Page 20 of Tell Me No Lies

When Piper’s lips part and her cheeks flush, I know it’s over. Know I’m about to fuck up. Again.

8

IF IT ITCHES, SCRATCH IT

PIPER

I SCOFF, MY rage leveling up at the amount of audacity he’s managed to cram into this tiny room. “Not everything is about you, Ta—” My brain fully catches up to what he said and my words die out, a slow smile replacing the snarl on my lips. “Why would me talking to another man piss you off?”

I see it the minute Tate registers what he said. The inference it made. His eyes barely widen and I know I’ve taken the upper hand in the fight that is about to unfold. A thrill ripples up my spine, like fire racing along a fuse, the heat from it spreading, making my heart race and my stomach flip. I love to argue. Love standing up for myself. Proving no one pushes me around.

But instead of arguing with me—trying to convince me I misunderstood—Tate prowls closer, backing me across the room with slow, predatory steps. “Why have you been avoiding me all week?”

He’s ignoring my question so I decide to ignore his. “Shouldn’t you be out there talking with your fans?” The last word reminds me about the gorgeous woman with amazing tits who’d caught his attention during the last break, and the snarl returns to my lips. “How are you supposed to find someone to take home tonight if you’re back here with me?” I manage to seal my lips together, but not before the damage is done.

In the same way I didn't miss Tate’s earlier comment, he sure as fuck doesn't miss mine. His ocean blue eyes seem to glimmer in the shadows of the poorly lit storage room as a wicked smile works its way onto his face. "Is that a hint of jealousy I detect in your tone, Sugar?"

“Right.” I force out a laugh. "Why the hell would I be jealous?"

Tate closes in on me, each movement careful. Methodical. Like a predator circling his prey. "Because it would be someone else coming hard for me tonight instead of you."

I attempt to school my features as my back hits the wall, but self-control has never been my strong suit. If I don't say it with my mouth—which is rare—my face absolutely gives me away. And, based on Tate’s triumphant smile, this moment is no exception.

"Is that what's wrong?" His body presses flush to mine, pinning me against the cool cement. "You want to punish me for even considering bringing someone else into my bed?"

It's taking every bit of effort I have to continue breathing. To keep my focus on something besides the hard line of him pressing into my belly. "Why would I care who's in your bed? I've never been there." I almost wince, because I hear it plainly this time. The jealousy he's so gleefully identified. It's ugly and angry and lined with teeth. Ready to bite anything that gets too close.

Hopefully the opportunity arises.

"You sound bothered by that, Sugar. Did I offend you by not inviting you upstairs the other night?" Tate's voice is dark and deep. Rippling over my skin as he zeroes in, hitting all the pain points I work so hard to hide.

I've always been jealous of what other people have. Always been angry. Reactive. Stubborn, defiant, and occasionally unhinged. Part of me reveled in the extremes of my emotions and my willingness to use them for my own benefit.

But now they're being used against me, and for the first time in my life I'm regretting the freedom I've given them.

I lift my chin, digging deep, falling back on the biggest weapon I have before lashing out in the hope I can cut him back. "Hardly. Considering what the rest of your house looks like, I imagine it's nothing more than a mattress on the floor."

My insult doesn't seem to hit the way I expect it to. Instead of being pissed at my accuracy or embarrassed over the state of his home, Tate’s smile holds as he leans closer, resting one forearm against the wall beside my head. "Jealous and psychic."

I grab the anger I've carried so many years, pulling it closer as I stare him down. "I'm not jealous." I say it with conviction—with certainty—managing to sound truthful and spite of the pit in my stomach.

Tate’s dark brows lift. "Is that so?" His free hand comes to my face, one finger tracing the line of my jaw, following it down to rest under the point of my chin before pressing up until his eyes hold mine. "So you’d be fine with me bringing a woman home tonight then, right?"

I force on a smile, even though I feel like throwing up at the thought of watching Tate lead that beautiful, big-tittied woman through his front door. "Of course." I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. "Maybe we can carpool. I'm sure my new friend wouldn't mind driving us all back to the neighborhood in his BMW."

Any hint of amusement leaves Tate’s face as his eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. He presses tighter to me, and there's no missing that arguing has the same effect on him as it does on me. The hard line of his dick digs into my belly as his nose meets mine. "You would let him fuck you?"

I lift my chin higher, trying to look miffed. "Why shouldn't I? Women need their itches scratched too."

I would never have taken that man home. Not only because I live with Christian and Lydia, and that would just be weird, but because he did nothing for me. Was he handsome? Of course. Also smart and well-spoken and not afraid to put himself in the middle of something to protect a woman who might have been in a bad position.

But he had perfect fingernails. The edges were rounded and smooth and his cuticles were clipped. When he introduced himself and shook my hand, there wasn't a single callous on his palm. It was enough to wither any lady boner I might have gotten at his well-dimpled, professionally whitened smile.

"Is that your problem?" The hand Tate still has pressed under my chin drops, the wide width of his warm palm moving to grip my bare leg. His skin is rough and scrapes against me, a reminder of everything he's capable of. All he’s done. “You’ve got an itch?” His lips skim along the line of my neck, sending goosebumps racing along my skin. “Because I’m pretty sure that guy out there would leave you wanting.”

Tate might not be as rich as that guy out there. He might not have an expensive wardrobe or a luxury sedan, but I don't doubt for a single second any woman he's with would never want for anything. And he wouldn't have to open his wallet for a single bit of it. He would make it all happen with his exceptionally capable hands.

“Why do you think that?” My voice is breathy and weak. Stolen by the sensation of one of those capable hands climbing higher on my thigh, dragging the hem of my dress along with it.

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