Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

He’s standing ninety-degrees to the door, his back pressed against the wall adjacent to it, with one leg kicked forward and the other arched up. When he senses me making my way down the stairs he immediately snaps his head towards me, jerks himself off the surface, and then plants his body at the foot of the stairs, a giant immovable barrier.

When I’m a few steps from the bottom and we’re roughly the same height, his arms come to hover at my sides, and he looks into my eyes waiting for an invitation to let him touch me. I do the world’s smallest nod and hell-born flames ignite behind his irises.

His hands instantly wrap around the backs of my thighs and he kneads me so roughly that I have to grab onto his shoulders to prevent myself from falling over. That’s not exactly a hardship seeing as Tate has removed his jacket and now I am gripping into a body that spends more than twelve hours a day hauling wood. At least that’s what I’ve been imagining him doing when I’m all alone in his former bedroom.

For some reason I was expecting him to work his way up to my ass, but instead I feel his palms press down until they’re encasing the backs of my knees, and for some reason this feels even more explicit. Maybe it’s because he had to bend a little and now his face is only a few inches away from my heat. He sees me palpitating and the corner of his mouth lifts a little. Then he heaves his body upwards, lifting me with him, and he quickly compresses me to the front of his torso. The way that I’m splaying against his shirt makes me fold my lips into my mouth to prevent myself from making any sounds that will betray my I’m super aroused hormonal tumult.

He’s full on grinning because my pheromones have told him everything that he needs to know. She wants you, they are whispering. They are not wrong.

“You ready?” he asks as he repositions one of his hands to steady my back and he turns us around so that we’re heading for the door. His hand slides into the pocket on the butt of my jeans, and he removes the case that I had slipped in there for my glasses, clicking the open-close button a couple of times and making me worry about him wearing out the function. He slips it back inside the pocket. How did he even know that it was there? Now I am also worrying that he has x-ray vision, as well as psionic abilities.

“You’ll have to give me a yes or a no at some point,” he jokes, but as soon as he says it my body stills and his eyes flash to mine, away from the light switch he was about to turn off. His shoulders swell and tense. Predator mode.

My eyes have traitorously expanded to five times their usual size in flashback-fear. Thank God I’m not wearing my glasses right now or they would look ten times their usual size. I swallow quickly and try to neutralise my face but he’s not having any of it. There’s only one reason why a person would react weirdly to someone asking for consent.

“You’re going to have to explain that one to me, River,” he commands, and it’s in that moment that I become ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that I have been wrong this whole time. The thing that happened that I thought Tate was the cause of? Tate doesn’t know what happened. Maybe he had planned something, but what subsequently went down isn’t what he had planned. No wonder he has been so confused.

The realisation makes my stomach sink with sickness, the anxiety about being so undeniably misled, but my brain clears as if a downpour has just washed away all of the shitty debris that had been festering for – I don’t know – three years?

Silver linings, I think to myself.

“River,” he prompts again, re-adjusting me against his chest.

I don’t want to think about the past anymore. I don’t need to think about the past anymore. This is a good moment and I’m so happy that I almost release a kind of exhilarated squeal.

I shake my head down at him with a smile breaking across my face, and I bury my nose in his hair. Ugh. It’s so soft that I start breathing audibly and then I run one of my hands through it too, tugging at its thickness and length. We still haven’t gone outside because Tate is now frozen in shock due to my one-eighty; it’s too convoluted for me to care to explain it to him, so hopefully he will just accept my enlightenment as a godly miracle.

I hear him swallow as I continue inhaling him and he whispers, low and hoarse, “Is this a… a trick on me?” He threads one hand into my hair and lightly tugs it back so that he can see my face. Gauging his reaction I look like an addict mid-hit.

Eyes. Lips. Eyes. Lips. He’s deciding whether to continue this conversation – albeit quite an important topic that I am dead-set on avoiding – or haul me upstairs and show me how much he’s missed me. I would like to go with option number two.

“Tate,” I whisper.

And that’s all it takes.

