Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

I step off the bike onto the floor of the garage and Tate scoops his hand around the centre of my butt, hauling me up with one arm so that I can wrap my legs around his side. He buries his face into the warmth of my neck, veiled by my wind-swept curls, and he inhales deeply as he ducks us out of the garage, locking the door with his free arm, and walking us up the porch. He pulls away only to check which key to slot into the lock, opening it and stepping inside, and then he dips his face back to mine, planting hot chaste kisses down my cheek, making me shiver.

“What’s in your pocket?” I ask – okay, I gasp – as he drags the fingers cupping my ass more roughly against my centre.

He makes a gruff sound behind my ear but I feel him dig into his pocket and pull out the cellophane-wrapped box. I turn my head so that I can see the item and he pushes it into my hand as he starts grazing his teeth up the other side of my neck.

I hold up the box and shudder involuntarily. I feel him breathe a laugh against my skin, his mouth lifting at the corners.

It’s a twenty-four pack of condoms which sends jolts of both delight and fear up my spine. I can’t help but wonder why he was with Madden when he bought them – was he being measured?

Tate pulls back, his eyes veiled with starry-night darkness, to study my reaction to the box. The movement inadvertently releases a warm surge of the heady pine-tree-fresh-wood-hot-skin scent that clings to his chest and I can taste it in my mouth. I try to shake off the dizziness as I pretend to read the packaging.

“‘Extra, extra, extra large’,” I say, eyes narrowed in deep concentration. He lets out a loud body-shaking laugh and his eyes twinkle in pleasure. I meet his gaze and make a little lip-biting hiss. “Ouch. Better not risk it, then.”

He grabs the box from me, stuffing it into his pocket as he walks us into the kitchen. He feels around on the table and the next thing I know he’s gently sliding my glasses back on my nose. He pulls off my trainers and kicks off his boots as I adjust my glasses to optimum comfy-ness, and then he pins me with a blazing all-pupil stare as he starts ascending the stairs. “I’ll make it fit,” he whispers darkly.

I’m bitten and squeezed until we reach the bedroom, where he closes the door gently behind us, locks it, and then sets my feet carefully onto the carpet. Tate’s actions are so reassuringly tender that I start to doubt whether or not the condoms are for us to use, or if they are more of a prop to have on-hand just in case.

When he sinks to his knees I understand that we will be using them.

“Can I take these off?” he asks as he looks up at me from under his lashes, his head somewhere near the top of my ribcage. He really is very tall.

I realise that by this point I am supposed to answer whatever it was that he said but instead my hands have found their way into his chocolatey hair and I’m tugging him harsher than I mean to. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“What?” I ask back.

Tate smiles up at me and I notice that my top button and zipper have been released without my realising, and his fingers are skimming around my denim waistband.

“You want my jeans?” I ask. I don’t know why I say it that way, but now it sounds like I’m offering him my jeans.

“Yes, for personal reasons,” he says, his hands slipping between my skin and the fabric, and then he pushes them down to my ankles in one smooth swoop. He tucks a hand behind my knee, lifting me one leg at a time so that I can step out of my pants. Then he folds them and sets them aside, his hands gravitating to my hips like a magnet, and he encases both of my buttocks in the splay of his fingers, eagerly kneading them until I begin to gasp.

He spreads his thighs wider across the floor so that he can reach my lower half with more ease and he uses two fingers to minutely lift the hem of my shirt. He looks at my underwear with Pandora’s Box infatuation. I still startle and jolt when he suddenly presses his face into the thin white cotton, covering my warmth with his mouth, and heaving shoulder-swelling breaths in through his nose. My stomach flutters as he grazes over the fabric and then he watches me with glinting eyes as he takes the gusset between his teeth and pulls it away from my skin. I suck in a breath, practically faint. The warmth I had encased between my legs is released from its underwear prison and Tate scents me like an animal, flames burning behind his eyes as he consumes my heat. Then he’s on his feet and backing me up into the mattress.

Once my butt is on the comforter, one palm flat behind my back, I hold up the other hand and he pauses like he’s had training. “You’re fully clothed,” I say.

The box of condoms is tossed onto the bed behind me and his jacket is thrown somewhere near the door. He kicks off his socks and then reaches to the back neck of his t-shirt, pulling it over his body in one fluid swoop. The only thing left on his upper-body is his silver chain with the cross. I shiver and contract at the sight of the tan, meaty muscles rippling up his abdomen and the hard swell of his labour-pumped biceps. He drops the t-shirt next to me and I have to physically restrain myself from not smashing my face into it to smell his hot scent.

