14. Tate

CHAPTER 14

TATE

Dylan leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom while I tried—to no avail—to do something presentable with my hair.

“You’re overthinking this,” he said, an amused smirk playing across his lips.

“I want to impress him.”

“You impressed him six months ago.” Dylan rolled his eyes and took the pomade container out of my hands, screwing the lid back on and dropping it on top of the toilet. “You impressed him last weekend, and probably again on Wednesday night.”

Staring at the reflection of myself, my cheeks burned pink at the insinuation behind his comment. I knew Dylan was right. I didn’t have to impress Brooks. He was already impressed, or at least interested. He wouldn’t have let me come over in the middle of the week or asked me out again in the first place if the connection wasn’t there, and he surely wouldn’t have asked me to go get tested so we could fuck without condoms. That wasn’t something casual or passing—that was commitment.

That was real.

“Are you coming home before work on Monday?” Dylan asked, laughing when I shoved him out of the way.

Our apartment was small; it always had been. Being on top of each other wasn’t something new, but all I needed in that moment was a spare square foot to catch my breath before Brooks arrived. I brushed past Dylan into my bedroom, and I sat down on the edge of my bed, staring at the brick wall only a few feet away from my knees. He stopped himself in the doorway, taking up the same pose he’d held when I was in the bathroom.

“I don’t want to assume,” I said.

My overnight bag was still at Brooks’ house from Wednesday, with a dirty pair of jeans and underwear shoved behind the zipper. My toiletries were sitting damp in the leather bag that used to belong to my grandfather, all of it tucked into the corner of Brooks’ otherwise pristine closet. I should have taken the bag with me on Thursday, but I didn’t want to raise questions with my friends from work, and also there was a part of me that wanted to make sure I got to come back. I’d seen that little trick on the internet that women sometimes did, leaving small things behind as an excuse to come over a second time. I imagined an overnight bag full of clothes wasn’t as discreet, but I worked with what I had.

More than that, though, I knew what I really needed to do was trust Brooks. It was something he’d talked about the first night we met and when we ran into each other again at The Black Door. Being able to trust a partner was of the utmost importance to him, and now that we’d been together a handful of times, I understood why. If he could trust me, I needed to trust him too. I needed to trust the thing between us.

“Just be safe either way,” Dylan said, glancing over his shoulder when we both heard the steady and sure knock on our front door. “He hoofed it up three flights to get you?”

“Shit.”

I jumped off the bed, having expected Brooks to text about his arrival, not make the three-story hike up to our little apartment. I didn’t even have my shoes on yet, and I shoved my feet into them as fast as I could manage. Checking my pockets for my wallet, phone, and keys, I didn’t see a message from Brooks letting me know he’d arrived.

“I’ll get it,” Dylan said, ignoring the desperate noise that fell out of my mouth in place of a no. He yanked the door open with so much force, it wafted the rich and spicy smell of Brooks’ cologne through the hallway and right into my nose. I stumbled into the couch, deciding there was no point in trying to intercept Brooks in the doorway. The apartment Dylan and I shared wasn’t small by New York standards, but it was small by billionaire with family money standards, and with that thought, another wave of the doubt I’d just started to fight off slammed into me.

“You must be Dylan,” Brooks said.

The door closed behind him.

“We met at The Black Door,” Dylan said.

Shoes against the wood floor getting louder with every step.

“I don’t recall,” Brooks said, sounding bemused. He stepped around Dylan, a small smile settling on his face when he caught my stare. “Tate.”

There was something about the way he said my name that was always going to do it for me. He managed to infuse an unfair amount of competence and control into it, like there was no argument for whatever words came with it. Whether he used it in or out of the bedroom, I was weak for it. And those few times he called me darling ? I couldn’t even think about it and remain decent.

“I would have come downstairs,” I said in lieu of a greeting.

Brooks glanced around the very small living room before looking back to me. “I know you would have, but I wanted to see your apartment.”

“It’s the size of your kitchen,” I muttered.

“My kitchen is unnecessarily large,” he agreed. “Show me your room before we go?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’d still like to see it, Tate.”

There he was again with the demand permeating through the four letters of my name.

I pointed behind me, helpless to argue with him about it. The clack of his shoes against the wood grew louder as he reached me in front of the couch. Brooks took my hand and pulled me the remaining few feet through the living room until we were both in my bedroom, barely large enough for a queen size bed, so I’d tucked a full into the corner and hoped for the best.

“It fits you,” he said, taking in my unmade bed and the garment rack shoved into the corner .

“It’s what we can afford.”

“The only one here who cares about the difference in our living situations is you,” Brooks said quietly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping through a series of apps until he found what he’d been looking for. He read through whatever had come up on the screen, then slipped his phone into my hand.

I tore my stare away from his face to look at whatever was on the screen, finding a lengthy list of test results, ranging from HIV status to LDL cholesterol. Every line item had a green check mark next to it, confirming test results had returned as expected.

“Healthy as a horse,” I rasped, passing the phone back to him.

I didn’t have an app for my doctor, but there was a folded up sheet of paper on my nightstand that covered the basics, which I handed off to Brooks awkwardly. He unfolded it with long and skilled fingers, making a pleased little hum when he reached the bottom of the page. He folded it up and tucked it into the hidden pocket of his suit coat.

“Are you ready for our date?” he asked, like the silent conversation we’d just shared didn’t have anything to do with the fact that we both planned for him to come inside of me before the end of the night.

Another first to Astor Brooks.

I should tell him, I thought, not wanting a repeat of the breach of trust from our first night together.

