Chapter Fourteen

Piper

I haven't sat in front of a roaring fire for years. My father used to have them when I was a kid, taking my brother and I camping on the occasional weekend during the summer. They were always my favorite part of those days. The only other thing that came close was the brightness of the stars all the way out there, away from the city and all of the light pollution. Even now, I love watching the flames take the wood apart, turning it from something dead into warmth and ash and color. I love how toasty it makes my cheeks feel, and how it makes the bottom of my feet feel a little bit too warm while they're perched on the edge of the pit, like my shoes might melt right off in between the bricks.

Tate seems unfazed by the whole thing, sitting in a chair three feet from the fire with one leg draped over the other, dangling a beer from his hand as he scrolls through something on his iPad. The resort's traditional circular pile of bricks must be passé when compared to the state of the art fireplace in his penthouse, built to get him through the frigid Minneapolis winters in style. His nonchalance is comforting in its predictability. Sitting beside him in a shared silence, equally engrossed in our work, is the most normal thing I have felt since our moment of shared insanity earlier.

This much screen time is starting to strain my eyes and bring me dangerously close to a migraine. I let them drift up from my screen and toward the fire, sliding my glasses back into my hair and blinking as I shift focus. A particularly dry twig catches fire with a crisp crack, and both halves glow orange. The image reminds me of Tate and myself, and how good everything felt this afternoon. Maybe I'm late to the party, my love life being historically boring over the last decade or so, but perhaps the reason the sex is good is because it's wrong, because we're keeping something from ourselves and making poor decisions. I just hope I don't end up like that poor little twig, getting reduced to ash in the process.

The sound of footsteps approaching the fire pit breaks my train of thought, followed by the soft clinking of glass bottles being carried together.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Fallon asks, unloading the assortment of goodies she's carrying into the chair on Tate's other side, setting a six pack of green bottled lagers on the ground next to it. She offers one to Tate and myself, and we take them gladly.

"Yes, but it's an interruption I totally appreciate." I stretch in my seat, grimacing at the small series of pops that come from my spine. Fallon digs in her canvas tote bag, groaning in disappointment.

"Shoot." She holds a hand to her forehead. "I forgot the bottle opener."

"It's not a big deal. I can work with this." I smile, not sure if I've ever shown Tate this trick before. Leaning from my chair, I reach for an extra beer from the pack, and grip both bottles in my hand, making sure to hook the cap of the inside bottle over the other bottle top. Then, after an experimental stroke, I slam the outer bottle against the brick of the fire pit, watching Tate's mouth fall open as the inner bottle's cap flies up into the air and lands on the ground.

He looks from the fire pit to the beer, to me, then back again, squinting. "It's basic physics … but applied so well. Piper, is there anything you can't do?"

"Tate's right," Fallon agrees, barely containing her excitement as she hands me another beer to open. "That was the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life. You're like a real life superhero. And superheroes deserve s'mores."

Reaching into the bag, she removes several skewers, a box of graham crackers, a chocolate bar the size of my head, and a very crinkly bag of marshmallows. Tate motions for a skewer and the bag of marshmallows, which he tears into like a rabid child, stuffing not one but two of the things into his mouth at the same time.

"Sorry the chocolate is just the regular kind. I don't have anything as nice as yours." She passes me a skewer, and I wrestle a marshmallow away from Tate. "Speaking of—why don't you have a shop or website for your amazing chocolates? I'd sell them here in a heartbeat if you did."

I give her question some thought while I find a sweet spot in the range of the flames for my marshmallow. "I guess life got in the way."

"She says I'm a lot of work," Tate chimes in. His marshmallow is completely on fire, and he spins it in a slow circle as he blows out the flame. I make a concerned face at Fallon, who shrugs and rolls her eyes. Apparently, he just likes his burnt. I'm not surprised.

Even as he toys with his food, forgoing the graham crackers entirely, I always seem to be sitting right in the corner of his eye, as if his well-being hinges on my response to his sister. There's a shadow of guilt in his expression, like he's starting to realize just how much of myself I've devoted to him over the years. Maybe things are changing between us after all.

"I'm happy to support Tate with his dreams," I answer, carefully weighing my words. I don't want Tate to blame himself for how I've chosen to live my life. Right now, I don't have enough money or time to be able to launch a side hustle and give it the attention it deserves. Maybe someday.

