Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

LILY

I n the kitchen, I lean against one of the cabinets, my shoulders slumped in rare defeat. My heart is more than a little sore, it aches with a kind of grief that I thought was long buried. I’m not sure I can do this. There’s too much water under the bridge. I can’t sit in there with him looking all sleep-softened and rumpled, with that milky moustache begging to be kissed away. Not when I’m still sizzling from the stadium kiss. I’m overwhelmed by this weird, alien compulsion to look after him.

No. I do not want to crawl in beside him under that blanket. I do not want to feel his lips on mine again. I do not want to nuzzle into the warmth of his neck just beneath his chin.

I straighten up. I need something to distract me before I jump the man’s bones. Where has all this angsty pent-up sexual energy come from? Parts of me are buzzing with heat and want, a burning desire to be touched.

I go through the cupboards in search of proper food and distraction. I need something practical to do. As I find bare space after bare space– apart from one cupboard stacked with tins of protein powder, I push the doors shut with disgust. Ugh. I shudder.

I make a quick phone call, then march into the living room.

‘I’m going out. Can I trust you to behave yourself?’ I demand. ‘Tierney’s team have someone out front watching the building. If anything, and I mean anything , doesn’t feel right, call Tierney and he’ll have someone come straight up.’

Tate looks up, justifiably surprised by my mood.

‘What’s got you in such a snit?’ he asks, bemused. ‘And since when has there been a car outside?’

‘Since day one. And you’ve got no food in the house,’ I say tightly.

He smirks more widely. ‘I didn’t invite you here.’

‘No, and I don’t want to be here, so we’re both on the same page. Unfortunately, we’re stuck with each other.’ I give him a sweet smile. I’m enjoying the bickering.

‘You can leave any time you like.’

‘You know I can’t.’

‘So, what’s got your panties in such a bunch?’ he asks, interest glowing in his eyes.

‘Nothing,’ I say, but I can’t help looking at that mouth, the full, slightly sulky lower lip. He goes still, watching me. Our eyes hold. He’s still got that cute milk moustache and I long to lick it off, tangle my tongue with his.

‘I won’t be long,’ I say instead. ‘Don’t open the door to anyone.’

I snatch my purse up before he can say anything and march out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me.

It takes the whole of my swift march down the block to calm me. I take in deep lungfuls of icy air, then long, slow breaths out. I’ve been taught how to lower my heart rate and manage my body’s response to critical situations, but today it’s like the world has tilted off its axis. I can’t quite recapture my equilibrium.

My intention was to storm the nearest grocery store, do a smash-and-grab raid on a few basics and get back to the apartment ASAP. But, as I near the store, the storm in my head settles. I’m taken back to the time I returned from college, when my dad was in hospital and my heart was smashed into irreparable pieces. Alice, our housekeeper, half in love with dad, recognised how broken I was and set about fixing me in her calm, unemotional way. Every day she’d insist that I helped her in the kitchen, cooking ridiculously elaborate meals for the staff. The gamekeeper, stable hands and estate manager had never eaten so well. At the time I didn’t realise that it was as much to occupy her as it was to comfort me.

I learned not only to cook in those months while Dad recuperated, but also that it was therapeutic. A way of nourishing body and soul when you most needed it. For Alice, it was her way of showing love to my dad, which thankfully he finally recognised. They’ve been married for five years now. I often wonder that if Alice had been on the scene earlier, my childhood might have been a bit less eccentric and more stable.

I grab a basket and survey the produce. I don’t even need to think about what I’m going to cook, it would seem I can’t help myself. Tate always used to love spaghetti and meatballs. He’d joke that it would be his death-row meal, and if it was ever on the menu any time we went out to eat, he would always order it. He said his mum used to make it for him when he was a kid, before she left. Funnily enough, it’s one of the things Alice taught me to cook first, and it’s my go-to, my signature dish.

I seek out the ingredients I want, working my way through a mental list, until my basket is full and I’m at the counter ready to pay.

I’m loading everything into brown-paper carriers when I decide that this food needs a decent accompaniment. ‘Where can I buy wine?’ I ask the checkout girl, remembering that in New York, grocery stores don’t have an alcohol license.

‘There’s a liquor store down the street.’ She points with her thumb.