There must be a slight giveaway when my possessed crazy eyes dart between the severe shadows beneath Tate’s pectorals and the black top crumpled next to me, because after a moment Tate picks up the t-shirt and holds it just under my chin. I don’t know what he’s thinking I want to do with it, but every thought that he is having is probably correct. I wrap my hands around his wrist and push my face into the cotton. It’s Heaven. His smell is so male and delicious that I salivate. I inhale like an addict and when I pull back I’m high. Part of me expects him to laugh at me, but when I see his face he’s not laughing. He’s watching me intensely as I enjoy his offering, and he’s unmoveable in his seriousness. This is not a joke to him… I am not a joke to him.

“Good?” he asks, his voice so low it vibrates.

I nod and he leans in to gently kiss me. He places the t-shirt in my lap and his fingers start unbuttoning my shirt. He un-loops the final button and smoothes the fabric off my shoulders without his lips ever leaving mine, but when he pulls back to look at me a deep grunt is ripped from between his bared teeth.

Did I slip into the baby pink push-up with black lace trim that gave him palpitations three months ago when I was getting dressed tonight? I’m a devious vixen. My usually petite chest is plumped up and heaving – soft, succulent, and tied with a little bow. The snug satin cups catch on the moonlight from the window, winking up at him and saying unwrap me.

Tate drops to his knees again, mouth open.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he rumbles gruffly. Then he rasps, “Jesus Christ.”

I look at his cross. I’ll say.

Rough hands suddenly grip my ankles until they’re hooked over the expansive breadth of his shoulders, and then Tate leans forwards and crushes his mouth into my flesh. He groans instantaneously as he sucks mouthfuls of softness between his lips, but when he slides his long wet tongue down the inside of the tight cup, brushing my nipple, I’m the one gasping. He uses one palm to plump me up and two fingers to slide the cup down, and then his mouth suctions around the little peak until I’m extended and squirming. He leans back, eyes dazed, and he watches my hips rub despairing little circles up his chest. He puts one hand on my hip, feeling my body buck, and his fingers dig into my skin, unyielding. When I make a noise to regain his attention he brings his face to mine and lets me tug at his bottom lip with a sharp little bite.

“Fuck,” he grunts out as he unclasps my bra from behind. At least I know what he’s thinking about. He pulls the bra from my chest and, as soon as I’m free, he massages my breasts in two rough palms. “That’s my girl.”

I slam backwards onto the bed and he rises to his feet.

The long leather strap of his belt slides through the buckle until it’s slapping open against the loops in his jeans. He presses the button through the opening and drags down the zip before pushing the denim just below his hips. I take in the shadow he’s casting through his boxers and lose a couple million brain cells. He looks like he’s about to rough me up in a barn. Better yet, he looks like he’s about to screw me in the workshop. Him in sawdust-covered denim, surrounded by his drills; me in fluffy bed socks, over a table he’s just made.

I tell him that, and then his boxers come down too.

He pulls out the entire length of his hardened muscle, his fist gripped around the thickness near the coarse hair at the base, and he keeps it tightly clenched as he readjusts the heavy sac behind it. Then he rubs his thumb over the slick domed head, flushed dark in contrast to his abdomen, and I think I choke on my own spit. My eyes flash up to his.

For some reason I think that he’s waiting for me to say something so I manage in a strangled voice, “Is that for me?”

He gives me a bashful smile, tan cheekbones glowing rose-red, and an ache spreads through my chest.

I sit up on my knees, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him as sweetly as I can. I can feel the shy heat on his face and throat as I hold him. It makes me pull him in tighter, smoothing my softness into him until he’s assured.

His hands are splayed across my back, covering me in his warmth. “I forgot to get lube, baby,” he admits in a quiet voice, his brow taut with regret.

I rub my inner thighs together. “I think we’ll manage,” I say, and my breath hitches when he checks that I’m not lying.

He swallows heavily. “Wow.”

I’m about to say “I know” but it turns out that his sentence wasn’t finished.

“I’m going down on you,” he says, in a voice so deep that my stomach clenches, and he sinks onto his haunches with his arousal on full display.

“I should get a shower first,” I say, a little bit panicked as his thumb draws the gusset to the side. It’s not as if he hasn’t already smelled me but-

“But that defeats the whole point,” he whispers, and then he presses his lips to my centre.