"Oh, that's so sweet," Fallon smiles at my response, then throws a tight look over my shoulder, shouting to a cluster of chairs several feet behind me so suddenly that I jump. "Don't get any big ideas. We're not doing that. I'm keeping my dreams."

I can just barely make out Leo's silhouette in the shadows thrown by the fire, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, surrounded by a handful of guys I've seen hanging around the resort. He stands with a stretch, lumbering over toward us.

"Is that so? I don't know why you're getting all fired up. We're not really together," Leo teases, placing a hand on the back of Fallon's chair.

Fallon flips her hair over her shoulder. "So you keep saying. What happens if I want to keep you?"

Leo tenses, shaking his head. "I'm turning in for the night."

"Killjoy," Fallon calls out, watching as he grabs for one of her beers then turns and starts to stride off toward the cabins. "You don't know what you're missing! You're going to be really sorry if a handsome stranger picks me for cornhole tomorrow!"

Tate goes back to his iPad and I make a show of making another s'more, feeling like I shouldn't be eavesdropping on this conversation.

Leo pauses, the beer halfway to his lips, and casts a long look back over his shoulder at Fallon. His voice is low when he speaks, carrying a mix of amusement and something deeper, more wistful. "Fallon, you know that's not it. I just..." He trails off, shrugging as if trying to shake off his own hesitations.

Fallon's posture softens, her playful smile faltering as she watches him struggle for words. "Leo, it's okay. You don't have to play it so cool around me. We've known each other since we were throwing sand in the playground. I know when you're putting up walls."

He laughs, a sound more resigned than amused. "Yeah, and you've been tearing them down just as long." He takes a slow sip of his beer, his eyes not leaving Fallon's. "Look, I'm just not sure if I'm ready to be someone's anything right now."

Fallon leans forward, her voice earnest, almost pleading. "But you are someone's something, Leo. You've always been." She pauses, gathering her courage. "And maybe I want more than just childhood memories and casual hangouts. Maybe I want more."

Leo sets the beer down, stepping closer to the fire, his face illuminated by the flickering light, shadows dancing across his features. "Fallon, you're amazing. You deserve someone who's all in, someone who can give you everything you want." His voice cracks slightly, betraying his calm demeanor.

"But what if I want that someone to be you?" Fallon's question hangs in the air, thick with implications. Leo looks at her, really looks at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

"I don't want to ruin what we have," he finally murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper against the crackling of the fire.

I totally understand where Leo is coming from. I want to jump up and scream at them not to cross a line that can't be uncrossed.

Fallon stands, her movements deliberate, closing the distance between them. She places a gentle hand on his arm. "Maybe it wouldn't ruin anything. Maybe it would make everything better."

Leo's gaze lingers on her hand, his expression unreadable. "I wish it were that simple, Fallon." He steps back, the space between them widening again. "I need to take off now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Fallon watches him retreat, a mixture of hope and heartache in her eyes. "Men. Why are they so damn hard to figure out?"

As he disappears into the darkness, I feel a pang of empathy for Fallon. It's clear there's more between them than just friendship, a tangle of emotions neither of them is fully ready to confront. But the desire is there, smoldering beneath the surface like the embers of our fire, waiting for a chance to burst into flames.

It isn't long before Fallon calls it a night too, yawning as she ruffles Tate's hair and blows me a kiss, making her way back to the lodge. Left alone with only a handful of resort guests, the fire is rapidly losing its appeal, and Tate and I head back to our cabin. Despite the late hour, I find that I'm not very tired at all. And neither is Tate, if the restless way he's pacing around the bathroom with his toothbrush tells me anything.

"You know, I think I figured out why Fallon and Leo aren't nearly as good of a fake couple as we are," he mumbles out around a mouthful of toothpaste, before rinsing his mouth out from the tap.

"Oh?" My eyes meet his in the mirror as I work a serum through my hair, pulling it into a braid for the night. There's something so pleasantly domestic about getting ready for bed together. Despite all of the hours we've spent at each other's sides, I don't think we've ever done this before. "And why is that?"

As I finish up my braid, I catch Tate's eyes on me in the mirror, hanging on a beat too long—like he's thinking about something more. These quiet, stolen moments plant wild ideas in my head, silly dreams of us as more than just boss and assistant. But reality checks in like a bucket of ice water. To him, I'm indispensable, sure—but like a trusty Swiss army knife, not someone to cozy up with. I yank my gaze from the mirror, the weight of what will never be tugging at my braid like the chain of unspoken things between us.

