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“You’re so pretty when you come, Scarlett.” He kisses my neck. “I think I tore your dress.”
“Wait, what?” I pull away from him slightly so I can look at the gathered fabric between us, spotting the tear in a seam immediately. “Oh no.”
We borrowed it. Simon sent it over so I could wear it for the night, and we go and tear it.
“I’ll pay for it,” he reassures me, sounding amused. “It was worth it.”
He’s so right.
I’m smiling. “Totally worth it. But I have a question.”
“What?” He kisses me, his lips lingering, and I nip at his lower lip with my teeth.
“Can we do it again? When we get home?”
He laughs, his hands gripping my butt once more, this time beneath my panties. “Did I create a monster just now?”
A sigh leaves me as I murmur, “I think so.”
CHAPTER32
SCARLETT
I think I’m in love.
Okay, I’m getting way ahead of myself, but we’ve been spending a lot of time together, Tate and I. Yes, he’s busy during the day, working on his album while I document bits and pieces of the process this last week, sharing it on my social media with the approval of Irresistible. Roger is loving every minute of it, sending me glowing reviews of my posts via text, rambling on and on about how good I am for the upcoming album and for Tate. How inspirational.
I have to believe Roger, because I secretly think the same thing. Not because I have a big ego or think the world revolves around me but because of one thing that’s becoming more and more obvious as time goes on.
All the songs, all of Tate’s lyrics, seem to be about...
Me.
He’s used all the titles he told me he would. “I’ve Got You,” “They Don’t Know about You and Me,” and the one that gets me the most, “My Untouched Girl.”
When I hear him sing it, I sort of want to die of embarrassment and melt with desire, all at once. It’s a sexy song, all about me and my inexperience and how he wants to teach me...
Everything.
It’s even a little dirty, and I can’t think about when my family finally hears it, because that’s an entirely new level of embarrassment that I’m not particularly eager to explore. But for right now, I can’t worry about it. I don’t want to worry about it.
I’m too busy spending time with Tate. Stealing every moment that I can with him. He’s so busy—that brain of his never stops thinking, and he’s working constantly. Which means he’s always so tired by the end of the day.
But he’s never too tired for me.
We’ve done all sorts of things over the last seven days. All except the one—actual intercourse. It’s mostly my fault that it hasn’t happened yet. I’m still nervous, a little wary, but perfectly willing to do everything else. Like give him a blow job, which I did for the first time last night.
I’m eager to do it again.
He’s currently at the studio downtown, and it’s late—almost eight o’clock. He’s usually home by now. I glance around the empty living room, wishing he were here with me, and then my phone rings, indicating I have a FaceTime call.
When I check who it is, I’m surprised to see Rachel’s name on the screen.
I answer, waiting for her face to appear, and the moment I see her, I’m hit with such a wave of homesickness I almost start crying.
“You suck,” she tells me in greeting, even though she’s smiling.
“What? What do you mean?” Leave it to Rachel to always have me hanging on the edge.