I’ve only been gone half an hour, but by the time I get back to the apartment, I’ve done some serious damage with my credit card, treating myself to a nice bottle of Barolo and a couple of bottles of beer, because I’m not sure if Tate drinks wine. He never used to. The store kindly offered to deliver the booze because I’m carrying way too much.

‘Back so soon, Mrs D-to-be,’ says Ray with a huge grin as I walk into the lobby of Tate’s building. He’s clearly pleased with his little abbreviation. ‘Let me get the lift for you.’

He’s so sweet and it gives me a pang of guilt. Tate’s fans who want to see a happy-ever-after are doomed to disappointment. The only thing in the man’s life is football. Always has been, always will be.

‘Thank you,’ I say and smile back at Ray, not wanting to disillusion him.

‘Someone’s cooking in tonight. That’s what I like to see.’ He gives the grocery bags an approving nod. ‘I can tell you’re going to look after Mr Donaghue real good. My wife is a great cook. It’s true what they say, that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’ Ray pats his generous belly and winks at me.

If only he knew. God bless his romantic soul.

‘There’s a delivery coming in about half an hour. Some wine,’ I tell him, indicating my full arms. ‘Couldn’t carry everything.’

‘No sweat. I’ll make sure it gets to you. You have a good evening, now,’ he says, as the lift doors close behind me.

I buzz the door outside the apartment and wait for Tate to open it, standing back from the peephole so he can see it’s me. I needn’t have bothered. He opens the door and walks off without waiting for me to walk through.

‘Tate!’ I yell. ‘I could have been anyone.’

He carries on walking and heads back into the living room without even acknowledging me.

I stomp after him. He’s already back on the couch and there’s a ball game on the television. I roll my eyes.

‘Tate,’ I say with earnest entreaty. ‘You need to take this seriously.’

‘Ray told me you were on your way up. Wished me a nice evening. Does he know something I don’t?’ Tate raises an eyebrow.

I purse my mouth and walk off into the kitchen carrying my booty.

Ten minutes later, I’m all unpacked with my ingredients lined up ready to go and my current favourite Spotify playlist primed.

Tate reappears and comes to lean against the kitchen island, his muscular arms folded against his broad chest. He fills the space with his presence, and straight away my body buzzes with awareness. His scent, the size of him, and that invisible static that fills the air whenever the two of us inhabit the same space. Does he feel it running across the fine hairs of his skin the way I do? Like I’m magnetised and he’s my North Pole.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks in that slightly crotchety bored-teenager way, and I realise he’s in need of entertainment.

‘I’m cooking. Dinner.’

‘For me?’ He gives me a look. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

‘I don’t. It’s to give me something to do.’

‘I don’t remember you being able to cook,’ he says. ‘In fact, you were pretty crap at it as I recall. You could burn pizza.’

I turn, hands on hips, radiating indignation. ‘That was your fault for?—’

He grins at me and raises that damn eyebrow again, pleased with himself for getting a rise out of me.

I turn my back on him to hide the flare of memory, raising my eyes to the ceiling because I can’t begin to look at the kitchen counter. But it’s no good. I can hear the oven timer going off. Me panting his name in a desperate chant over the insistent beeps. His big strong hands supporting my thighs, his fingers caressing my bottom as he spread me out, wide and open, then tasted and teased. His mouth relentless and ruthless. Oh God, how much I loved it. It was the first time I lost my ‘pussy cherry’ and he took so much pride in it, ignoring my shyness and initial embarrassment as I desperately tried to hold back my moans of pleasure. I blush now as I recall his constant filthy encouragement and praise, making me feel even more turned on.

My core clenches at the memory of the ecstasy as he tormented me to the brink of orgasm, over and over. I close my eyes. A mistake, because I can see his delighted grin as he kissed me, the taste of me on his lips. Proud because he’d reduced me to a breathless mess and while that damned beeper carried on, he gently cleaned me up, closed my legs and hugged me, promising soon that we’d go all the way.

Stupid tears prick at my eyes. His sweetness. The trust. That consuming feeling of love and lust so intertwined. I didn’t know where one began and the other left off.

