters on the walls, sports trophies across his desk, and, most intriguingly, a glass jar filled with dollar bills, with a large label that reads “TATTOO MONEY”. The whole space looks lived in by someone with a full and exciting life.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he says, moving us in front of the mirror so that he can check to see if I’m peeking.

I turn around, surprised. “But I just got here,” I exclaim.

He laughs and presses a kiss to the top of my cheek. My eyes instinctively flutter shut and when he pulls back he whispers, “Just like that.”

Once his body leaves mine I suddenly feel edgy and cold. I’m biting my lip to hide my nerves, and I wonder if being here is a bad idea. I want to know why Madden was here, and I need to know why the hell he’s friends with Hudson. I have looked into Tate’s bedroom window from the day that he moved in, but now that I’m inside of it everything feels too good to be true. Surely happiness can’t be this simple to achieve.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs and I feel him set something sharp and cool into my hands. “Open your eyes.”

If my hands weren’t full I would have lifted them to my face in enchanted delight. I scrunch up my nose and my heart does a painful swell as I take in how unnecessarily thoughtful this was.

Saturate. We Are Not Alone. Dear Agony. Dark Before Dawn. Ember.

Every other studio album released by Breaking Benjamin.

I try to rub the flush from my cheeks onto my shoulder. “You must be pretty sick of Phobia by now, I guess,” I joke, eyes down. I instantly decide to give him my Phobia album the next time we hang out together because this was so darn sweet. My irises have turned into little glowing love hearts, so I can’t risk looking up into his right now.

It’s no matter. Tate pulls me closer to his body and presses his forehead to mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut and I feel him take the CDs from my hands, tossing them onto his comforter. The water droplets that were running through his hair from the shower are now trickling down my cheeks.

“Never,” he whispers. I can hear the gorgeous smile in his voice. “That CD is the best thing that ever happened to me.” He presses himself closer. “Well, you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

His hands are rubbing up my arms – cupping, gripping, squeezing – until his palms meet my collarbones, and then his fingers begin firmly caressing my cool skin. His thumbs slip underneath the top button of my shirt and he pushes his torso flush against mine.

“River,” he whispers, lips tickling over my cheek. “Can I kiss you, please?”

I open my eyes and shudder. His pupils have dialled out and his body is predatorily still. I tilt my face upwards and his body bows towards me.

“I need you to say yes or no, River,” he urges, eyes trained on my lips.

I’m drunk on the power that this moment is giving me over him. The ability to bestow or deprive, give or take. He’s so desperate for my consent that it makes me feel luscious, wicked. My eyes flicker down and I see the cross pendant hanging over his t-shirt.

“What if I say no?” I whisper, sliding my hands up to his wrists.

His fingers press more firmly into the base of my throat. “Is that what you’re going to say?”

We walk backwards until my body touches the hard surface of his door, and he quickly moves one hand to my head, cupping it protectively. He looks so wild. I want to toy with him for the rest of my life.

I shake my head and he groans.

“Please say it, River,” he begs quietly, his soft hair tickling my forehead.

I can’t restrain my little smug smile any longer and it makes him beam lovingly at me in return.

“Okay,” I say. “Yes Tate, you can.”

He smiles against my lips.

“Thank you,” he says.

And then he kisses me.

His touch is so perfect that I choose to stay still, not wanting to disrupt the moment. He gently kisses his lips to mine and then he remains motionless, assessing my response so that he can decide what to do next. I have never been kissed before and he can probably tell. There’s a hint of wetness between our mouths but I think that it might be his shower water dripping over us.

He pulls back after a few seconds and searches my eyes. His are dark and stormy.

“Was that okay?” he asks, forehead brushing against mine. His voice has never been this deep before.

“It was okay,” I admit. It was kind of alien but, at the same time, I don’t want him to not do it again.

He breathes out a laugh and buries his face into my neck. “‘Okay’,” he repeats, his voice tormented. “I have to do better than that.” He lifts back up and looks down into my eyes. “Have you ever been kissed before? In fact, don’t answer that.” He threads his fingers through my hair and gives me a devious smile. “I am your first kiss.”

I laugh and he rubs his nose against mine.

“Can I do it again, River?” he whispers.

I nod.

And this time, it’s different.

He presses his lips tenderly against mine but as soon as I kiss him back he begins to move. His mouth caresses me harder, with more urgency, and one of his hands fists and tugs in my hair. When I release a little gasp, his other hand slides around my throat, warm, domineering, protective. My heart is hammering faster than the downpour outside. He pushes the lower half of his body against mine and he lets out a satisfied grunt when he feels the pulse in my throat quicken beneath the firm press of his thumb. I slide my hands around the swollen curves of his biceps and rub my fingers up the solid muscle, making him relieve a long low groan. He moves his mouth to my neck and sucks until my chest is heaving.

“Can I take you out this Friday, River?” he asks, hands smoothing down my ribs. “I want to show you something, and I want to do this again – without a time limit.” His teeth graze against my throat and then he delicately tugs at the skin.

I pull him back up to my mouth by entwining my fingers deep into his hair, so soft and wet from the shower. “Yes,” I say, and I let him lean forward to kiss me again.

He inhales deeply as his hands envelop my hips, his fingers digging eagerly into my pliable softness. “I want to use my tongue next time,” he whispers as he slots one of his knees between both of mine, and then he slowly lifts it up, up, up–

I jolt backwards and, having lost all of my brain cells, I bang my head hard against the door. I howl and laugh, but Tate quickly recomposes himself and pulls me flush against him.

“Sorry,” he says, his fingers massaging soothing circles against my skull. “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” He locks me into the cradle of his arms, his cheek pressed against the top of my head.

“It’s okay,” I say, laughing, but he’s holding me so tightly I can tell that he doesn’t think that it’s okay. I can’t even tip my head back to look at him because I’m compressed so hard against his chest. His whole body is rigid, including the long tense muscle pressing into my stomach.

I try to think of something to distract him.

“What tattoo are you going to get?” I ask, my voice trembling only a little.

“Your name, across my knuckles,” he replies immediately.

I laugh again because I think that he’s joking, but he isn’t laughing with me.

I move my hands so that they are flat against his back and a shiver runs through his body. When he looks down at me he relaxes a bit. He leans forward and swipes a kiss across my forehead, before stroking my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Why did you have a shower?” I ask.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “To calm my nerves,” he answers patiently. “Not that it worked,” he laughs, and then he dips his face into my neck again, sucking gently. “And I was going to get Madden to help me with something, but we didn’t have enough time,” he adds, before sinking his teeth into me.

I gasp – shocked, sensitised, and exhilarated – and he bites harder.

He runs his tongue over the area and his hands snake around my waist.

“I should go home, Tate,” I whisper, in an attempt to throw some cold water over the fire in my belly.

I feel him smile against my throat. “You probably should,” he agrees, and then he stands up to his full height, towering over me. He realigns my glasses on the bridge of my nose before quickly kissing the tip.

“I hope that you love the CDs,” Tate says as he walks me across the street before my mom gets back from work, squeezing my hand in his.

I smile up at him before looking away and swallowing nervously.

I think that I might love more than just the CDs, Tate.