Page 27 of Story Of My Heart

“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.

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