CHAPTER 15
CASSIE
“Does this mean I get to order you around now?” I ask later. “Like for the rest of the summer?”
Tate snorts at the question. We walk down to the dock of the Jackson house, where the water laps quietly against the wooden pylons and the drone of insects buzzes in the air. It’s eleven thirty and the night is calm and still. I’m in my minidress but abandoned the heels up on the lawn. He’s taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“For the rest of the summer? Dream on.”
“I just dropped three grand on you. Show me some respect, you ungrateful brat.”
“Three grand of your grandmother’s money.”
“Which I stand to inherit one day. Well, along with my cousins, but still,” I grumble under my breath. “So that’s it? I don’t get anything out of this deal? At the very least you should be my pool boy on the weekends or something. You know, wear a tiny Speedo and serve me drinks poolside.”
“You donated money to a good cause. Isn’t that enough?”
“No!”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you order me around for the rest of tonight.”
“But I’ll be going to bed in, like, an hour,” I complain.
“Then you have one hour to call the shots.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Fine. Go get us some drinks.” Ugh. Except, ordering someone around isn’t in my nature, so I quickly add, “Please?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re terrible at this. But you’re in luck—I’m already on top of the drink situation. Got a surprise for you.”
That piques my interest.
“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
I sink onto one of the loungers facing the water, twisting around to adjust the backrest. The weather is perfect tonight. Feels like room temperature outside, and I stretch my legs out in front of me and close my eyes, just savoring the night. My eyelids pop open at the sound of Tate’s footsteps on the wood slats of the dock. He reappears holding two bottles of champagne.
I gasp. I recognize the gold label. These were the expensive bottles of bubbly they were serving at the Manor tonight.
“Did you steal those from the club?” I demand.
“Oh, I did.”
“Oh God, you’re a thief.”
“Trust me, they owe me for all those safety classes they keep roping me in to doing without paying me overtime.”
“I can’t drink stolen contraband.”
“You can and you will.”
He sets the bottles on the small table between our loungers, then pulls two skinny glasses from his pocket, which he must have grabbed from Gil Jackson’s kitchen. Picking up a bottle, he peels off the gold foil packaging around the lip.
Just as he’s about to pop the cork, I balk, screeching loudly. “Don’t aim it at the water!”
“I could aim it at your face,” he offers.
I give him the finger. “Point it at the grass over there. But not the water. What if the cork lands in the bay and a fish eats it and chokes to death? Or a turtle? Oh my God, what if there’s a Keanu Reeves turtle living under your dock and he thinks we’re feeding him and then he dies—”
“The babbling never ends with you, does it, ginger?”
“Don’t call me ginger, Gate.”
He jabs the air with his finger. “No. Absolutely not. That is not becoming a thing.”
“What’s the matter, Gate?” I ask sweetly. “Did someone give you a nickname you don’t enjoy?”
“Call me that again and I’ll murder a turtle right in front of you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I grin at him. “Oh! Speaking of turtles. My dad messaged earlier, and guess what—my stepmother agreed to the turtle. They’re planning to give it to the girls after their birthday party in a couple weeks. The twins are going to die of excitement.”
“Isn’t your birthday coming up soon too?”
He remembered that?
My heart skips a beat, but I pretend to be unaffected. “Also in a couple weeks,” I confirm. “My sisters and I share a birthday.”
“Damn. Let me guess—somehow you’ve managed to find a silver lining for that too?”
“Yup.” I nod at his hands. “You gonna open that bottle, Gate?”
“Gate is not becoming a thing,” he growls, before turning in a safe direction to pop the cork. A moment later, he pours the bubbly liquid into our flutes, hands me one, and settles in the chair beside me.
As we sip our champagne, I try to ignore the pounding of my heart. The dampness of my palms. This feels like a date, even though I know it’s not.
To hammer it home to my silly, smitten brain that such thoughts are counterintuitive, I force myself to say, “I’m going out with Aaron again tomorrow.”
