CHAPTER 18
CASSIE
When the window rattles the first time, I assume it’s the wind, though I was just outside and it wasn’t windy at all. Nonetheless, that’s the most logical assumption to reach when you hear your window shaking in its frame. But then it happens again. And again. And I realize I’m not hearing rattling. It’s tapping.
God. I do not have the energy for this, whatever this is, right now.
Sniffling, I swipe at my wet eyes on my way to the window. I know I’m too old to be crying over my mother’s veiled insults, and yet here I am. I think she just caught me off guard tonight.
I jump when a hand appears on the glass. Heart racing, I quickly lift the window open and see Tate’s face.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-shout.
He’s literally clinging to the lattice like a monkey. And either I’m imagining it, or the delicate crisscross frame is beginning to bend under his weight. Everything about this situation seems extremely unstable.
Tate groans softly. “Can I come in or are you going to let me fall to my death? Because I’m pretty sure this thing is going to give out any second.”
“Have you ever heard of a door? More specifically, a front door? We’ve got one of those downstairs, and it has this little gizmo on it called a doorbell that you ring and then someone answers and—”
“This is not the time for your babbling, ginger. I’m about to plummet to my death.”
Good point.
Sighing, I help him up, and a moment later he tumbles onto my floor. When he’s standing, he runs both hands through his tousled blond hair to push it away from his face. He smooths out his T-shirt, which is rumpled from his climb, then fixes the waistband of his gray sweatpants. I notice he’s barefoot and hope he didn’t scratch his feet going up that lattice.
“To answer your question,” he says, visibly frazzled, “I didn’t use the front door because I was afraid I’d have to meet your mother, and I’m not her biggest fan right now.”
I freeze. “Why do you say that?”
“I was outside having a smoke when you got home and—”
“You smoke?” I demand. “How come I didn’t know—” I stop myself, because that is not the thing to focus on right now. “You heard us?”
He nods.
Oh God.
My eyes start to sting again. And now I feel like throwing up too, because the hottest guy in the world heard my mother disparage my body, insinuate I’m a slut, and encourage me to get a breast reduction.
I blink rapidly. Mortified.
Tate doesn’t miss the way I hastily rub underneath my eyes with the pad of my thumb.
“No,” he begs. “Please don’t cry again.”
Again?
He saw me crying?
I might actually be sick. I take a few breaths, attempting to keep the nausea at bay. My knees go weak, so I sink onto the edge of my bed, but because I’m wearing my bimbo crop top, it creates an inevitable roll in my stomach. Normally I wouldn’t care about that—everyone gets it when they sit down—but after my mother’s callous assessment of my figure, I’m now feeling extra self-conscious.
I shoot back up. “Look,” I start, then trail off. I don’t even know what to say. I draw another deep breath and opt for honesty. “I feel like throwing up knowing you heard all that.”
His jaw ticks, as if he’s clenching and unclenching his teeth. “You realize none of it’s true, right? It was all bullshit. I almost stormed over there and gave her a piece of my mind. Does she always talk to you like that?”
“Pretty much. But she tries to disguise it as helpful advice, so most of her criticism falls under the I just want you to look your best umbrella.” I shrug. “She’s called me a lot of things over the years, but a bimbo? That’s new. It’s also extremely outdated, but I suppose bimbo is her generation’s slut? And I guess I prefer bimbo to slut. It’s more fun to say. Bim-bo.”
“Stop it, Cass. It’s not a joke.”
I crack a half smile. “It is kind of funny.”
Tate isn’t amused. “Have you told her you don’t like it when she says that shit?”
“I used to,” I admit. “When I was younger. But it doesn’t register. People like her only hear what they want to hear. Like I told you before, I eventually just gave up on…”
“Saying how you feel,” he finishes, then shakes his head in disapproval. “You should never stop telling people how they make you feel.”
“Doesn’t make a difference, Tate. She’ll never accept she did anything wrong, and she’ll never apologize. That’s not who my mother is.” I smile sadly.
“You don’t do it for an apology. You do it for yourself. Because when you don’t release those dark emotions, you end up bottling them up. You let them consume you from the inside out until you’re running upstairs in tears believing you’re unworthy or unattractive or whatever other false ideas she planted in your mind—when in reality, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking met.”