I’m gently eased backwards, arched, tilted, spread. Warm hands cuff and encase my ankles, then they move firmly behind my knees, and he eases his tongue into my most secret parts, lapping and sucking in tender adoration. My stomach is blazing and my heartbeat is embarrassingly loud. He makes a deep, worshipful sound and I stop breathing entirely.

“Tate,” I whisper as quietly as possible, in an attempt to veil my whimper.

He makes a long groan that shoots straight up to my womb and he pushes his tongue harder against me. “Say my name again,” he murmurs, but when the rough palm of his hand presses and rotates hard against my blushing nub I’m no longer capable of speech.

I dig my nails into his hair and try to drag him up my stomach, but all that seems to do is further the torture, as his long tousled fringe fluffs up and rubs over me.

“One more minute, baby,” he mutters gently. “You’re doing so well.”

My thighs lift slightly, brushing each side of his soft brown hair, and he makes a low noise as he pushes in from a deeper angle. He raises his other arm up and uses it to hold down my stomach, restraining my bucking hips against the mattress as he gorges.

Suddenly he stands, lifting my legs by my ankles so that he can slip my underwear up and over my legs without me having to move an inch. He keeps the cotton clenched in his hand as he shucks off his pants and boxers.

“I’m keeping these,” he says as the last of his clothes gets kicked aside.

I sit up on one elbow as he reaches for the lamp on the floor and switches on the low warm-tone bulb before getting back onto the bed. “Then do I get to keep yours?” I ask back.

He settles himself between my legs, biceps crowding up on either side of my head. He gently brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “What do you want to do with them?” he replies, half-bemused, half-surprised.

I raise my eyebrow and his cheeks flush.

He gently places my underwear on the dresser and presses a kiss to my throat as he leans down to pick up the box of condoms. “Only if you show me,” he whispers, and now it’s my turn to blush.

Tate sits back on his haunches, softly knocking my knees wider as he tears the cellophane off the box. His eyes stay locked on mine. It’s like a staring competition, only we’re both about to win. He digs his fingers into the cardboard to pierce the opening, but his shoulder ripples when the soft backs of my thighs rub up to caress his knees and the whole side rips open, half of the box of condoms splattering down on my stomach.

“Oh fuck,” he curses hoarsely, before biting into his forearm, spinning his torso away from me, and squeezing his eyes shut.

My eyes flick between the packets spilled across my tummy and Tate’s death-grip on his erection. He isn’t moving it, he’s more… restraining it. I quickly wipe the packets off of me and stuff them back into the broken box. Then I pick one back out and rest it just below my belly button.

When he turns back around his brow is pinched in agony, and when he sees the one foil packet he looks like he’s about to cry. He picks it up and lowers his body back over me, his eyes meeting mine with a concerned, protecting look.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes shimmering with worry.

I readjust my glasses and give him a little ready smile. I feel like I’ve just opened a test paper and the question at the top is exactly what I prepared for. “Yes,” I say. Then I add, “Are you?”

The look in his eyes as he catches the foil edge in his mouth, rips the packet open, and then spits it out next to us answers my question before he does.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, eyes glinting as he rolls the condom down his length.

Hmm, I have an inkling.

He drops his forehead to mine and moves himself between us, brushing me tentatively, and I have to bite back a little Chihuahua yelp.

Wow, I’m scared. What a time for it. Does this happen to everyone or is it only for people with PTSD?

Tate can sense it. I’ve stilled so completely that I can make out the fresh pattering of rain that has been unleashed from the inky black sky, and is now battering the window pane.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle hushed voice. I blink back to him and I feel suddenly embarrassed – like, where did my clothes go? How did we get here? Why am I letting him-

When he slowly pulls back I realise why. Because this is Tate, the boy from across the street. It isn’t someone else. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He never wanted to hurt me.

I press my hands into his shoulder blades and give him an apologetic smile. My stomach rolls a bit. “Sorry,” I say, wincing. “Did I just kill the mood?”

His eyes widen. “River, no. Please never apologise to me. What do you have to be sorry for? You’re perfect – I’m pinching myself that you even let me in here.” My heart throbs and I run my hands upwards, so that I can grip around the meaty muscles at the top of his back. He rolls into my touch and every part of him presses into me. “Do you still want to?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching my face for any hints of reluctance.

I nod and he leans down to kiss me long and slow.