“Ah, right.” Tate chuckles quietly. “Tongue battles part two.”
“God, I hope not.”
“We practiced for this. If it happens again, you’re saying something,” he warns.
“I will,” I promise.
“And let’s just hope kissing isn’t the only activity he’s bad at.”
I straighten up in alarm. “Oh no. Oh no. I was planning to let him go to second base. Nobody can be bad at second base, can they?”
Tate drinks some more champagne, mulling it over. “He could be an aggressive tit squeezer.”
I blanch. “If he is, I’ll have no choice but to say something, because that’ll earn him an involuntary scream of pain. The girls are sensitive.”
Tate’s eyes briefly flick my way. “Are they?” he drawls.
“Yes. Very.” My throat is suddenly dry.
His must be too, because he chugs the rest of his glass and then pours himself another one.
“Easy, partner,” I caution.
“Don’t worry. Look how tiny these glasses are. It’ll take a lot of refills to get me even close to drunk.”
He has a point. So I hold out my own tiny glass, and he tops it off with that playful smile I’m beginning to crave on a daily basis. While we lie there on the dock, my gaze drifts up to the sky, sweeping over the twinkling carpet of lights.
“It’s incredible how clear the sky is out here,” I remark. “In Boston, the sky is different. All the pollution in the air, I guess. You hardly ever see any stars.”
“I love it. Especially when you’re on the open ocean. No land anywhere around you, this huge sky above you. That could freak anyone out, looking around and seeing nothing but water. But the stars, right? They’re always there. They’re fixed. You can’t get lost when you can see the stars. Can’t lose yourself.”
“Holy shit,” I accuse. “You’re actually into stargazing? I assumed that bio they read at the auction was bogus.” I snicker. “He’s a romantic at heart and enjoys long walks on the beach.”
“Nah, that part was BS. Whoever wrote the intro decided to improvise.” He shrugs. “I listed four interests on the questionnaire they emailed, and all of them started with an S. Maybe they didn’t like that.”
“Four S’s…” I start to list them. “Sailing. Surfing. Stargazing. Wait—what was the fourth?”
“They didn’t read it.”
I eye him curiously. “Why? What was it?”
“Sex.” He winks.
My face almost bursts into flames, which isn’t a favorable thing because I was already burning up from the alcohol. I don’t even want to know what color my cheeks are right now.
Between the two of us, we’ve officially polished off an entire bottle of champagne. He’s ingested more, but my tolerance is shit and the champagne loosens my tongue.
“Yeah … I don’t have much experience with that,” I confess.
Tate is already removing the foil from the second bottle. He stops for a second and meets my eyes. “You’re a virgin.”
“Man, you drop it like a statement of fact,” I say dryly. “Not even a question, huh? What, is it written on my forehead or something?”
“Nah. Just an educated guess.”
I stick out my glass for another top-up. “Well, the answer to the non-question is yes, I’m a virgin. I’ve done other things, though.”
“Is that right?” Eyes dancing, he cocks his head at me.
“Don’t you dare tell me to spill the tea.”
“C’mon, let’s hear it, ginger. Whatcha done?” When I remain quiet, he chugs nearly half his fresh glass. “All right, then. I’m going to start guessing. Okay. So. I know you’ve made out.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“Handjobs,” he guesses.
“Yes.”
“Blowjobs?”
“Yes.” I turn toward him. “And I even swallowed.”
Tate, who was mid-sip, spit outs his drink at my proud response. Laughing, he pours himself more champagne. “You wild thing,” he says in amusement.
“Anyway. That’s it. Sexy times by Cassie Soul. HJs and BJs. The end.”
“Nuh-uh,” Tate argues. “That’s what he got out of it. What about you? Did he go down on you?”
“This is not proper friend talk.”
“Sure it is. I talk about sex with my friends all the time.”
“Your girl friends?”
“Sure. You should hear some of Steph’s stories. And she’s bi, so it’s, like, twice the dirty. Sometimes she talks about pussy, other times it’s dick. Exciting times.”
