Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

It’s still dark outside when I wake up. There’s an unusual purple tint to the blackness and it takes me a moment to place it. The splashing of the rain has turned to soft, almost inaudible thudding, and the whole neighbourhood is blanketed in quiet.

It’s snowing.

I’m about to sit up to look outside when I feel a shift in the heavy weight wrapped around me. Both of Tate’s arms are firmly encasing my waist, his hands are splayed protectively across my stomach, and his head is resting above mine on the pillow. I can feel that I’m wearing a t-shirt and my underwear from earlier, so Tate must have slipped me into them a few hours ago. The length of his arousal, stiff and protracted, digs into my back, and I arch into it subconsciously. The hands on my stomach instantly grip tighter and Tate takes a deep shock inhalation that makes me know that he’s awake.

He moves carefully behind me, his hips lowering to mine so that he can press himself against my behind, and he makes a deep guttural noise in the back of his throat.

“Jesus,” he whispers, and he raises one hand to hold me by my clavicle so that he can push me back against his chest.

“Baby,” he murmurs quietly, his voice a low bass in my ear. I shiver and he presses into me harder. “Are you awake?”

I smush my face into the pillow because I am only about five percent awake, but I nod anyway.

He makes an understanding noise. “Are you… too tired?” he asks, his tone hushed, deep, calm.

I think about it for a minute. I think about it for so long that I almost fall asleep again, and I can feel Tate breathe a soft laugh behind me. When I shake my head he swallows hard.

He presses himself over me so that his chest is pushing into my back, my tummy compressed against the bedding, and one of his hands gently pulls up my hip to meet the thick tent in his underwear. He’s laden. A painful flame licks up my belly and I try to hold back a lustful purr. He slides my underwear down my legs and he eases the shirt that he was wearing last night up my back and over my head. His hands roam to my front, squeezing gently, and then he leans across my back to reach into the box on the nightstand. I hear the quiet tear of the packet as he pulls at it with his teeth, and he angles away from me slightly as he rolls it on.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his shoulders caging me in as he positions himself against me.

I tilt my head back to look at him and a vibration rolls down my spine, settling in my stomach. He’s looking at me like I own him. His eyes are glinting with possessiveness as he awaits my permission, and my body clenches at the juxtaposition. I smooth one of my hands over his large fist, loosening his fingers from their death-grip on the pillow, and he bends forward to kiss me softly on the lips.

“Be gentle, I’m sleepy,” I whisper, and he makes a pained noise as he drops his face to my shoulder. He nods against my skin, his soft hair tickling my neck, as he pulls me higher and rubs himself up and down my centre.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take you so gentle,” he rasps, his muscles straining as he crowds me, and then, with a long, painstakingly slow push, he guides himself inside.

*

After I shower I pull on simple red cotton underwear, a fluffy green sweater, and I check my phone, albeit blurrily as I wait for my glasses to de-steam. There are two texts from my mom, which is unusual but not a total shock considering that this is the first time maybe ever that I haven’t been within arm’s reach.

The first text is a photograph of Mitch standing outside a snowy cabin. He looks a bit put out, like he didn’t want his picture taken in the first place, but he’s being a good sport about it, one hand gripping the wooden railing and the other holding a flask. He’s wearing layers of flannels and his baby blue jeans, making his tan obnoxiously dazzling. I still can’t believe that this hunk is my mom’s.

The second text is an actual message (boooo) and my stomach prickles a little as I read it.

Happy early Christmas to me! Arrived safe and enjoying Pine Hills. Did Mitch tell you about this? Anyway, do me a favour would you – hosting a house warming party when we get back, need some bits, listed them below. Can you grab them for us?

I instantly develop a minor migraine. I’m glad that my mom is enjoying her vacation but I hate the way that I’m starting to get tied to the Colesons. And it isn’t because I don’t want to be tied to the Colesons, it’s because I don’t want to be tied to them in this kind of way. As Mitch’s step-daughter. Even worse, as Tate’s step-sister. And a house warming party to officialise our move-in is only going to highlight my… role. I grimace and slide on my glasses as I walk down the stairs. This is gross.

I minutely decompress once I hop off the bottom step. Tate is cooking something in the kitchen as I approach, the broad expanse of his bare back exposed and his jeans hanging low on his hips. His hair is divinely messy and there are raised feline scratches marring his ribcage. Oops. I flush, squirm, and look away.

I must have released a little wave of oestrogen because Tate turns his head over his shoulder and looks down at me with a slightly surprised, pleased smile. He gives my outfit a once-over and his mouth lifts even more.

