39. Brooks

CHAPTER 39

brOOKS

I took Tate to bed three hours before we were set to land in Tuscany. He was half asleep by the time I’d wrung a third orgasm out of him, but the whiskey was working double time for us both and a nap was long overdue. When we were woken up for landing, he was beyond groggy, but the sunrise was cresting over the clouds and I didn’t want him to miss the gorgeous, rolling hills as we descended into Italy.

With his head against my shoulder and his fingers threaded tightly around mine, Tate squeezed my hand and stared out the window with tired but excited eyes.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked under his breath, but I didn’t think he really wanted an answer. I kissed him on the top of his head and rested my eyes until it was time for us to de-plane.

There was a car waiting for us, sent by the hotel, and I would never find enough thanks in the world that Tate never begrudged me—at least out loud—the luxuries my bank account allowed us. He stayed pressed against my side as we were driven to the villa, his posture only turning nervous once we reached the hotel.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

The driver took our bags straight to the concierge, and Tate vibrated beside me while I got the keys to our villa.

“This is something,” he said.

“Is this more impressive than my penthouse?” I asked with a smirk, curious as to how Tate ranked displays of wealth in mind.

“This is Italy ,” he said. “I’m in Italy.”

“And you got here on a private jet,” I reminded him, leaning close and kissing his ear. “With a belly full of cum.”

“Jesus.” He banged his forehead into my shoulder.

“You’re tired,” I told him. “Let’s go settle in.”

The concierge took our bags and led us through the sprawling hillside estate until we reached the private detached villa I’d booked us for the weekend. If Tate thought my penthouse was too much, lord knew what he was going to think about this, but even though we’d dabbled in some exhibitionism on the plane, I wanted to ensure both of our privacies for the duration of our stay.

“This is…” He trailed off, not finishing his thought while I tipped the concierge and closed the door behind us.

“Let’s find the bedroom,” I said.

“Which one?”

“Take your pick, darling.”

With a burst of energy, Tate disappeared down a travertine tiled hallway. I followed behind him slowly, impressed but far less rushed. From somewhere on the other side of the villa, I heard him curse, and I found him in what I assumed to be the primary suite—if the view and the layout was any way to judge.

One wall was nothing except windows, mostly comprised of a large French door that opened onto a private patio with an uninterrupted view of the rolling hillside. On the opposite wall sat a king sized, four poster bed. An open door in the corner led to what I imagined to be an equally impressive bathroom. The villa was massive, but as soon as I sat down on the edge of the bed, my own exhaustion over the past couple weeks started to get the better of me.

“Tate.” I beckoned him away from the doors. “Come lie down with me.”

“There’s breakfast on the patio,” he said, face turned toward the hills even as he walked toward me.

“I imagine when we wake up, it’ll be replaced with lunch.”

Stripping out of my clothes and leaving them spread across the floor, I climbed under the covers and took Tate with me. He fitted himself against my body like we’d been carved from the same piece of marble, and much to my amusement, he fell asleep before I’d even had time to close my eyes.

Listening to the soft and level sound of Tate’s breathing should have been enough to lull me to sleep, but I found myself wide awake, staring at the ceiling, staring at Tate, staring at the lush hills beyond the open doors. The breeze was soft and warm, and I waited until I was sure Tate was borderline unconscious before extracting myself from his arms. He shifted and buried his face into the pillow, hips giving a little thrust toward the mattress before he settled with a snore.

I was simply too tired.

The stress of everything that had transpired over the past year was finally starting to take a toll on me. From Beamer’s relocation to Kale’s temper tantrums to Dylan’s hospitalization…all of that stacked on top of simply trying to fall in love . I wanted to extend the reservation in the villa and never go back to the city. I suddenly found myself understanding why Ford had been so quick to buy Boston the farm upstate. It was enough of a break from the stressors of everyday life without being so far removed as to separate oneself entirely.

I took a quick shower, thinking of all the ways I was going to make Tate cry under the rainfall showerhead that took up half the ceiling, then I wrapped myself in a plush robe and padded barefoot out to the patio. Tate snored quietly from the bed, but I closed the doors halfway anyway. He’d been right about breakfast, there a small spread on the table with a net covering the top of it to keep away any bugs.

Pulling out one of the wrought iron chairs, I sat down and stretched my legs out, finding some comfort in the stillness of the landscape, but not enough to fight off the heaviness in my eyes. Too tired to sleep, too tired to wake, I instead found some sort of calmness there with my eyes closed, the wind wrapping around me. My mind raced faster than the breeze, debating if I’d done the right thing when it came to Alex and Dylan, worrying about how near I was to closing a deal for Boston, Ford, and the food bank that meant so much to them, wondering if I was always going to worry about Tate leaving me.

The sun crested over the top of the sky and began to slide down toward the horizon, and I still hadn’t slept. Lunch was delivered, and Tate slumbered through it all. I sat at the foot of the bed for a while, watching him. God, he was beautiful, gorgeous, perfect .