I laugh. “Sounds like it.”
He eyes me over the rim of his glass. “You ever had an orgasm?”
Oh my God.
“Yes,” I grumble. “Both solo and with a partner, before you ask.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone’s cheeks turn that shade of red before.”
“I told you, this isn’t appropriate subject matter.”
“Why, is it turning you on?”
Yes!
“No,” I lie.
He just grins. “So why haven’t you had sex? Waiting for Mr. Right?”
“No.” I sigh. “I’d settle for someone I’m madly attracted to, but I rarely come across that. I swear, my friends walk out their front doors and, bam, they’re hooking up with someone they can’t keep their hands off of. Meanwhile, I’m a total disaster when it comes to meeting men. I babble—have you noticed I babble? And if I do manage to overcome my nerves and actually interact with someone I’m attracted to, they end up not being attracted to me. And then the ones I don’t want are all over me.”
“That’s how it usually goes.”
“I was dating someone last year,” I admit. “Lasted about six months, and there was chemistry, for sure. But something just didn’t fully click. Didn’t feel right. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with him, I guess. And I couldn’t pull the trigger.”
“If you couldn’t pull the trigger with a guy you were dating for six months, how do you expect to do it in one summer? July’s almost over,” Tate reminds me. “Doesn’t leave you with much time to execute your fling plan.”
“I mean, in my defense, I tried pulling the trigger three weeks ago.” A case of the giggles suddenly hits me. “You realize you were literally the first guy I spoke to this summer? What are the odds? I never meet guys I’m attracted to, and I meet one the first night I go out.” I double over laughing. “And you friend-zoned me.”
“Doing okay over there, Soul?”
“I’m great,” I croak between wheezy laughs. “This is hilarious. I’ve been in town almost a month and look what I’ve accomplished. First I go on a date with a dude who learned to kiss in a barnyard. And now I’m lying here stargazing with a hot guy and neither of us is naked because he’s not into it.”
“I never said I wasn’t into it,” he protests.
“Let’s not rehash this,” I say, reaching over to pat his knee. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad or anything. Just stating how absurd this whole situation is.”
Clearly flustered, Tate goes to pour another glass. Only a few drops trickle out of the bottle.
“Shit.” He sounds amazed. “We just killed two bottles of champagne, Cassie. In an hour. We’re fucking barbarians.”
“I think that’s our cue to say good night, then.” My knees are wobbly as I rise from the chair. I scoop up the empty bottles. “Come on, Gate. Walk me home so I don’t trip in the dark and break my neck.”
“Gate ain’t happening, ginger.”
“Oh, it so is.”
Tate rests his palm on my lower back to guide me, keeping me steady as we walk. I’m certain I feel his fingertips move in a light caress. But it’s probably an accident, a result of the fact that we’re stumbling up the path, both a little drunk. Still, there’s something very intimate about the feel of his hand at my back.
I want it on other parts on me.
He wasn’t wrong. I am turned on. Painfully so. I’m practically squeezing my thighs together, desperate to go inside, as we stop and say goodbye on the stretch of manicured grass between our two houses. I want nothing more than to lock myself in my room, slide my fingers in my panties, and bring myself to orgasm thinking about him.
Inside, I make sure all the lights are off because Grandma is forgetful sometimes. Then I enable the alarm and sprint upstairs as quietly as I can. The throbbing between my legs has become unbearable. I’m already unzipping my dress while I hurry down the hall. I enter my room and throw my phone on the bed, hands tugging my bodice down. I let my dress drop to the floor about half a second before remembering I haven’t shut the curtains yet.
Tate is at his window.
My heart jumps to my throat. I’m wearing nothing but skimpy panties and a strapless bra. And he notices. Of course he notices. His eyes rake over my body, admiring, lingering, then moving up to my face. I expect him to reach for his phone and text a smart-ass remark.
Instead, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
My breath hitches.