Tate doesn't do a good job of reading the room because a sly grin crosses his lips as he taps his toothbrush against the edge of the sink, sliding it back into its travel case.

He smooths down the front of his cotton t-shirt before snaking a hand around my waist, pulling me into his side. "Because they don't practice."

I force a laugh, but it turns to a gasp when he abruptly brings his mouth to my throat. His breath is hot against my skin, his lips ghosting the surface so gently that it sends shivers down my spine.

"We should totally have another session," he says on a whisper, running his tongue along the shell of my ear. The contact makes my knees weak, and I lean harder against him as a result.

"You know how competitive I can be," I squeak out, his fingers skimming along the waistband of my shorts. I don't know what happened since the last time, but there's a new air of confidence to everything he does. I can't tell if I like it, or if it makes me want to wipe the smile off his face. I don't like feeling weak for anybody, especially not Tate Story.

His new confidence is heady, but it kicks up a storm of doubts inside me. As he gets closer, every touch is a jarring reminder that I'm super useful, yet somehow still invisible when it really counts. It stings to admit that I'm good enough to handle his life but not important enough to really be a part of it. Am I just another item on his to-do list? The idea eats at me, turning the excitement of his nearness bitter. How do I square the circle of being everything he needs but still not enough to be considered for something more? This feeling, like I'm just another tool in his kit, chills me to the bone, even as he stands right there.

His hand travels away from my shorts and takes mine, bringing it toward the front of his sweatpants. He splays my palm against him, letting me feel the solidity of his erection through the thin fabric, all the while continuing to look at me in the mirror. "Then why don't you practice on me?"

It's a presumptuous request, one that I would outright deny if it wasn't for the burning need in his eyes, or the swoop of my stomach at the sensation of his cock twitching against my hand. I can't deny myself the opportunity to see Tate, a man who can buy his way out of anything, surrender even the smallest bit of control.

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for my answer. I let my actions speak for me, turning him so his back rests against the counter, settling onto my knees and pulling his sweatpants down along with me. It's his turn to gasp as his cock bobs in the empty air, freed so suddenly from his clothes. I'm aware of the kinds of women that Tate tends to attract. I don't imagine any of them are the type to take the lead. I've never thought of myself as much of a seductress, but the look on his face, his mouth hanging half open in a mixture of surprise and longing, does wonders for my self-confidence, and I keep my eyes on his as I drag my tongue along the length of his shaft.

"Jesus, Piper," he whimpers, my tongue flicking against his swollen head. I make a few lewd and performative swirls, delighting in the way he seems unable to catch his breath, before taking him into my mouth entirely. His knees buckle, his hands resting on my shoulders, fisting the fabric of my tank top. Here is a man who has slept with supermodels, and I'm turning him to putty in my hands.

"I don't feel like I need that much practice," I tease, releasing him for a moment, smiling to myself at the way he groans at the lack of contact. "But if you insist…"

Letting out a playful sigh, I bring a hand to his hips to brace myself, and use the other to grip the base of his shaft, aiming him back into my mouth. It isn't long before he's starting to make noises, softly moaning in the back of his throat, and I find myself unable to ignore the warmth between my legs, my shorts feeling too tight between my thighs. I place a few open mouthed kisses along his shaft, my breasts going heavy with a pulsing ache, as I drag my lips and teeth along the skin, before I come back up to my feet.

"What are you—" he sputters out, before I shut him up with a rough kiss. When I pull away, he looks positively ridiculous, beads of sweat along his brow and his cheeks flushed crimson. He's still wearing his t-shirt, and his sweatpants are pooled on the floor around his ankles.

"We're training for a triathlon. Not a marathon." I reach for the hem of my tank top, tugging it up and over my head before tossing it onto the tile floor. "Get undressed. Please."

He doesn't need me to tell him twice, and his clothes follow suit, joining mine in a heap in the corner. I bring my lips to his once more, using the contact to shift our positions so I'm between his body and the countertop. He catches onto my intentions quickly enough, and slides his hands under my ass, lifting me up and backwards onto the granite. His hands drift between my legs, thumbs running along my folds and splaying me open as his eyes search mine, asking a nonverbal question.