“Baby Grinch,” he says affectionately, his eyes gently teasing.

I scowl and flash him my underwear.

He drops his spatula, curses, and then the oil in the pan spits at his skin.

“Red,” he chokes out. Move over Keats. He turns down the gas behind him so that he can continue staring at the rosy cotton encasing my heat without risking another injury. God knows we’ve had enough of those in the past few months.

“To match my eyes,” I say as he closes the distance between us and lifts me so that I’m sitting comfortably around his waist. He holds up the hem of my sweater so that he can observe the cotton pressed flush against his abs.

“I was thinking of something else,” he murmurs and then he draws his eyes back to mine. He gives me a secret knowing smile and presses a kiss to my lips. Then another. A hum releases from his throat and his free hand moves beneath me so that he can readjust himself. He rubs his palm over my thigh and then gently hooks it around the back of my knee. His cheekbones are blushing when he pulls away. “Was… was last night okay?” he asks. His voice is quiet and husky. Hesitant. Shy.

I nod when he meets my eyes. “So was this morning,” I say, and he inhales deeply, his whole body hardening with pleasure.

His gaze dips to my throat for a moment and he lightly tugs at the neck of my sweater. He peeks in and his smile widens. “You’re still wearing it,” he says, his rough fingers stroking the chain laced around my neck.

Now it’s my turn to flush. Well, what was I supposed to do? If I’m going to enjoy my time here before I’m shipped off to college for a lifetime of academic flagellation, I may as well do it properly.

“Penance,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes, and he laughs, pressing kisses to my cheeks in contented delight.

As if reading my mind he says, “Tell me you’re not studying today. I want to spend the day with you.”

I want to stay wrapped up in his arms for this whole week, forgetting about the past and definitely forgetting the future, but I also want to maintain my façade of indifference so that he doesn’t know how horribly desperately I want this. I shuffle as if to dismount but he holds me steady. “I have presents to steal,” I mutter and he buries his smile in my neck.

“Are you trying to kick me out?” he asks. His mouth is heavenly warm against my skin.

“Yes. No. Maybe.” I cringe. I’ve turned into a magic eight ball.

“I actually have to do something for my mom,” I say. “And your dad.”

That gets his attention. He lifts his head, his jaw tensing slightly, but he squeezes his hand up my thigh for me to continue.

“My mom texted me this morning – maybe Mitch did the same to you, I don’t know. They’re having a house warming thing here when they get back and she wants me to grab, like, drinks and whatever.” I shrug. I feel kind of shitty about it.

“The snow’s too deep out there for you to walk in, and groceries like that are too heavy for someone who isn’t driving.” His eyes are a little narrowed and his muscles are becoming more rigid.

I feel a bit confused so I shift in discomfort. Why is he angry? I hate to ask but, naturally, I do it anyway. “Did I… do something wrong?” Oh how the tables have turned.

His body seems to swell protectively around me as he clutches me closer to his chest, and he starts walking us to the living room. He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. “River, of course you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m… I’m not annoyed because of you.” He sits down on the couch so that I’m straddling his lap, and he rubs his hands over the backs of my ankles. “I’ll go. Just tell me what they want.”

A little shiver of relief washes over me. I really do hate shopping in town, so I’m grateful for the aid. “I’ll forward it to you,” I say. “What’s your number?” I distractedly unlock my phone to pull up the text, but Tate lightly grips my hand and pushes it back to the couch cushion.

He shakes his head. “That’s okay, I’d rather you just tell me what they want,” he says.

I can’t help it. I pause instinctively as I feel my recently buried scepticism beginning to push its way up from beneath the surface, like mangled corpse bones breaching the dirt in a horror film. I look up at him and for a brief moment I’m scared that I’m about to see a little red flag waving behind his eyes.

Am I being crazy? I don’t need his number, do I? He hasn’t needed mine to contact me before, so I shouldn’t be thinking that it’s a big deal. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen him use a cell phone at all. Does he have one? Does anyone?? Are cell phones even real???

He starts caressing my ankles. I shake off my insanity and recite the list.

“Okay,” he says, “It might take a little while but I’ll deal with it.”

His hands have moved to the soft, warm skin behind my knees, and I don’t want him to go anymore. I press my chest closer to his and the delicious heat from his pectorals plumes between us.

“I’ll pick up their stuff after breakfast and take it back to mine. I’ll be gone ’til around five.” I let out an involuntary whimper and he grins. He’s reverse psychologying me. He’s giving me the space that I originally asked for and now I want to have all of his babies.