I know that he knows that this is the first time that I have said his name in the three months that we have been trapped in this childhood-trauma sexual-frustration experiment, and before that it had been three years.

You would think that I just said his spy-operative activation trigger word because he somehow drops every single shield that he was holding whilst simultaneously expanding and hardening in every direction. The sound that leaves his chest is not human, and the way he pushes my hips down from his waist to press into his groin is not gentle. I’m higher than a hot air balloon and my little flame-pot just got a tug. Toot toot.

I’m now up against the wall that he was standing at as he waited for me, and there really is no place that I would rather be. He grips my jaw in one hand, forcing my face upwards, and his eyes – devilishly hungry – quickly scan mine. “Can I?” he asks gruffly, eyes on my lips.

Drunk on deviousness I taunt back, “Can you?”

And then he shows me that yes he can.

His hands are firm as they pin me in place, but his mouth is the softest thing that I have ever felt. He presses his lips to mine gently, only parted enough to breathe in my sighs as he caresses my skin, but his body is a different experience entirely. The hand that cupped my jaw has moved to grip the back of my neck, holding me in place for his mouth, whilst lacing his fingers through my hair and tugging forcibly. His other hand is bracing the wall for leverage as he rocks the metal zipper of his jeans roughly up my core. When he removes his hand from the wall he slides it over and down the centre of my ass until his fingers reach my heat, and he holds into me so securely that I have to pull away to gasp. He gives me about three seconds before drawing my face back to his and this time he slides the hot length of his tongue into my mouth, gently filling me at first, and then gradually caressing until the strokes become relentless. The molten pool in my belly overflows as he parts my lips wider, and then he refills my mouth with his long wet muscle.

“I don’t want to go out anymore,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, lips mere millimetres from my own. I nip a tiny bite into his bottom lip and he groans. He runs both of his hands over the curves of my hips and then he rubs his hardened groin up my crotch, to show me exactly what he wants to do instead.

“You don’t have any condoms,” I whisper to him teasingly, and I stifle a quiet laugh when he drops his head into the crook of my neck, moaning in agony. I run my fingers through his hair, savouring how thick and silky it is. Have you changed your mind, O moral one?

Tate is so turned on that he’s forgotten how to speak in proper sentences. His eyes are half-mast and his muscles are swollen and rippling. He keeps his mouth pressed against my throat as he mumbles something along the lines of, “Need my girl tonight.” I shiver in pleasure and he bucks against me, pushing my body into the wall again and again.

At that moment my stomach makes a sound and Tate lifts his head from my neck to look at me. He looks like he’s mid-fuck, hair in complete disarray and his pupils so black that they have extinguished his irises. “You hungry?” he asks. I don’t even know how he managed to choke the words out – his timbre has become so deep that I feel it more than I hear it.

I stare into his soul and nod, transmitting my innuendo-laden brainwaves. I am sooooo hungry, Tate.

Who needs subtlety?

He makes a gruff noise and bites into my neck, grazing and sucking as one of his hands finds my tummy. “Gonna feed you,” he mumbles and then he walks me into the kitchen, mouth never leaving my skin. His hand reaches into my back pocket again, retrieves the glasses case, and he places it on the counter as he turns to leave.

“Wait,” I protest, “I need that! And you still have my glasses – give me the hostages back.”

He rubs his palm over my butt-cheek in the place that the glasses case had been, and then grips it as he swings open the front door. “You can’t wear them right now, baby. I promise you’ll have them back when we get home.” As he locks the door from the outside he leans his head down to my ear and I clutch my arms around his neck a little tighter. He drops his voice to a whisper. “You know I’m gonna make you wear them when I fuck you.”

I almost slip off of him as I startle. “Jeepers,” I mutter, dazed, and he laughs as he deposits me on the ground. I have wobbly boat-legs from being carried like a koala and I almost trip over my own feet as I step around him.

Then I see it.

“Ohhh no,” I say, backing up immediately, and therefore slamming right back into Tate’s torso. He doesn’t mind at all, and he wraps his arms around my middle, pulling me against the rigid planes of his chest.

