Page 32 of Fractured Heart

There’s a second knock, this one even louder and more insistent. Angrier, too, like Father’s. The water in the bathroom shuts off, and I realize that if whichever guy is in the shower heard it, the one sleeping would as well. I don’t need my problems showing up here and disrupting their lives again. Not after everything I’ve done and how well they’ve treated me.

I jump into action, but Tate beats me to it. He jogs into the living room in shorts and a t-shirt, his hair soaking wet. I can’t take my eyes off him as he pads barefoot to the door, but my heart nearly stops when he flips the lock.

I can’t help picturing Father on the other side, his face red with anger. He’ll tell Tate I’m a mess. He’ll make a huge scene, too, and Tate will never want to see me again.

I cringe but when he opens the door, it’s just the delivery guy—the same one who brought my current outfit. He holds out another pink bag, and Tate takes it with a quick thanks and an exchange of cash. Then he locks the door, leaving the rest of the world—and Father—safely on the other side.

“This is for you.” Tate turns, holding up the bag.

“You didn’t need to get me anything else.” I flush.

“Yes, I did. You can’t be comfortable sleeping in that.” His gaze rakes over my body. “And I won’t get a wink of sleep if I have to picture you out here in your underwear.”

“Oh.” I swallow nervously as Tate walks toward me.

His bare feet echo across the otherwise silent living room and before I know it, he’s crossed the rest of the distance between us. My pulse spirals out of control.

I start to step back, but Tate holds out the bag of clothes, waiting. I grab the handle, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he uses the bag to tug me closer, until our toes almost touch.

“Roonie,” he whispers. Both our hands are still wrapped around the bag, and he grazes mine with his.

“Tate,” I whisper back as his gentle touch sends a shiver down my spine.

With a slow smile, Tate starts to lean in. He gives me plenty of time to change my mind, but I want this as much as he does. When his warm lips cover mine, I sigh. His kiss is gentle, but he pulls away all too soon. My lips follow his, begging him to keep the kiss going, and Tate chuckles.

He’s laughing at me, probably at my inexperience. I flush and start to back away, but Tate leans in and I can’t help it. My eyes drift shut. I wait for the kiss, and when he sucks on my upper lip instead, I moan.

I want more—need more—but Tate doesn’t acquiesce. He gives my upper lip one more tug and then runs his tongue along it gently.

“Tate…” I breathe. I lean forward to kiss him, but he pulls back. My lips crave his and I shudder. When he leans in again, it’s to repeat the same sweet torture on my lower lip.

I suddenly can’t take it anymore. I let go of the shopping bag, which falls to the floor, and wrap my arms around Tate’s neck. I try to pull him closer, to deepen the kiss, but Tate stays just out of reach. He brushes his lips gently against mine and pulls back, building the frustration inside me. Then, he flicks his tongue along the very edge of my mouth and a wave of heat travels straight down to my core.

With a groan, I thread my fingers through his soft, blond hair. It’s still wet from his shower and I use it to pull his lips closer. I need more. I need him.

“Please,” I moan, but Tate pulls away.

“Goodnight, Roonie,” he whispers. He stares down at me for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Then, he turns away, crosses the living room, and leaves me utterly alone.

Chapter 17

I stay rooted in the middle of the living room, staring after Tate the same way I stared after Charles. Every inch of my body screams for him, every nerve ending begs him to come back and finish what he started. To stop teasing me and kiss me like he actually means it. It almost feels like he did it on purpose, playing my body like a skilled guitarist, plucking all the right strings, only to leave me wanting more.

How could he just leave like that? Did I do something wrong? Did I kiss him wrong? Remind him of my inexperience?

Kissing him again is all I can think about…him and Charles. I know it’s not happening, so I need something else to focus on—a distraction. I plop backward onto the couch with a groan and spot the pink bag of clothes.

It’s on the floor, right where I dropped it while I was kissing Tate. My lips tingle at the memory and my body fills with need. Yup, I definitely need something else to focus on.

I grab the bag and check to see what Tate got me. It’s a pair of blue pajama shorts and a matching tank top. They’re made of delicate silk which shimmers in the moonlight and feels luxurious against my fingertips. I don’t find a price tag, but my gut tells me this present is too expensive. Should I ask Tate to return it?

I know I shouldn’t accept another expensive gift, but Tate’s right. I won’t be comfortable sleeping in my sweater and too-tight jeans. I guess I could strip down to the lace lingerie Charles got me, even if it is kind of itchy. But what if I have to go to the bathroom during the night? Or I kick the sheets off in my sleep?

I picture Tate and Charles towering over me while I’m wearing nothing but the thin scraps of lace. My nipples tighten and I mentally shake myself. I should not be thinking of both of them like that and anyway, neither guy seemed interested in taking things any further.

With a groan, I quickly undress, pull on the pajamas, and luxuriate in the feel of silk against my bare skin. I stuff my bra and panties in the bag the pajamas came in, followed by my neatly folded jeans and sweater. Then, I get settled on the couch, close my eyes and try to sleep.

Usually, I drift off to imagined princes singing to their fairy tale loves. This time, the moment I close my eyes, I conjure up thoughts of the guys sleeping just down the hall. I keep remembering the way Tate sucked on my upper lip and the way Charles possessed me with each kiss.