He gives me a light kiss as his hands move up the hem of my sweater and down the back of my underwear. “Then I’ll come over and make you dinner. After we’ve eaten, I’ll take you to bed. And then we’ll do whatever you want. Wherever you want. However many times you want.” His eyes are blazing dangerously. “I’m not wasting a single moment anymore, River. I’ve had so long without you and now we only have days until our parents are back. And after that you’re going to go to a college that’s as far away from me as possible. I need you for as long as you’ll let me have you.”

I wince because that’s kind of exactly what I was thinking about him. I take a deep inhalation and stroke my palms up his biceps, then around his throat. He laces one of his hands through mine and holds us together over his pulse point.

I nod in agreement. He rewards me with another silken kiss.

*

It’s dark out and I’m in the middle of swatting up on First Year History college syllabi when Tate knocks at the door. And by ‘in the middle’ of it, I mean literally. I have every piece of History coursework that I have ever written surrounding me on the dining room table. I would have cleared it away so as not to flaunt it in front of Tate, particularly given the conversation we had before breakfast, but he’s half an hour early.

“You’re half an hour early,” I say. He responds by ducking down to kiss me and he pushes us back in through the entryway, lightly kicking the door shut behind him. His face is flushed and rosy, and his skin is icy cold. He cups his frozen hands around the warm skin of my neck as he glides his tongue into my mouth and a waterfall of shivers cascade down my tummy.

He shucks the grocery bag that is hooked over his elbow onto the floor as he manoeuvres us into the dining room, but, as he pulls away to say something, his eyes flick to the table behind me and his hard breathing pauses. He straightens up a little, rolling his shoulders back, and he swallows.  He doesn’t move his hands from my throat. He simply glances at the papers littering the wood, not appearing to read anything but gathering the gist of the contents nonetheless, and then he looks back down at me with an unreadable expression. I kind of want to apologise and light my essays on fire, but I’m also glad that he thinks that I’m so indifferent. He strokes his thumbs up the centre of my neck and makes a contemplative humming sound.

I take a deep breath. “I was just about to clear up,” I say, my voice traitorously a few octaves higher than normal.

A slight smile tugs at his lips. “Okay,” he says, and, moving his palms to my shoulders, he turns me around. He wraps one arm over my collarbones and the other arm over my waist, squeezing me gently. The denim of his jeans is cold against my bare legs, and he dips his head to gently nip at the back of my neck. I’m rippling with shivers as he whispers, “Let me help you.”

He leans us forward, bending over me, and he begins to slowly pile up the documents. He slips his other hand from my waist up the hem of my sweater and then he rubs it over my bare tummy. I let out a little oof as he reaches over to collect the papers on the far side of the table and, on hearing me, he pushes us forward a little farther.

Two can play at that game.

I suck in a nice composing breath and ask him, “What did you do whilst you were gone today?”

He pauses, his palm hovering over the last couple of papers. I honestly refuse to look at the stacks he’s made, knowing that they are not in date order. He presses his cool lips to my jaw, kissing me softly before grazing my neck. “I got the stuff for the house warming,” he murmurs.

“Hmm, took you a while though. What else did you get up to?”

His chest swells against my back, hard muscles pressing me down towards the wooden surface. The hand on my belly slides upwards until it clutches the pendant hanging between the cups of my bra underneath the sweater. He tugs it lightly, his other hand leaving its perusal of the table to caress my hip. His voice is so deep that I feel it in my stomach when he replies, “I went to church.”

I try to lift myself up with my palms flat on the wood but he’s holding us tightly in place. “Did you feel the need to confess for your sins?” I ask, my tone a little bitter.

He’s surprised. “What? No.” He lifts up and guides me to turn and look at him. His brow is pinched together but his eyes are warm and kind. The rosiness staining his cheekbones is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. “We didn’t do anything wrong, River. I don’t want you to think that.” He runs his hand through his hair and then cups it around the back of my neck. “I just went to pray,” he says. “And to… light a candle.”

I watch him wordlessly as he rubs himself over me. Fingers, palms, arms. I feel like I’m being marked, quietly but with intent. “And who was the candle in honour of?” I ask quietly, hoping that my prying comes off as cutely intrigued.

“The Patron Saint of Keeping Me On My Toes,” he says, smiling and running one of my curls between two of his fingers.

“She sounds like a drag,” I say, hopping up onto the cleared tabletop and hugging Tate’s thighs between my legs. “You should move onto easier pastures.”

He breathes a laugh, a pleased glow shimmering over him as I press his body against me, and he settles his hands on either side of my hips. He’s warmed up exponentially. I can only assume why.