“Why not?” he asks, his teeth finding their way into the side of my neck again. If Tate was a vampire, there would not be a single drop of blood left in my mortal vessel.

“My mom will kill me,” I say, horror seeping into my blood-stream as I take in the sight.

“Your mom’s not here,” he replies, his voice husky.

“The spirits will send for her when they see this. She’s probably already on her way.”

Tate’s gigantic motorbike is parked up on the drive. It’s a blood-curdling monster and it’s sexy as hell, but my mom will literally disown me if I so much as touch it with a stick.

I go to turn around but Tate has other ideas. The broken proximity barrier has unleashed three years worth of longing and his body has no intentions of leaving mine. He’s rubbing circles on the side of my stomach with the arm that’s wrapped tightly around my tummy, and his other hand is slowly travelling downwards, just about to push its way underneath my zipper-

“Tate,” I hiss, and his hand magically moves to the other side of my stomach. “We are outside,” I continue, and I can sense his smile pressed against my cheek. For some reason I can feel it pressing way further south. I scan the houses opposite Mitch’s but I can’t see anyone peering out of their windows, thank God.

“Open the box,” he murmurs, and for the first time I notice that the box he had brought into the kitchen is sat next to the motorbike. There’s no writing on the cardboard – it’s simply a plain brown cube – but I can take a pretty good guess at what’s inside.

I step away from Tate’s body so that I don’t arch my ass directly into his crotch as I lean forward to rip open the box. I pull the top folds open and then push back the boards tucked beneath. I stand upright and look down at it.

“Is it… baby pink?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

Tate steps around me, suppressing a flushed self-satisfied smile, and he pulls the helmet out of the box. Very baby pink.

“Cute,” I say. Then add, “Where’s mine?”

He laughs and steps up to me, ready to place the helmet over my head. Hence the reason behind no glasses, I guess.

I step back but he keeps up with me. “You know I can’t go on that bike. Why don’t we just eat here?” I plead.

He shakes his head. “We can’t eat here, because if we’re here we won’t be eating.” His eyes scroll down my front and they linger over the top button of my jeans. “Well, you won’t be eating,” he adds quietly.

Crikey. I hop from foot to foot. “It’ll have to be somewhere close by,” I specify. “Like, a five minute drive.” The thing is I actually really want Tate to take me out on his bike. I know that when my mom comes home the opportunity won’t arise again so I don’t want to miss it, but I also don’t want to be naïve and reckless. Okay, I don’t want to be too naïve and reckless.

He runs a hand through his hair. “But then that means that I can only take you to the diner,” he says, his voice a little disappointed.

“I’ll take the diner,” I concur and I step up to him so that he can put the helmet over my face. Before he does he leans over to peck a kiss on the top of my cheekbone. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will help to quell the warmth that just spread across my chest.

“We have to get going before it rains,” he says, slotting the helmet over me. It’s really heavy and my curls are kind of in my eyes, but I can see Tate’s mouth lifting slightly at the corners as he looks at me wearing it. He heads to the garage to pick up his own helmet, he shrugs his jacket on again, and then he walks over and lifts one thigh, settling into a straddle over the seat. He turns his face to me before he puts his gloves and helmet on. “Get behind me, Backpack,” he teases, and I teeter for a few seconds before I move to him, placing my hands on the expanse of his shoulders as I fit myself against his back. I never realised how wide this seat would be and I now fear for exactly where the reverberations from the tyres are going to be hitting. As soon as I’m on, Tate grips my hands and pulls them tight around his middle. “Don’t for one second think of letting go,” he commands, and then he fits his own helmet on his head, and kicks the bike to life.

*

When Tate parks outside the diner in Phoenix Falls’ town square I rise from the bike with all the grace of Ariel experiencing land for the first time. I feel like I’ve been rubbed raw. Tate unbuckles the strap under my helmet, pulls it off my head, and then laughs at my expression, which is reassuring.