My smile falters. “Okay, you’re laying it on thick to make me feel better. I appreciate it, but—”
“You are. Christ. Just look at you.”
He gestures toward me, his earnest gaze taking in the outfit I’d chosen for my boardwalk dinner with Joy. A wrap skirt, a burnt orange color, that swishes around my knees. The tight black top that shows off my abs-free but still decent (or so I thought) midriff. I left the house believing I looked nice, but now all I hear is my mother’s voice in my head talking about girls with perfect abs and how big boobs will only ever look trashy. Never sexy.
“You’re goddamn perfect, Cassie.”
“Now you’re just bullshitting.” I start to turn away.
“I’m not.” He grabs my hand, tugging me closer. “You didn’t know I was listening earlier, right? Well, I could’ve gone inside and you would’ve been none the wiser. I didn’t have to scale a tower tonight and stumble in through your window just to tell you how hot you look. Why would I do that, or say that, if I didn’t mean it?”
Another good point. But … I still think he’s bullshitting.
He notes my skepticism and chuckles. “Do you really not see what you do to me?”
Despite myself, my gaze lowers to his groin. And yeah, there does appear to be some … swelling … happening beneath his sweatpants.
The evidence of his arousal, however, only triggers a gust of frustration.
“What the hell!” I burst out.
Confusion creases his forehead. “What?”
“What do you mean, what? You’re the king of mixed signals, Tate! Do you realize that?” I back away from him, aggravation rising inside me. “You can’t do this shit, okay? It fucking confuses me. And it’s fucking inconsiderate. And now look at how fucking much I’m swearing because that’s how fucking frustrated I am with you!”
He takes a step forward. “Cass—”
“No.” I whip up my hand to stop him from coming any closer. “You’re confusing. And insensitive! First you kiss me—and then you tell me you want to be platonic. Fine. So now we’re friends and suddenly you’re my wingman, and I feel like, okay, things are moving in a platonic direction—and then you jerk off in front of me! Seriously, Tate. What am I supposed to think here?”
“I know.” He releases an equally frustrated groan. He drags both hands though his hair, messing it up even more. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you should be! I don’t get it. If you’re attracted to me like you insist you are, then why wouldn’t you just agree to be my summer fling when I asked instead of feeding me a bunch of excuses and platitudes?”
His expression grows tortured. “I honestly thought it was the best idea at the time. I was worried I might hurt you if we got involved. That you might want something more. And I don’t have a great track record with relationships. I’m sort of just the hookup guy.”
“And I wanted a hookup! I literally approached the hookup guy for a hookup!” I realize I’m practically shouting at him and force myself to lower my voice.
“I know, but you said so yourself, you don’t have a lot of experience in this department. You’ve never even had sex before. I felt like I’d be taking advantage of your inexperience.”
I’m so horrifically embarrassed that my entire face is on fire. I wish I had a cold glass of water to hurl at my cheeks. “My virginity freaks you out this much?”
He hesitates. “I’m not freaked out, not really. It’s … the pressure, you know? Being your first puts a lot of pressure on me to make it good for you. To make it the best you’ve ever fucking had. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know if it was the best, since you’ve never done it before, but you know what I mean.”
Kill me.
Kill me now.
This time, I all but collapse on the edge of the bed. I don’t even care what my stomach does. I bury my face in my hands and moan. “Please leave, Tate. I’ve had enough humiliation for one night.”
“Cassie.” I feel the mattress dip under the weight of him. “Come on, look at me.”
“No,” I mumble into my palms.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Don’t you want to know the silver lining here?”
“There is none. We finally found a situation without a hint of lining, silver or otherwise. It’s all black. Just big, black thunderclouds.”
I twitch when I feel his thumb on the side of my jaw. He gently pries my face out of my hands and cups my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Let me tell you the silver lining,” he says. Gruff and sincere.
“Can’t wait to hear it,” I grumble. And although he’s trying to impose eye contact on me, I keep my gaze downcast. Focusing it on his thumbnail.