Blindly, I open cupboards looking for a measuring jug. For some dumb reason it’s on the very top shelf, as if a bloody giant normally cooks in this place.

‘Can I help?’ The low timbre of Tate’s voice purrs around me, twisting up my already hyper-charged senses. Even as I raise my hand, Tate comes to stand behind me, his body caging me. He reaches around me, the warmth of him sending a shiver through me.

I swallow. ‘If you could…’ The words desert me and I wave a hand at the jug. My arm parallel to his. He leans forward, his body almost flush against mine. The temptation to lean into him is tortuous.

‘This?’ He lifts one of the tumblers next to the jug. I shake my head.

He leans another inch closer, his breath against my cheek. ‘This?’ He picks up another glass. ‘Or this?’ Now his chest is against my back, his hips cradling my waist.

My mouth has dried. I close my eyes, my chest restricted and tight, I can’t seem to get a breath in or out.

Then, with another soft, hot breath against my skin, he takes the measuring jug.

I nod, a little frantically and he grasps it and takes a step back. I want to cry out at the loss of contact, even though he’s a mere inch away and my nerve ends are still singing.

‘Thank you,’ I croak, stepping to one side and taking the jug from him.

‘My pleasure,’ he says. I can hear humour in his voice, but also the slight rasp that tells me that perhaps he’s affected, too.

‘Anything else I can help with?’ There’s no mistaking the suggestion this time.

‘All good,’ I say. I suspect my bright, briskness might be a dead giveaway that inside I’m all shook up.

He retreats to all of two steps behind me and takes up his position leaning against the kitchen island again. It’s the narrowest point of the room, and I’m going to have to keep brushing past him between sink, fridge and hob. But I can hardly ask him to move in his own kitchen.

I look at the mountain of vegetables I need to chop. Onions, celery, carrots, plus the tomatoes.

‘Actually, you could chop some onions for me.’

I hand him two glossy brown onions, my fingers grazing his, and I risk a quick look at him. His eyes are a little smoky as he looks at me.

‘I’d forgotten how cute you are when you get flustered,’ he says, with an amused grin.

I shove a knife, handle first, towards him. ‘Chop,’ I say smartly.

‘How do you want them done?’ he asks, surprising me with the question. I can’t imagine he ever cooks, even though the place is beautifully equipped with the best kitchenware. The gleaming knives, with bright sharp blades, are chefs’ quality. His interior designer really went the extra mile.

I busy myself opening the meat, while I hear the crisp curl of onion skin as Tate peels off the outer layer next to me.

Then to my utter surprise, I hear rapid chopping and I turn to find his fingers are a blur, expertly slicing and dicing the onion. I’m transfixed by his efficient, precise grace, finding his unexpected proficiency uber-sexy for some very bizarre reason. This is a man who knows what he’s doing.

He turns to find me staring and probably fan-girling more than a little. My mouth is partly open and I’m looking at him with stunned admiration.

It takes a single step and he’s in front of me, his finger under my chin giving it a light nudge to close my gaping mouth. Our eyes catch and a second later his thumb grazes my lips. The gentlest of touches, the opposite to the fierce blaze in his eyes.

‘I’ve never been able to eat pizza without thinking of you,’ he rasps, his eyes boring into mine. ‘Hot, wet and all mine.’

Oh God, I suck in a shocked breath. Heat erupts between my legs and I let out a strangled gasp.

‘I need to know if you taste the same,’ he whispers, his thumb sliding over my mouth.

I can’t look away. My chest heaves as I try to breathe in weird, stuttering breaths.

Tate’s other hand slides under my sweatshirt, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my black cargo pants. His eyes never leave my face and his unblinking gaze is intent and direct. I can see the darker blue flecks around his irises and all I can do is stare mutely back at him. I can’t say a word because I’m so scared at what I might say, because my head, heart and libido are all at war, but my libido is definitely winning. It’s pretty much a guarantee that the words, take me, God, yes please, go down on me now, are likely to come spilling out.

Now one finger slides across the top of my zip down to the seam of my trousers.

‘You were so wet. Tasted like honey.’ His voice is a growl now.

My skin flushes, the heat inside me like an inferno.

He strokes the seam of my trousers, and a sigh escapes me. I can’t help it.