I rake my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer as his mouth descends on my slick flesh, hot and eager. A moan escapes my lips, swallowed by his relentless kisses as he devours my pussy with a hunger that matches my own. The sensation of his tongue swirling around my sensitive clit sends a shiver down my spine, and I arch into him, craving more.

"God, Tate," I gasp, my voice ragged with need. "Don't stop."

He chuckles against me, the vibrations shooting straight to my core. "Not planning on it," he murmurs before returning to his fervent ministrations, each flick of his tongue pushing me closer to the edge.

I grip the lip of the countertop, my back bowing as pleasure courses through me like wildfire. Tate's hands roam over my body, igniting sparks wherever they touch. I can feel the intensity building within me, a tension coiling tightly in my belly.

"You taste so good, Piper," Tate growls, his voice rough with desire. "All I think about is licking you." His words send a surge of heat through me, and I buck against his mouth, chasing release.

"Yes," I cry out, my head spinning with ecstasy. "Right there—"

With Tate's lips sealed around my clit, my peak crashes over me like a tidal wave, pleasure washing over every nerve ending until I'm trembling with the force of it. Tate doesn't let up, riding out my climax with expert precision until I'm left boneless and gasping for breath.

As I come down from the dizzying high, he presses a gentle kiss to my inner thigh before standing back up to meet my gaze. The raw intensity in his eyes driving me nearly to my breaking point. While I struggle to get my breathing to return to normal, Tate grabs a condom from his toiletry kit and rolls it on.

Reaching my hand between us, I take his cock in my palm, guiding it toward me. I let out a small hiss as he presses forward, everything in the room condensing until nothing is left but the deep, satisfying stretching sensation of him filling me.

He pauses briefly once he's completely buried, resting his head against my shoulder. "You're so fucking tight, Piper."

The fire has left a lingering smoke scent on his skin, along with a touch of sweat and the outside air, producing a more masculine aroma than I've ever encountered from him. The effect is intoxicating, and I find myself starting to lose what little control I had to begin with, cupping his ass in my hands and urging him forward.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're perfect?" he groans, starting a slow rhythm between us that makes the tips of my toes tingle and my tongue dart out against my lip.

"You have," I sigh in response, letting my nails drag along his back.

"I can't imagine it was in the same context."

"No." He thrusts against me with a particularly hard stroke and I bite back a sharp cry. "But you've said it about just about everything else."

"Well, I want you to hear me. I want you to understand me. You're perfect to me. In every possible way. I can't get enough."

The rhythm between us is beginning to grow obscene, and a nagging fear builds in the back of my mind regarding the strength of this countertop and the competency of whoever installed it. "Who says I'm going anywhere anytime soon?"

"God, I fucking hope not," he growls, his hand passing between us, taking my breast in his hand and massaging it in a rough circle that hurts so pleasantly it makes my eyes twitch.

Bringing my legs around his waist, I pull him toward me, letting my hips roll against his with every stroke. He's so close to losing control entirely, to letting that cool, detached facade slip away. There's an edge of vulnerability just beneath the surface, hidden behind his shield of quips and snappy comebacks. And the only thing I want most in the world is to unlock it.

"Tate." I kiss my way along his jaw, working up toward his ear, dropping my voice to a throaty whisper. "You feel perfect, too. Just like this. I've never felt so perfect with anyone before. Just you."

He grunts, his thrusts becoming less even, but he's still clinging to a thin veneer of control. His mouth opens, like he's plotting a quick retort, and I cut him off before he has the chance.

"Your cock feels pretty perfect, too. So big and hard."

It's the exact dagger that I hope it to be, Tate letting out an undignified moan before he doubles his pace, his hands clutching at any bit of me he can grab as he drives into me over and over. Before long, I shatter again, pulsing around his dick as he bottoms out inside me.

"God, Piper—"

He slams forward another handful of times, before he goes still with a sharp shout, burying his face in my shoulder. We sit like this for a moment, skin damp with each other's sweat, breathing each other's air, neither one wanting to break the silence. Much like my worry about the countertop, another worry starts to set in. If I can't bear to break the moment now—how am I going to cope with returning to our lives outside of Sunset Lake?

He says he wants everything to go back to the way it was before… this. When I know damn well that's impossible.