Before I understand what’s happening, Tate lightly lifts up my head and I feel him slip something over us and down my hair. When he releases me I feel a fine sensation around my clavicle and I look down between us. My eyes widen as I look at the cross that is now resting at the base of my neck. He frees my hair from the inside of the chain and watches me with wary eyes. “I didn’t want it knocking you when I…” He trails off, swallowing hard and trying to gauge whether I’m going to recoil from it. Or maybe he’s testing to see if I’ll burst into flames. I’m fairly certain that Tate would baptise me himself if I would let him, and right now I don’t think that I would even mind. I touch the pendant carefully as I look up at him. He’s all twinkly with hope and it’s so endearing that I lean up to give him a little kiss.

Tate carefully positions himself against me and I allow my body to sink further into the thick quilt and pillows. His thick quilt and pillows. I am entirely encompassed by him and I am truly happy about it. He uses one hand to push my thigh a little wider and I hum in nervous anticipation.

The bulging arm braced above my head is more rigid than steel and his voice is strained. “Should I… would you like me to…?” His breathing is erratic and his body is emitting heat like a volcano.

I pull one of my arms back to meet his hand situated tensely above me on the pillow. I gently unclench his fist and slide my fingers between his. “Yes and yes,” I say. His eyes search mine for certainty and I give him a tiny smile.

He squeezes my fingers and slowly pushes in.

I make a small, quiet gasp and then I allow my eyes to close. I’m spellbound. Tate’s hand above my head has slipped between the back of the black mattress and the headboard, gripping it for leverage as he fills me entirely. His other hand is wrapped around the back of my shoulder, holding me preciously against him so that I stay in place.

I feel one of his hands move and he lightly squeezes at the hollows of my cheeks, silently asking me to open my eyes, before sliding it back between my head and the pillow, tangling himself in my hair. I obey and flutter my eyes open. I’m enveloped in hard swollen muscles, his bicep brushing my curls, his chest almost touching my mouth. I tilt my head back so that I can look into his eyes and his face is rigid with tension as he waits for me.

“Baby, can I…” His sentence breaks off as a shiver runs through him, but he remains completely still as he desperately fights his own want. He inhales deeply and tries again, his voice more gruff than sandpaper. “Is it okay if I move?”

I’m mesmerised by his restraint. I nod and he groans, leans down, and sucks my neck in gratitude. He pulls out, long and lush, and then pushes back in.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice taut with need. He tries various alignments until my breathing hitches and then he rolls into the position with heavy determined thrusts. The storm is splashing harder outside and Tate’s eyes are glinting like he’s possessed. He shoves his body into mine again, and again, and again, and my nails try to find purchase in his inked and swollen biceps. He lowers his gaze down to my chest and he begins to thrust faster and harder as he watches me bounce up and down with his propulsion. “Tell me when you want me to pick up the pace,” he breathes out, strained.

My mouth falls open. What? This is him going slow?

“Tate,” I whisper urgently. When his fierce eyes meet mine my question evaporates.

He dips down to slide his tongue against mine and then he asks hoarsely, “More?”

I have masochistic science-experiment curiosity so I bite my lip and nod, and within a second he increases the momentum to straight-up hammering. I’m held in place so that I don’t crack my skull on the headboard. I feel like I’m being exorcised.

He’s showing me what his hard-earned body was made for: pleasure-pain murder-salvation. His hands pull, press, rub, tease, and then he tilts his head down so that he can watch himself as he slips in and out of me.

The wet slapping grows louder as Tate thrusts us closer to the edge. He wraps his hand around the back of my leg and forces my thigh upwards so that he can see more. He grunts as he takes it in, and his shoulders undulate with strain. “I’m… I’m coated in you,” he groans roughly, and suddenly, just as I grasp that I can’t take any more, he splays the entire span of his warm rough palm across my stomach and he presses down hard.

“Tate,” I whimper. I’m pleading with him, desperate for him to continue doing this to me for the rest of his life. The sound he makes in response is so obscene that I literally convulse beneath him.

He sucks my throat, palms my breasts, restrains my legs. He praises me for being a good girl, for being an angel, for taking him so well. He pushes through my tremors unrelenting as I blackout-collapse into his quilt and, though I’m approaching comatose, he doesn’t stop. His body is anchored deep and he’s plunging in and out so hard that his clenched muscles start vibrating with the need to release. He stills for a moment and then his hips begin jerking violently, over and over again, pounding against the softness of my thighs until his whole spend is pumped out and unloaded, angry grunts ripping from his throat.

He collapses on top of me, his heavy body keeping me pinned to the mattress as his hands slide into my hair and he buries his face into my neck. He repeats something a few times that I’m not coherent enough to decipher. I wrap my arms around his waist and I quickly fall asleep.