“I’ve never,” I blurted, scrunching my nose in embarrassment at how loud my voice came out between us in the very small space. “I’ve never done it before. ”

Brooks smirked, one of his eyebrows quirking toward his hairline. “You’ve never gone on a date?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I’ve dated before,” I said. “I meant the no condom thing. I’ve never done that before.”

He worked his jaw back and forth, then curled his fingers around my elbow and pulled our chests together. Our noses brushed, and he tilted his head up just enough to see my face.

“Seventeen men and none of them had you like that?”

I shook my head, lashes fluttering at the way the humiliation over the callout made my blood boil. I wasn’t ashamed of the number of partners I’d had, but something about the way Brooks always talked about it so casually turned me on in ways I didn’t dare stop long enough to make sense of. He wasn’t trying to shame me. I knew that. He was setting himself apart from them, on top of them.

On top of me.

“No.”

Brooks smiled, brushing his lips over mine in the barest tease of a kiss. “What other firsts do you have for me, darling?”

The answer rushed out on a heavy exhale. “Quite a few, I’m sure.”

“Perfect.” His fingers trailed from their spot around my elbow, down to my hand. He threaded our fingers together and took one last look around my room. “Is there anything you need for the weekend?”

In the living room, far closer to my door than he should have been, Dylan snorted.

“I left my bag at your house earlier in the week.”

“I know. There wasn’t enough for a weekend in it.”

“I don’t have another bag, and I don’t—” I snapped my mouth closed, feeling silly for leaving the bag in the first place, for doubting Brooks.

“Your clothes are already washed and hung up,” he said. “We’ll sort the rest out. But maybe you can prepare better next time.”

“Next time,” I repeated, words rough against the back of my throat.

“Are you ready, Tate?” he asked again.

“I’m ready,” I lied.

Brooks led me out of my own bedroom, tipping his chin at Dylan on our way toward the door.

“I will not have him home before midnight,” Brooks said.

Dylan laughed and flung himself down onto the couch, reaching for his guitar. “I would most certainly hope not.”

“I’ll text you,” I said to Dylan.

“You better not.” He strummed a C-chord on his guitar, effectively ending the conversation.

Brooks pulled me out of the living room and into the hallway, then we were at the door, we were down the stairs, we were in the back seat of a black town car with tinted windows and warm leather seats. His fingers were still curled around the top of my hand, and I couldn’t breathe. My body didn’t want to hold itself upright anymore, and I sagged against Brooks’ shoulder, pressing the fingers of my free hand against my lower lip.

“Are you okay?” Brooks asked, shifting sideways. Our knees brushed together and I was forced to hold my body up on my own.

“I am, yes.” I cleared my throat and gave my head a shake to clear it. Our hands were still joined, resting in the small space between our thighs .

Brooks’ pants were blue, I realized. A dark and lush navy and the material was so soft against the tops of my knuckles. I hadn’t even seen him when he walked in, instead I’d been overwhelmed by the idea of him. Navy slacks, brown dress shoes and a matching belt, crisp white button-up tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The top button was undone, revealing a small V beneath his clavicle. His face was a few hours away from clean shaven, and it was impossible to not imagine the beard burn I was going to end up with before the next morning.

“Are you sure?” he asked, lifting our joined hands to kiss my knuckles. His lips were softer than his pants, and my brain threatened to short-circuit from the feel of it all.

In the back of the car, all I could smell was leather and Brooks, and the way he watched me promised a level of interest and attention that I’d never found myself deserving of before. But he was there just the same, giving it freely. Giving it to me.

“You just take some getting used to,” I answered honestly.

“Do you think I’m out of your league?” he asked.

I nodded.

“If it’s any consolation, there isn’t a single person in this city who is out of my league, and regardless of what you think about yourself, I want you, Tate. Just you.” He pressed another kiss against the top of my hand, lips warm and wet.

“I hear you,” I croaked, gnawing mindlessly at the inside of my cheek. “You’re a lot sometimes.”

“I can’t be less,” he said, eyes dark and serious, tone almost biting. “I won’t be less.”

“I don’t want less.” I pressed my free hand against the center of his chest, feeling the way his heart slammed violently against his sternum. “I’m just getting used to you. That’s all.”

Brooks swallowed, heart still pumping madly beneath my hand like it had something to say separate of whatever words he was going to put between us.

“It’s me,” I promised, curling my fingers against the soft fabric of his shirt. “And I’m not complaining.”

“I won’t compromise,” he said, covering my hand with his. “Not who I am and not what I want.”

“I’m glad for that.” I licked my lips, leaning in an inch. My arms tingled, skin like a live wire about to be touched. “I don’t want you any different than you are.”

Brooks closed the rest of the space between us, slanting our mouths together with the neediest-sounding groan I’d ever heard him make. He shook our fingers apart and grabbed my face with both of his hands, using his body and his tongue and his mouth to deepen the kiss like he was searching for the truth of my confession behind my teeth.

It was easy to yield to him, to turn soft and pliant beneath the demanding way he kissed and touched and took from me. When he reached down into my lap and pressed his palm against the quickly thickening erection growing between my legs, sparks exploded against the backs of my eyelids. I threaded my fingers around the short hairs at the base of his neck and kept him close, lifting up into his hand as he found new and dangerous ways to deepen the connection between us.

“We have to stop,” he murmured, giving my cock a squeeze and reaching up to pull my hand off the back of his neck. I whimpered, chasing after him, but his expression—save for his dilated pupils and flushed cheeks—was stoic.

“Do we?”

He huffed a laugh, lifting both of my hands to his mouth and peppering grateful kisses against each fingertip.

“I promise I’ll take you apart later, Tate,” he said, nipping at the pad of my thumb, lips twisting into a devilish grin. “But first… dinner.”