One corner of his mouth lifts, satisfaction glittering in his bright, focused eyes.

I don’t move. I can’t. I’m desperate for more. For that hot mouth of his. His thumb pushes against my lower lip settling on my teeth. With my tongue I suck the pad into my mouth, and I might as well have shouted game over. His responding smile is slow, sensual and slightly terrifying and he slides his fingers along my cheekbone. He knows he’s got me.

He loosens the button at my waist, and with both hands slides down my trousers and my panties, before picking me up, hands looped under my thighs, and lifts me onto the cool surface of the island. The move is quick and efficient, and I’m immediately aware of the contrast between the ice-cold marble of the counter and his warm, strong hands.

I feel like I’m in a trance, watching all of this, a willing spectator in thrall to him. He pulls my legs apart. All the time looking at me. I don’t flinch once, and it’s all the answer he needs. My heart is thudding hard in my chest as I put my hands on either side of me. His gaze sharpens, a touch feral. A thrill shoots through me, excitement and anticipation fizzing together.

He pulls me forward to the edge of the counter and slides his hands along the top of my thighs, then gently pulls them apart. For the first time his gaze ducks. I lift my chin a tiny bit embarrassed at baring all, even though there’s no way I can stop. I’m desperate for his touch, to feel his mouth on me. I feel slick and wet.

He rubs a finger against my clit and then looks at me again before popping his finger in his mouth.

I close my eyes and drop my head, not sure I can take the intimacy. No one has ever stripped me bare like this, not since him. I feel his hand on my chin again. I open my eyes.

He runs his hand down my neck, down the V of my cleavage, down again to settle on my waist. With both hands he holds me and then eases me back, so that I’m open and on show.

‘You’re so wet for me, Lily,’ he murmurs, a smile on his lips as he bends to taste the soft skin, kissing his way up my inner thighs. I tremble in anticipation, excitement mounting but he’s slow and sure, nipping and nibbling at my skin and sending tingles swirling everywhere. His mouth, when it finally reaches my vagina, is hot and warm and I can’t help the sigh of pure pleasure that escapes.

‘Yes, Tate,’ I murmur, and his eyes flicker up at me as his tongue licks my tender flesh, the nerve endings alight. My head falls back. My whole focus is on the heat of his wet mouth, and the pleasure, unbearable and intense at the same time. Agony and ecstasy.

‘Tate,’ I cry, trying to hold on. But he’s relentless, pushing me to take as much as I can. I make mindless moans and it’s all too much. I’m losing control and I don’t care. I have no shame, no inhibitions, especially not when he slips one finger inside me and then another. He pumps me, his fingers gliding in and out, while his tongue does unspeakably beautiful things to me. His hand on my waist is holding me fast and when I try to rock, his grip tightens.

He takes his time, his tongue leisurely teasing and tasting, his fingers maintaining their determined, controlled rhythm. I’m a prisoner to his will as he works me with fingers and mouth, fingers and teeth. I’m utterly powerless against the force of pleasure drowning me.

‘Yes, baby,’ Tate groans, before his tongue latches onto my clit. I can feel the texture of him. It’s so sensitive, the pleasure almost pain. I scream and I try to wriggle free because it’s just too much. Too much. Too much. But Tate holds me firm, his tongue brooking no retreat. And then I feel it, a slow shuddering wave that expands and expands inside me and with a long low moan I fall back as the orgasm’s explosive wave sweeps through me.

I lie there feeling like I’ve been run over by a snowplough. Between my legs, my nerve endings are throbbing; sensitive and on fire. Tate gives me one last kiss on my mound while he holds my gaze.

I have to close my eyes to blot him out, and it takes me a good minute for my hammering heart to settle and my breathing to slow. I struggle to my elbows, but Tate is immediately there and gently pulls me upright. He tilts his head surveying me, the grin has widened and it’s full-on cocky now.

I’m momentarily embarrassed, still fully on display. But before I can wriggle down off the counter, he gently slides me down, pulls up my panties and trousers and pulls up the zip.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear.

‘Anything else I can help you with?’

Instead of telling him that this shouldn’t have happened, I say, completely deadpan, ‘As you’re so good with a chopper, you can do the rest of the vegetables,’ before handing him a large carrot.