“The silver lining is, if I hadn’t heard your mother calling you a bimbo and—hey, you’re right, it is fun to say. Bimbo.”
I laugh faintly and accidentally meet his eyes, which are twinkling.
“If she hadn’t said that shit, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now telling you how beautiful you are.”
Despite myself, my pulse speeds up. Because hearing those words spoken in his deep, earnest voice does something to me. Hits me in a different way. Aaron had called me beautiful the other night, but it hadn’t elicited this kind of response. Hadn’t made my heart flutter or my hands shake so wildly that I have to place them on my knees to keep them still.
“And if I hadn’t heard all that shit, I wouldn’t be saying: Cassie Soul, I would like to fling you.”
My jaw drops. “What? Oh no. No way. I don’t need a pity hookup.” I peel his fingers off my chin.
He captures my hand and brings it to his groin.
I give a sharp intake of breath at the feel of an unmistakable erection beneath my palm.
“There is zero pity involved here,” he says. “Not even a shred of it. Seriously. Feel how hard you make me. I want you so bad it hurts.”
“What about my virgin status?” I challenge.
He visibly gulps. “I mean, I won’t lie. That part is kind of scary. The pressure—”
“Stop,” I order with a choked laugh. “There’s no pressure. I promise.”
Tate seems unconvinced.
“I mean it. I don’t expect rose petals and declarations of love. And I certainly don’t expect a commitment. All I want out of this is to have fun. And to gain some experience,” I admit, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “I’m heading back to school after Labor Day weekend. I know this won’t lead to a relationship, and I’m fine with that. I’m also not naïve enough to think that the first time—or even the first couple of times—is going to be a perfect, magical moment of sexual delights. But.” I shrug. “Based on our previous encounters, I suspect we’re going to have fun.” I eye him. Daring him to contradict that. He doesn’t. “So, really, where’s the pressure?”
It’s only after I conclude my speech that it occurs to me my hand is still on his dick.
Classy.
Noticing where my gaze went, Tate flashes those playful dimples. “Well. This is awkward.”
“I don’t know about awkward.” Before I can stop myself, I move my palm in a featherlight caress.
“Stop that. That was only intended to show you how on board I am.” With a firm look, he pries my hand away from his crotch. “But I didn’t come here for me. I came here for you.”
My pulse quickens. “For me,” I echo.
“Mmm-hmm.” His blue eyes grow serious. “But if we do this, we take it slow. That means…” He raises a brow. “No sex. At least not tonight.”
“Ugh,” I say in mock disgust. “Then why are you even here? Jeez.”
He lets out a laugh. “Slow,” he repeats. “Deal?”
“Slow,” I agree, nodding my assurance. I give him an expectant look. “So then what happens tonight?”
“Tonight … I want to make you feel good.” He licks his lips, and I instinctively lick mine too. “I want to make you feel beautiful.”
Our heads move closer, as if drawn together by a magnetic field. Then he kisses me. It’s soft and gentle and almost too much of a tease. I make an anguished noise and deepen the kiss, clutching the back of his neck to keep him close. When our tongues meet with a teasing stroke, it’s his turn to make noise, a hoarse groan that comes from deep in his chest and vibrates against my lips. This is what a passionate kiss is supposed to be like, I realize. You don’t need your tongues to do all the heavy lifting. You don’t need loud groans and grabby hands. Chemistry. That’s all you need.
Despite his muttered objection, my hand seeks out his erection again. “You know what makes me feel beautiful?” I tell him. “This. Knowing I did this to you. Knowing you’re so turned on you can’t even think straight.”
“Mission accomplished,” he says wryly, then groans when my fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
He’s not wearing underwear, and I find him hard and ready for me. I stroke him for a moment, enjoying the way his lips part, the way he breathes a little faster. Then I drop to my knees in front of him. I run my fingers along the heavy length of him. He’s rock hard.
“I want you to tell me how good I make you feel.”
His eyes are molten. Pure lust. “You mean you can’t literally feel it?” He thrusts into my hand.
My thumb finds a streak of moisture at his tip and glides over it before my fingers curl around him again. When I stroke him, firmer this time, his expression burns hotter, a flash of pleasure bordering on pain. He wants me so bad it hurts, he said. I don’t think he was kidding.
