Chapter 32

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.

“You said you’d have me come out there so I could hang out with you, and I’ve barely heard a single peep from you! Just a quick text here and there.” Rachel mock pouts. I can tell she’s in her bedroom and it’s dark. Like she’s about to go to bed.

Considering she’s three hours ahead of me, that’s probably the case.

“I’m so sorry. I just—things have been happening so fast, and the days just fly by.” My apology is lame. So are my excuses.

“Right. More like you’re getting dicked every night and you’ve forgotten all about me.” Rachel bursts out laughing when she sees my shocked face.

“I am not getting dicked every night.” I glance around, like one of the security guys is going to pop out from behind a wall or lamp. I really hope they didn’t hear her. Pretty sure they’re currently outside. “But Tate and I have grown . . . closer.”

Rachel grins. “Ooh, please do tell. And that happened fast.”

“I know.” I smile, remembering how I said I wouldn’t stay here beyond two weeks. Thinking of all the time Tate and I have spent together and how I never want it to end. We’re so much closer now, and I’m always eager to see him when he finally comes home from the studio. Tonight, I plan on smothering him with kisses, and hopefully we can take a late-night swim. Or we’ll just go straight to bed.

The possibilities are endless.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Rachel points out.

“There’s no reason for me to complain. I’m having fun.”

“Having fun. Is that code for getting naked with Tate Ramsey every night?”

I can feel my cheeks burn hot, and Rachel points at me.

“I knew it. You two are totally into each other, aren’t you? I see the photos everywhere. All over the internet. On social media. Your social media. He’s all you talk about.” Rachel shakes her head, as if she can’t believe it. “They follow you guys to every restaurant and place you go to, and I have to say, with all the photos I see—you two look like the real deal.”

“That’s because we are the real deal,” I admit, my voice soft. Like I don’t want to speak too loudly for fear that it’ll break this magical spell Tate and I are both currently under.

Things are going so well. They have been for pretty much the entirety of our time here in California. To the point that I forget about everything else and just focus on him. On our life here.

I’ve FaceTimed with my parents a couple of times, and I’m always so vague in my responses when they ask questions like When are you coming home? and How serious are you two? Mom texts me all the time, asking for more details about our relationship, and I just brush her off or change the subject. I don’t want to tell her too much. Our relationship feels so fragile still. I want to keep things private.

Just between me and Tate. No one else needs to know. Despite how popular we are online, that part of it still doesn’t feel real.

I have no clue when we’re coming home, and I don’t want to rush the process. Tate is doing so well putting the album together, and I refuse to leave him alone and go back to New York.

He needs me.

“I knew this would happen,” Rachel says vehemently, though I can tell she’s not mad. More like she seems really happy for me. “From the way you talked, like you two were always snapping at each other, I figured it would eventually turn into an enemies-to-lovers situation. Looks like I was right.”

“Enemies to lovers?” I’m frowning.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. Every great fake relationship in a movie or series or book starts out as an enemies-to-lovers story. They hate each other. Until they don’t.”

That’s exactly how I feel about Tate. I couldn’t stand him. And then I could.

Now I can’t imagine life without him.

I’m thinking he feels the same.

“I think that’s us. Well, me. He never seemed to mind me too badly.”

“So you’re telling me he’s a boy obsessed,” Rachel says, nodding.

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

My best friend sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been reading, okay? Mostly romance books, and they have all of these tropes. Fake dating. Boy obsessed. Enemies to lovers. I don’t have my best friend around to hang out with—and I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I’m just stating facts—so I need to occupy myself somehow. And that means I’ve been reading. A lot.”

“I’ll be home soon,” I tell her, feeling bad even though she told me I shouldn’t. “I promise.”

“It’s fine. I’m cool with it. Besides, I don’t want you coming home. It’s like you’re living in an actual romance book. As if Tate is the ultimate book boyfriend of every girl’s dreams. He’s that good.”

“He really is that good,” I reassure her, breaking into laughter at the sly look on her face. “I just—I didn’t think he would be this sweet. Or fun. Or . . . sexy.”

“Sexy? Oh my.” Rachel fans herself. “Scarlett, you never call any guy sexy. Not even Ian.”

Ian. I haven’t thought about him much lately.

I don’t miss him. Not at all. I was chasing after someone who wasn’t interested. It’s nice to have someone chasing me for once.

“I hate to break it to you, but . . .” Rachel’s voice drifts.

“But what?” I ask, panic hitting me when she still hasn’t finished her sentence.

“I think you’ve hit the jackpot with this one.” Her face is solemn, her eyes wide. “He seems like a winner. You’re a lucky girl.”

I smile to myself, unable to keep my joy contained. Rachel’s right.

I am the luckiest girl in the world.

* * *

I’m dozing on the couch when I finally hear the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage open, indicating that Tate has finally returned. I sit up, pushing the hair out of my face, clad in an old Tate Ramsey Five Car Pileup T-shirt I found on Etsy that just arrived this afternoon. It’s a little faded and completely oversize. The perfect thing to wear to greet Tate when he gets home.

I hear keys hitting the marble counter, and I watch Tate as he sets his wallet there as well, running a hand through his hair, a slow exhale leaving him as he stares unseeingly at the floor for a moment. I take him in, marveling at how handsome he is. How tall and broad and strong.

Oh, I’ve got it so bad for this man.

He glances over at me, frowning when he sees me sitting on the couch, no doubt looking drowsy.