It’s impossible to look away. I’ve seen his bare chest before, but the act of undressing … it’s almost more intimate than nudity itself. I can scarcely breathe. Slowly, he parts the front of the white dress shirt and eases it off his shoulders. His gaze never leaves mine as he tosses the shirt away.
I step toward the window, but I don’t draw the curtains. Not even a gun to my head could compel me to close these curtains right now. I swallow, trying to bring moisture to my throat. It remains bone-dry.
Tate unzips his pants.
I moan out loud, and even though he’s twenty feet away, I swear I see the corners of his mouth quirk up.
He pushes his gray trousers down his legs. Kicks them away. My gaze involuntarily lowers to his groin. There’s no mistaking the long ridge of arousal straining against his white boxer briefs. The material is stretched taut over his erection, leaving very little to the imagination. I’m mesmerized.
This is dangerous territory. We’re on the edge of a cliff here. He just stripped down to his underwear and now it’s my move. I can shut the drapes and pretend this never happened.
Or …
I hear a buzzing from the bed. I look over, expecting an incoming text. But it’s a call. Gulping, I grab the phone with a shaky hand. I swipe to answer it.
“I’m not not into it.” His raspy voice tickles my ear.
“W-what?” My mouth is so dry I can barely get that one word out.
“You said I friend-zoned you because I’m not into you. That’s not true.” He huffs out a breath. “I know it sounded like a bunch of excuses, but I meant it when I said it’s easier to keep things platonic. But that’s not to say I wasn’t attracted to you. I was. I still am.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” There’s a beat. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Show me.”
The request slips out before I can stop it.
Forget the cliff. It’s long gone. I’ve sailed over the edge and am basically free falling. My heart beats so hard and so fast that my ribs are sore. Every muscle in my body is tense, knees quaking as I move closer to the window.
Tate’s got the phone to his ear. He’s watching me. But he still hasn’t responded.
And then his low voice slides into my ear.
“Are you calling the shots?”
This time there’s no mistaking the naughty curve of his lips. And I realize this is the out we both require. A way to distance ourselves from the mistake we’re probably about to make. He said I could order him around just for tonight. So why not. Let’s treat it like a game. A fun little game without any consequences.
“Yeah.” My voice is soft. “I’m calling the shots.” I take a breath. “Show me how much you want me.”
As I watch, he taps his phone and then sets it on the window ledge. He’s put me on speaker. Three seconds later, he’s naked. Naked and gorgeous and gloriously turned on. Long and hard, and bigger than I expected.
My mouth turns to sawdust again, and I gulp rapidly. Tate drifts a hand down his bare chest. Slow, leisurely. He wraps it around the thick shaft and gives a slow stroke. I bite back another moan.
“I’m drunk,” I tell him.
“Me too.”
I can’t take my eyes off his hand. Those long fingers curled around his erection. “We’re friends.”
“We are,” he agrees.
“Friends shouldn’t do this.”
“Probably not.” He pauses. “See this?” Another long, deliberate stroke. “This is how hard you make me. Lately I’ve started jerking off before I know I’m going to see you, just to curb the temptation.”
The filthy picture he paints makes my nipples tingle. “Are you serious?”
“Mmm-hmm. And I’m going to get myself off the moment you close those curtains.”
My hand trembles so wildly I nearly drop the phone. “Who says I’m going to close them?”
From across the way, I glimpse the faint movement of his tongue, swiping across his bottom lip to moisten the corner of his mouth.
“You have no idea how good you look right now,” he says roughly.
Clutching the phone to my ear, I bring my other hand behind my back, searching for the clasp of my bra. It’s an easy one to undo single-handed. I flick it open and the bra flutters to the floor.
The moment my breasts are exposed, Tate makes a tortured sound. Husky and deep.
“How about now? How do I look?”
Oh my God, who is this woman? What are these words leaving my mouth? Whose throaty voice is that? I’m on display for him, and yet I’m not at all self-conscious.