He pulls me into the swell of his bicep and I gratefully melt into him as he walks us towards the diner doors. When we step inside, it’s rammed. I didn’t expect it to be, but I presume it’s because it’s the holidays. All of the red pleather booths seem to be full but there is one free stool in front of the counter, so Tate steers us towards it, and pushes me down so that I’m sat astride with my back to his torso. The lighting is low and shady-dive-bar red, so when I turn my head to look at Tate standing behind me I feel like I’ve fallen into one of my unhinged Tate Coleson sex fantasies.

His arms are blocking both sides of my body, fists clenched on the counter in front of me, and his chest is pressing into my back.

“Don’t you want to sit?” I ask, even though I don’t think that there is another free surface available in the entire restaurant.

“I’m good,” he replies tersely, and his eyes stay on mine as he picks up a menu and slides it in front of me. His sudden mood-shift makes me anxious, because it makes me doubt the scepticism that I have been having about myself, but I try to put it off as him being hungry. I glance at the menu and I can tell from the mirror behind the counter that his eyes are still on me. My cheeks flush under his scrutiny but once I decide what I’m ordering I turn to him again and hold out the card.

He doesn’t take it.

My panic is really mounting now. Maybe he took me here to murder me. Did he think that confiscating my glasses would debilitate my body entirely?

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, my voice a little nervous, damn it.

He keeps his eyes on mine but they soften a bit as he shakes his head. “We’re here for you, River. Get whatever you want, and then I’m taking you home.” He leans further into me and suddenly I feel the stiffened length of his arousal digging into my back.

Relief sweeps over me. Thank God. The reason why he’s rippling with tension is because he’s about to bust a nut.

Contented, I turn back to the front and the waiter behind the desk nods at me.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“Can we get a coke and large fries, please?” I hand him back the menu and he nods again. Tate takes out his wallet and scans a card on the reader, as the waiter puts the order in the kitchen and runs the coke nozzle into a cup.

The server sets the fries and the soda down in front of me, and I lean backwards into Tate, tipping my head back so that I’m looking up at him from below.

“Thanks,” I say as I slip the straw into my mouth, sucking up the coke. He smiles down at me and, when I go to place the drink back on the counter, he picks it up and takes a sip, eyes glinting into mine. He’s kissing me without kissing me. My cheeks flare pleather-seat red so I duck down to nibble my way through the fries. Every single time I take a drink, he immediately takes one afterwards, rubbing into me a little harder from behind. By the time I finish I’m wondering if I’ll have a bruise.

Just as I turn to hop off the stool Tate is being pulled into one of those fist-gripping shoulder-knocking “hugs” that men do, and when I see who the other recipient is I am stunned into stillness. Black fluffy hair, and is that a lip ring? I stay immobile in the hopes of him not noticing me, but that becomes impossible when Tate slides me off the seat and crushes me into his side.

Madden’s eyes cast down on me and narrow, a look that derives scepticism more so than contempt, but when they flick back up to Tate he immediately leans into his ear (annoyingly on the side of him that I am not standing against) and starts whispering. I can’t hear a word because the diner is ablaze with rowdy booths and country music, but Tate’s fingers never cease their caressing around my ribcage so I assume that it isn’t too incriminating.

I never had an issue with Madden – from what I gathered he was (thankfully) Tate’s favourite friend – but God knows what he knows… or worse, what he thinks he knows.

Suddenly we’re walking outside and Tate is setting me by the side of his bike, positioning the helmet above my head. He speaks to me in a gentle, hushed tone. “Can you stay here for me for one minute, please? Madden’s going to… I need his help with something,” he finishes, his eyes briefly catching on Madden over my shoulder. I nod even though my nerve endings are flaring and he gives me a swift kiss before buckling me into the helmet.

I don’t turn around to see where they’re jogging to, but I hear the tinkle of a shop door as they enter, and once again when they leave. When he comes back, I can see that there’s something stuffed in his jacket pocket but I don’t comment, nor do I wiggle my hands into it as he ducks down to kiss the exposed skin at my neck. He settles onto the seat, I ease my body behind him, and then he kicks the bike into action, ready to ride.