He continues gazing down at me as if I’m the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. It does wonders for my ego. Melts away that horrible lump of inadequacy that was jammed in my throat before.
When I bring my lips to his tip and place a soft kiss on it, his entire body jerks. “Tease,” he growls.
Smiling, I plant another kiss on him, then swirl my tongue around the crown of his cock. Teasing again. His exhalations get heavier. Eyelids are heavy too. I peer up at him, loving the sight of his features stretched taut with need. How he looks like he’s having trouble performing even the most basic task, like breathing.
My gaze locked with his, I take him fully into my mouth.
“Jesus,” he swears, and I get a thrill knowing I’m responsible for the desperate groan that flies out of his mouth.
It’s such a sexy sound that I proceed to do everything in my power to hear it again, to keep drawing those groans from his lips. I suck him deep, using my hand and tongue to drive him wild.
“Feels so good,” he mumbles. Yet at the same time, he’s suddenly trying to ease away from my hungry mouth. “I didn’t come here for this.”
I release him. “Well, this is what you’re getting, so are we really going to complain about a blowjob, Gate?”
Tate shudders out a laugh. “I told you, that is not becoming a thing—” He halts when I take him in my mouth again. “Holy hell.” A tortured moan escapes his throat. “I love this, I really do. I, ah—” Another moan. “I never want you to stop, but—ah, hell, that’s good.” He thrusts deeper. “But I want us to come together.”
My nipples tighten at the lewd suggestion.
“Like, I’m right here. And you’re right here. And I need you on me.” He’s basically fucking my mouth now, his hips moving in a restless, impatient rhythm as his long fingers tangle in my hair. “I need to touch you and see your face and hear that noise you make when you’re getting close.”
“What noise?” I lift my mouth off him, breathing hard.
“I can’t describe it. It’s just hot. Please,” he begs.
I give him what he wants. Hell, what we both want. Because as fun as it is to tease him, my entire body is screaming for release. I climb onto the bed and we fall back on the mattress, his mouth instantly finding mine in a ravenous kiss. His hand fumbles to get under my skirt, where he pushes aside the crotch of my panties. I’m wet and ready, and he uses that wetness to stroke my clit, to drag a finger up and down my slit.
“Put your hand on me again,” he whispers.
“Wait, I have an idea,” I say.
He grunts in complaint when I roll over, but I’m not going far. Just reaching for the hand lotion I’d left out on the nightstand earlier. I squirt some on my palm and roll back toward him. That first smooth, wet glide of my fist along his shaft makes his eyes glaze over.
“Ah. Keep doing that.”
I grin. “Good?”
“So good. Don’t stop.” His hips start rocking as he thrusts into my hand.
He props himself on his elbow and lifts my shirt, hurriedly undoing the front clasp. Then his mouth latches around one beaded nipple, while his fingers return between my thighs, rubbing, teasing, stroking my clit to bring me closer and closer to the edge.
When he pushes one finger inside me, his startled curse heats the air between us. “This is the tightest pussy I’ve ever fucking felt.” He’s practically moaning the words.
My breathing becomes labored as I strain against his skilled touch. “I’m getting close. Are you?”
“I was close before you even took off my pants.” He raises his mouth from my breast to grin at me. “Just say when.”
“Kiss me,” I plead.
He does, and the moment our tongues meet, the orgasm breaks through the surface. My inner muscles clamp around his finger, and Tate groans and spills into my hand. We’re both panting, hips moving as we lose ourselves in our respective bliss.
When my eyelids finally open, Tate is watching me. Pleased. “You made that noise.” He sighs happily. “It’s my favorite noise.”
Our foreheads rest together, slightly damp with sweat.
“That was really good,” I mumble with a satisfied sigh of my own. I try to nestle closer and realize my range of motion is constricted because my top is tangled around my collarbone. With a giggle, I attempt to free myself. “I’m stuck.”
“Damn, ginger. You needed it so bad you forgot to take your clothes off?” Chuckling, he leans in to brush his lips over mine. “You’re such a bimbo.”
This time a whole slew of giggles shudders through me. “Shut up, Gate.”