He was mine.

Eventually, my stomach growled so loudly I worried it would wake him up. The noise didn’t even register, so I ventured back to the patio to pick at the bowl of panzanella. The food was light and delicious, and I ate it well knowing the man I loved was resting well in the bed behind me.

“How long have you been up?” he asked me sometime later, his voice thick with sleep and the weight of jetlag.

“Awhile,” I said, stretching my hand for him. “But lunch is here, like I said.”

Tate shuffled toward me, wearing nothing more than his cum-stained underwear from the night before. He sat down in the chair beside me and leaned over the table, sucking in a deep breath of all the foods we had to choose from.

“I don’t know what any of this is,” he said at the same time he picked up a piece of crostini and dug into the panzanella.

He approached the spread with the same eagerness that he seemed to use with all things in his life, me included. Tate was more than brave, he was fearless. Watching the awe in his face as he looked from the scenery before drifting to the food and then to me and the hills again felt as much of a gift as it did when he let me lick tears off his face. The preciousness of it had emotion welling in my throat, and I swallowed back my own tears as best as I could manage, stretching my hands out against the arms of the chair,

“Are you all right?” he asked, noticing the tension in my muscles.

“I’m tired,” I admitted, “but I’ve never been happier.”

Tate grinned and set down the uneaten crust of his bread. He took my hand, threaded our fingers together, and turned my hand over in his, kissing my knuckles before pressing my fingers against his cheek.

“It’s so beautiful here,” he said quietly, scooting his chair closer to mine. “I wish we didn’t have to leave.”

“We just got here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” I agreed, twisting our joined hands and mimicking the kisses he’d just given me. “But also we don’t have to leave.”

“Of course we do,” he said, following it up with a laugh that quickly died in the back of his throat.

“We don’t.” I inhaled a deep breath. “I work because I want to.”

“I work because I have to.”

“You don’t have to work at all,” I said, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

“I don’t want you to pay my rent.”

“I don’t particularly want to pay your rent.” The corner of my mouth twitched into a tired smile. “I’d rather you just lived with me.”

“Are you seriously asking me to move in with you right now?” he asked.

“It was more of a statement, but…”

“Why don’t you ask?” Tate smiled, letting go of my hand and reaching for the chilled bottle of wine that I’d managed to ignore for the majority of the afternoon. He poured us each a small glass, and even though I’d drank half a bottle of whiskey on the airplane, the wine was as refreshing as a glass of ice water would have been.

I loved Italy.

I loved Tate .

“Why don’t you ask?” I returned the question back to him, the annoying doubt in the back of my head barely louder than a whisper by that point.

Tate pulled his lower lip into his mouth, eyes awake and sparkling, more gorgeous than the landscape behind him. Instead of asking me the question I hoped we already knew the answer to, he took a leisurely sip of his wine, stretching out his legs and sinking back into the chair.

“I could get used to this,” he said softly.

“Are you not already?”

“I’m used to you,” he whispered. “I’m…invested in you.”

Another unfamiliar burn at the back of my throat, a dam of tears in the corners of my eyes.

“Is that so?” I croaked, the words sounding wet as I choked them out.

“I want to spend every night with you,” he went on, looking at the sky instead of me. The smallest of blessings. “Every morning.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” he repeated it back to me, tone lilting. “Sounds like I should move in.”

My lashes fluttered and closed, a single tear sliding out the corner of my eye and pooling alongside the curve of my nose. I didn’t even hear Tate move, but he kissed the top of my lip, his tongue dragging up and chasing after the tear. I grabbed him as soon as he moaned at the taste of it, spearing my tongue into his mouth and kissing him until neither of us could breathe. Gasping for air, I dug my fingers into the back of his head, pushing our foreheads together hard enough to hurt.

“That was obscenely sexy,” I told him .

Tate grinned and hummed a small laugh. “I don’t want to miss a single day with you.”

“All my days are yours,” I promised him. “Every breath.”

“I need to keep the apartment,” he said, “for Dylan.”

“I’ll buy the building.” I was only half joking, and he knew it.

“I don’t want to quit my job.”

“I never asked you to.” I kissed him again, and our tongues swirled together, my cock springing back to life like I was a well-rested man in my twenties and not a jetlagged asshole in his mid-thirties.

“So, that’s settled then,” he whispered against my mouth when I let him up for air.

He was practically naked, and I ran my hand up his bare chest, over his shoulder and around his long throat. Tate sucked in a breath that sounded a lot like a moan, tipping his head back to give me more access to one of my favorite parts of him. I tilted his head back, pressing my thumb against the underside of his chin, then kissing the divot left by my nail.

“It’s settled,” he murmured, pulling my hand up to his mouth and swirling his tongue between my fingers. “The only thing up for discussion now is what you’re going to do with those handcuffs you packed.”