“You waited up for me?” He makes his way to the living room.

“I sort of fell asleep.” I shrug, my T-shirt slipping off one shoulder.

He comes to a stop in front of the couch I’m sitting on, his gaze dropping to my shirt. “What are you wearing?”

I sit up a little straighter, thrusting my chest out. “Do you like it? I found it on Etsy.”

Tate is slowly shaking his head, studying the image on my shirt. “That’s . . . wild. You look like a fangirl.”

“I was a fangirl.” I’m smiling. “I still am. I’m your biggest fangirl.”

He likes me saying that. So much he reaches for me with a growl, hauling me into his arms with ease, his hands going to my backside, his eyes widening with surprise.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he accuses, though he doesn’t sound too mad about it.

I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, his stubble tickling my lips. “I’m wearing nothing under this shirt, Tate.”

“Scandalous,” he murmurs before he kisses me.

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

He grins, his smile naughty. I’m throbbing just from the look on his face. “Let me show you.”

Tate carries me into his bedroom—our bedroom now. We’ve given up all pretense of having separate rooms. I just use mine for a closet mostly. I sleep every night in his bed. Though most of the time we’re not doing much sleeping.

Not that I’m complaining.

He drops me onto the mattress close to the edge and settles on his knees on the floor, directly in front of me. I watch as he runs his hands up my bare legs, pressing them open with his palms on the insides of my thighs, spreading me wide. I move with him willingly, all shyness having left me long ago, replaced by eagerness. All I want is to be with him. In every way possible. It’s getting to the point that I can barely take it, I’m so completely taken with him. Obsessed with him, really.

Is there a girl-obsessed trope? Because I feel that way about Tate. Thoroughly obsessed with him in every way possible. Though I’m also fairly certain he feels the exact same way about me.

Tate stares at the spot between my legs before his smoldering gaze lifts to mine. “So pretty. And all mine.”

A shiver moves through me at the heat in his eyes. His possessive words. “I missed you today.”

“Did you?” He streaks his fingers across my thigh, making me jump in anticipation. “I didn’t peg you as so damn needy all the time, Scar, but you’ve surpassed all of my expectations.”

“I don’t think you mind me being needy.” Deep down, I think he loves it. He wants to be wanted, needed, appreciated.

But then again, don’t we all?

“I like it.” He rises up, kissing the inside of one knee, then the other. I’m already trembling, anticipating his mouth on me. I can’t get enough of it. The way he makes me come with his lips and tongue. His fingers.

I’m addicted to the feeling. To him.

He shifts up, trailing kisses along the inside of my thigh, drawing closer and closer to where I want him, before he shifts upward, his mouth on my stomach. My ribs. He shoves the T-shirt upward, chuckling at seeing his younger self on the front of it, before his lips wrap around my nipple and he sucks it into his mouth.

I bury my hands in his hair, holding him close, lost to the sensation of his warm mouth and lashing tongue. I spread my legs and he settles in between them, my hands shifting to slip beneath his shirt so I can touch the hot, smooth skin of his back. I can’t get enough of him. I want more.

I want all of him.

We kiss for what feels like hours, his shirt long gone, his jeans undone and my hand down the front, fingers curling around his erection. He’s so hard for me, throbbing in my palm. He finally breaks the kiss first, panting against my lips, “I want to be inside of you so fucking bad, Scar.”

I go still, my fingers slipping beneath his boxer briefs so I can touch his silky skin. My fingers trace down the length of him. “I want it too.”

His eyes light up, as if I just gave him the keys to the kingdom, and he glances toward the nightstand. “I’ve got condoms nearby.”

I almost want to laugh. “You were prepared for this moment?”

“I’d hoped it was coming,” he admits, dipping his head to kiss me, stealing my breath. My thoughts. My heart. “You’re all I can think about, Scar. You consume me. This album. I’m sure you already realize this, but . . . it’s all about you. You’re my muse. My inspiration.”

I blink up at him, trying to ignore the prick of threatening tears in the corners of my eyes. “Tate . . .”

“It’s true. Every song. Every lyric. Every word. It all has to do with you.” He glances down at the T-shirt that’s currently bunched above my breasts. “And then I come home and you’re wearing my face on your shirt, and that kind of blew my mind.”

“In a good way or a bad?” I rest my hand against his chest, right in the center, so I can feel his thundering heart.

“A good way. The best way. I think you’re just as obsessed as I am; you just show it in a different way.” He grins, kissing me, and I can’t help but think, Yes.

I’m completely obsessed with him. Just like he is with me.

“You should probably grab a condom,” I whisper, noting the way his eyes light up at my unspoken invitation.

I’m ready.

Without hesitation he’s scrambling, reaching over to throw the drawer open, his hand rustling around inside until he withdraws a condom packet. He leaves it on top of the nightstand and returns his attention to me, our mouths finding each other. Our hands wandering . . .

The T-shirt is eventually gone. As are his jeans and boxer briefs. Until the both of us are gloriously naked, our limbs entwined, his hands wandering, mapping every part of my skin he can touch.

“You’re so soft, Scar,” he murmurs at one point, running the back of his hand across my stomach. I’m trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s going to hurt no matter what,” I say, trying to remain logical.

“Well, yeah, but I can try and make it better for you.” He grins. “By giving you an orgasm. Or five.”

“You make me come five times, and I might get too tired,” I warn him.

“I’m taking that as a challenge,” he murmurs, just before he dips his head.