Page 81 of Reckless King

“Tate, please!” I cry out. The image his words paint in my head has me balanced on the knife’s edge.

“Touch your pretty clit, beautiful.” His voice is a dark, bass growl. “Let me see my fiancée fall apart for me.”

It only takes two swipes of my fingers over that swollen bundle of nerves before my orgasm hits me. My spine pulls taut, and a sob rips its way from my chest at the intensity of the pleasure rushing through me.

Tate jackknifes out of the chair, and in two strides, he’s before me, dropping to his knees between mine. I’m too far goneto care that he’s so close and completely focused on the view between my legs.

As the final spasm hits me, he lets out a feral groan. “You made such a mess on my chair, butterfly. What am I going to do with you?”

My cheeks burn as I take in the wet patch on the leather of the chair. On instinct, I squeeze my thighs together, but when Tate shakes his head, I let them fall back open.

He runs his fingers through the moisture, then smears it all over his cock. With one hand pressed into my upper thigh, he spreads me wider for him, while his other hand moves again, in short, sharp jerks.

I can’t stop staring at him, at the way his shaft glistens with my arousal. I’m feverish, my skin hot and sensitive, my clit still swollen, still pulsing. I’m so close to saying yes, to letting him slide that long, thick cock inside me. Maybe it’s stupid to resist at this stage, considering what I’ve just done—what we’re both doing. But once I have it inside me, I don’t know that I’ll ever want another. And that’s a terrifying thought when Tate’s always been one and done.

His harsh breathing pulls me back to the moment. I focus on his movements again just as he angles himself down, gives one final rough stroke, and with a hoarse shout, explodes. A jet of cum spurts out of him, and disappointment fills me when he doesn’t let it hit my overheated skin. He strokes again, and another stream shoots out, the pearly white streaks covering the wet spot I left. Another jerk, and more pools on the leather. I can’t look away as he uses that big hand to milk every last drop from himself.

By the time he’s finished, we’re both sweaty and panting. And my emotions are in turmoil.

I knew reality would hit. I just didn’t expect it to hit so soon. I let my feet drop to the floor, and Tate doesn’t stop me. He’s sitting back on his heels, dick still hard.

“Let me get something…” I take in the mess we both made on the leather of what I’m certain is a very expensive chair. If I expected him to be embarrassed, I couldn’t be more wrong. He stands, towering over me, his eyes dark, a flush high on his cheeks, and tucks himself back into his pants.

He scoops me up with both arms and sets me on my feet, helping me avoid having to awkwardly maneuver around the evidence of what we did.

His big hands steady me as I wobble on shaky legs. For a moment, he rests his forehead against mine, and only the sound of our breaths fills the air between us. “I think coming with you has become my new favorite thing,” he says.

“What was your old favorite thing?” I ask, still struggling to catch my breath.

“Jerking off while imagining what it would be like to come with you.”

All I can do is sob out a laugh.

He cups my face and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Come on, butterfly. My fiancée should get to experience my shower at least once. I promise you’ll love it almost as much as you loved what we just did.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it comes to you.” Then he takes my hand and leads me to his bathroom.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

VIOLET

Iflick through True Brew’s social media, replying to comments on the photos I’ve posted over the last couple of days. We started off small, but our followers are growing, slowly but surely. Customers are even tagging us in their own photos, especially ones of our latte art.

My cheeks ache from smiling as I type out a couple of responses to people commenting on how delicious our coffee is.

“You’re in a good mood.” Jarrod grins.

“Things are looking up,” I say.

And they are. The first injection of cash from my arrangement with Tate came through at the start of the week, and since I didn’t have to buy a new espresso machine, I hired a part-time baker to make fresh pastries in the morning, and another part-time waitress. The help allows me more time to focus on managing the books and working on our marketing plan.

I’ve started a mailing list, and we’ve garnered quite a bit of interest in our tasting night. We’re not exactly bustling all day every day, but there are far fewer empty tables now than there have been since I returned to New York.

Though the way things are turning around here isn’t the only reason I’m smiling more. I study the ring on my left hand, and the smile is back. I’m still not used to seeing it there. And I shouldn’tgetused to seeing it there, since it won’t be long before I’ll have to take it off. But I’m starting to enjoy this act more than I should. I’m starting to think that maybe enjoying every aspect of it while it lasts wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Tate is… god, I can’t wrap my head around him. I wanted to dislike him. Keeping him at arm’s length was so much easier when all I saw when I looked at him was a playboy who only cared about money, power and sex. But there’s so much more to him than that. What we did last weekend. I don’t have words for it. I close my eyes as the memory of watching him come, of him watchingmecome, pulses through me.

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