“You look goddamn edible.”
A smile flits over my lips, but dips into a slight frown when I realize his hand has gone still. “You’re not touching yourself anymore.”
“I’m waiting for your orders,” is the gravelly response. “Tell me what you want.”
I realize then, despite the bravado I just exhibited, I’m completely out of my depth here. I don’t know how to direct an encounter like this. I don’t know what to ask for. How to ask it. All I know is that my clit is throbbing and my nipples have never been harder.
“I want you to help me,” I order. “I want you to take control and help me…” I trail off.
A strangled groan fills my ear. “Help you what? Help you come?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Then I want you to slide your hand inside those panties for me. I want you to rub that hot pussy until you’re coming for me. Can you do that for me?”
A wave of lust nearly knocks me off my feet. Sweet Lord.
“I don’t know if I can,” I confess. “Standing up, I mean.” I’m certain my face is redder than it’s ever been.
“Move closer.” His voice is hypnotic. It’s a lure and I’m drawn in like a fish, gliding beneath the surface toward it.
“Put me on speaker,” he says when I’m a foot from the window. “Leave your phone on the windowsill.”
My pulse is thudding, a rapid, rhythmic beat thrumming in my blood. He’s touching himself again. A lazy stroke here and there. No rush at all. I admire the defined ridges of his abdomen, the sexy V of his oblique muscles. He’s incredible. I wish he were here in my bedroom with me, that his warm, tanned flesh were pressed up against me.
I put him on speakerphone, grateful for the fact that my grandmother isn’t a light sleeper.
“Good girl,” he encourages when I set the phone down. “Now take your left hand and hold onto the ledge. Hold yourself steady.”
I follow his instructions.
“I want to see your other hand inside your panties.”
I slip the fingers of my right hand under my waistband, and the moment they collide with my clit, I almost keel over. “Fuck,” I choke out, grateful to be holding on to something.
He chuckles. “Feel good?”
“Uh-huh.”
We continue to watch each other. He’s stroking a little faster now. I rub a little faster.
His gaze is fixed on me. I don’t know if he’s focused on my breasts or the motions of my hand, but either way his breathing is quickening. I can hear it over the speakerphone.
I’m starting to make breathy sounds too. I grind the heel of my palm over my core, rocking against it. Pinpricks of pleasure dance along my skin. My nipples are tight. Breasts tender.
I exhale slowly. “I wish you were here with me.”
“Me too.”
And yet neither of us take that thought to its logical conclusion. I don’t ask him to come over. He doesn’t offer. Instead, we continue to pleasure ourselves. Our eyes remain locked. My entire body is a live wire, desperately waiting for a spark to set it off.
“Do you wish my dick was inside you right now?”
A soft moan slips out. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I’ve never had a dick inside me before.”
That summons a low groan from him. “Christ. Why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever heard?”
When I see his fist tighten around his erection, I rock faster against my hand. The tension is agonizing. I apply more pressure on the swollen nub that’s hurting for release, and a shudder runs through me.
“I’m close.” I barely hear my own voice over the persistent hammering of my heart.
“Yeah? Let me see it.”
I bite my lip. My body feels heavy and weak, as if my limbs are about to give out on me. I grip the ledge, digging my fingernails into the white painted wood. I sag forward and lean my forehead against the window. My erratic breaths fog up the glass. A whimper escapes my lips as the pleasure mounts, gathering in my core. God. This is the most erotic experience of my life.
“Cass. Yes. You’re gonna make me come.”
Those husky words provide the spark. My body detonates. The orgasm surfaces in a flash of light, a surge of heat. A rush of bliss that sweeps me away, coursing through me in sweet, pulsing waves. When Tate grunts, my eyelids flutter open. I watch him climax, listening to the quiet noises he makes while he loses himself to release. Finally, his hand slows. His chest rises and falls with each shallow breath he sucks in.
“Holy hell,” he curses, biting his lip as he meets my eyes.
Holy hell, indeed.