Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
We’ve never fucked.
She’s desperately wanted it a few times in the past, and certainly wants it now.
I can smell it on her, and she isn’t exactly trying to hide it anyway.
“Not avoiding,” I tell her, and it’s mostly not a lie. “I’ve been occupied.”
She reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Too busy to come to your father’s Sunday dinners. Well, we all miss you, and…” she turns toward Tate, then back to me. “Kto etot blondin?”
“Ask him yourself. In English, Nata.”
She spins to Tate again. “Well, so. Who are you, cute blondie? Do you speak?”
Tate immediately gives her his wide, warm smile. The way Nata asked about him was fucking rude, but Tate… Tate is good with everyone. His face opens up brightly like it always does, even though I want to put a muzzle on Natalia right now.
“I’m Tate,” he says, holding out his hand to shake hers.
“Pleasure.”
I watch Nata’s eyes roam over him. Tate has on one of his usual tank tops, this time a light olive-toned one that brings out the radiant green in his eyes. He’s always actively trying to show off his body, and she notices it.
Suddenly I wish I’d marked him earlier.
Bitten him down his sides, or sucked a fat, dark mark onto his neck for her to see. While she’s looking at him, it feels like she’s looking at something of mine.
And now Tate’s not watching me at all. His eyes sparkle as he looks at her, because he gives everyone his full attention.
“Your dress is fucking awesome,” Tate tells her. “Margiela is my favorite designer.”
“You know of him?” Nata asks, sliding her hands over her tight black dress that has a gothic-style look, with a few thin chains embedded directly along the waist.
“I have a custom mulberry Margiela suit. It’s my favorite thing I own.”
“Ooh, fancy fancy,” Natalia says, glancing back over to me to waggle her eyebrows. “I like him.”
“Are you Roman’s cousin, too?” Tate asks.
She lets out a laugh. “Family, no. Romik and I have been very close friends for life.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yes.” Nata reaches out to touch me yet again, stroking her fingernails over the center of my chest where an hour ago Tate was laying kisses along my skin.
Fuck.
My body tenses. Her touch feels fucking nothing like his.
Whatever took over Tate after he came… after I made him come—was so raw and magnetic it was impossible to resist.
And I still don’t understand how Tate’s goddamn mind works.
He hates me.
He wants to get rid of me, his bodyguard, his jailer. I feel it radiate off of him in potent waves every time I try to lay down a rule or a boundary.
But it’s always at odds with his physical need for me.
That’s what it is. When I actually fucking look at it, head on, and don’t push it down like I do with every emotion in my life, I see so clearly that Tate could hate me until his last dying breath and he’d still want me to fuck him.
My skin heats as Nata and Maks break off into a quick conversation and say their goodbyes to each other. I’m in a simple white T-shirt and the material still feels like too much, too cloying, like my entire body is still overheating from the memory of what we did.
Finally Nata is gone.
Maks, Tate and I sit at a corner booth, sliding onto the semi-circle. The moment I sit down next to Tate, I slide my palm over his thigh, gripping it under the table.
I’m comfortable in Capp’s Diner.
It smells like fresh ground coffee beans and bacon grease. Right now, the register and countertops are adorned with fall-colored wreaths and garlands, and there are pumpkins dotted along the upper shelf. This place also feels like a second home to me. The light blue Formica countertops are worn in places. The waitresses know me, but they never ask questions. It’s not the most popular place in town, and that’s a good thing.
I sit back on the comfortable leather booth seat and watch Tate browse the dingy plastic menu that I’ve long since memorized.
“How are the pancakes?” Tate asks me.
I squeeze his thigh. “You will love them. Lots of strawberries.”
Fuck me.
I even love the way Tate browses a goddamn diner menu, his eyes gravitating to anything that has the fruits he loves, and the way he bites his lower lip and smiles when he sees the picture on the back of a particularly well-photographed malt milkshake.
“Oh, damn, they have protein shakes too.”
I furrow my brow, reaching for the menu. “They do not.”
“They do,” Maks tells me from across the table. “They’re new. I’ve had them. They’re actually great.”
“Malted protein shake and strawberry pancakes it is,” Tate says. “Roman, I assume you get black coffee, steak & eggs, and a side of bitterness and maybe vodka?”