“I’m a sucker for pain,” he whispers, eyes burning mischievously into mine.

I uncross my ankles, raising one leg back, and then I kick it hard into the butt of his jeans. He jolts forward in surprise, shoving himself on top of me, and he groans at the contact. His body heaves against mine and his eyes are sparkling, amazed, wild.

“River,” he says. He’s on fire and my name comes out like a warning.

I’m insatiable. I run my fingers up the sharp stubble of his jaw and a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest. How sweet that he goes about his life humouring this make-believe concept of docile domesticity, when in reality he’s an animal, with primal violent need coursing through his loaded hulking frame.

He slips me off the table, takes one of my hands, and walks us back to the kitchen, picking up his grocery bag along the way. At least one of us has some self-control. I hop onto one of the counters as he unpacks the bag, filled with the items he’s going to use to make our dinner. I’m being spoiled and it makes me waggle my feet like a child with delight. The last item that he pulls out is another twenty-four pack of condoms, and my face blushes darker than my rosy underwear.

“I like that you lit a candle for me,” I say, watching him wipe down a surface with a dampened cloth.

He glances up at me, his eyes bright, and he smiles a little. “I do that a lot,” he says.

He’s so sweet it makes me ache. I can’t believe that I’ve wasted so much time doubting him.

His thoughts must be on a similar path to mine because, as he diverts his eyes to start chopping up tomatoes, he says, “So have you decided.” He waits a beat. “About college.”

I wriggle like a little worm. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be going to college. Why are all of the smart girls told that they need to do that? In reality, my college outcome will be an embarrassing amount of debt and a low-salary job, only compensated by the fact that my mom will be happy that I’m officially her mini-me. I don’t even want that kind job. All I want is to do something that I enjoy – maybe even to do multiple things that I enjoy – and overall to just be happy. I like that Tate knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to be with his dad, in an emotionally comfortable and financially stable space, working on stuff that comes so naturally to him. He has his friends, he has his father – and if I wasn’t so anxious, maybe he would even have me.

I soften the blow by telling the truth. “It’s never been my decision to make,” I say.

He pauses the knife for a moment, head still bowed, and then he restarts his slicing as if he never stopped. He transfers the tomatoes from the chopping board to a ceramic plate. “Okay.” He breathes audibly, as if he’s trying to stay calm. “And what about after?” he asks.

I blink. “After?”

He picks out a pizza tray from the cupboard near the oven and uncaps a dark green bottle of olive oil. He tips the bottle and drizzles it over the tray, a quiet luxurious glugging sound escaping the neck as he pours the contents. He recaps the bottle and rubs the oil into the surface with his fingers, making his tan skin glossy and slick.

“After college,” he clarifies.

“I’ll get a job,” I reply.

“Where?” His tone is sharper than before, demanding, inflexible.

I take a shaky breath. My mom and I have never actually spoken about that. All I know is that I’m going to be Professor Linton 2.0. “Um, I haven’t really thought about it,” I admit. This telling the truth thing is really addictive.

His muscles roll and he looks over to me, my body stilled on the counter beside him. There are lightning bolts flashing behind his eyes and I feel like he’s trying to telepathically transmit something to me, but I can’t quite reach it. He looks back down at the counter, picking up the box of rolling dough and avoiding my eyes as he prepares the sheet. His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“I’ll only say this the one time, because I don’t want you to get angry with me,” he murmurs. “But there are other options for you. There are… other things that you can do.” He swallows. “And people who want to take care of you.”

I step down onto the floor and his eyes flash to mine. Intensity level: nuclear.

What other things can I do? And who other than my life-giving mother could possibly know what’s best for me? I want to indulge myself in the fantasy but I know that we’re too young to be serious. Adults say that kind of stuff about people like us all the time.

I frown up at him and put my hands on my hips. He slips his forearms between the triangular gaps that they make, locking his hands together behind me, and he presses into my back so that I crush forward into his torso. I can see what he was trying to transmit to me now. I am right here. I want to take care of you.

I feel lightheaded. This is impossible. I obviously have to listen to my mom, but there is nothing in the world that I want to do less than follow the orders she has given. I try to mask the molten yearning in my stomach by looking down at my toes, even as he pushes us together more roughly. “Is this what you prayed for when you lit a candle for me?” I ask quietly.

He breathes out a laugh and it’s warm on my skin. He dips down so that his mouth is on my neck and he sucks the skin soothingly. “No,” he says, and then I gasp when his teeth rake up my throat. “This is what I prayed for when I lit a candle for me.”