Page 67 of Faker
“You need to wear this every day. Every single goddamn day.”
I giggle and look up at him. His eyes remain clouded over, signaling he’s in a pleasure-filled state and it’s all my doing. What a strangely empowering feeling. This tough, imposing man has been rendered helpless by little ol’ me. With his size and strength, he could normally push me up or hold me down with ease, but not now. Not in this hot and blissful moment. If I could bottle this smug, satisfying rush inside of me, I could sell it in department stores. I’d call it Domination and charge fifty dollars a bottle. People would kill to feel this desired and in control. I’d make out like a bandit.
Burying my face in his chest, I take in the musky, spicy scent of his skin. I’m gently biting him over his clothes when he leans up and pushes me against the steering wheel. He locks eyes with me and smirks. The rush it gives me makes my legs buckle. I yelp. Good thing I’m already sitting. My back is arched at an unnatural angle, but it somehow makes this moment hotter. He’s got me by the waist; I’ve got him by the shoulders.
He doesn’t blink once while he presses his forehead against mine. “Emmie,” he says, like he’s just now remembering my name.
He kisses me before I can say anything in response. It’s seconds before he lets me up for air.
“Yeah?” I finally gasp.
His head dips down to my neck, and I’m shaking as he licks and nibbles. He stays on the left side of my neck at first, then lightly blows on my clavicle before starting at the bottom of my right side. The licking and nibbling commence. I’m moaning and squealing like a wounded animal. I can barely handle this. He laughs against my neck. The vibrations reverberate throughout my chest and head, intensifying the pleasure.
“Tate, please,” I whisper. I open my eyes for a moment and my vision is blurry. I don’t know how much more I can take.
Instead of easing up, he dips his head lower. He softly bites my left breast outside of my shirt.
“Fuck,” I cry. That bite is the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body. What inventive use of his mouth. Clever boy.
With slow-moving yet sure fingers, he pulls down the front of my tank top. Both cups of my black bra spill over, and his index finger traces the top of my breasts in a steady, deliberate line. Goose bumps rise up on every inch of my exposed skin, even in the heat of this stuffy car.
“What are you...”
My breathy, incomplete question is answered with his tongue on my nipple. By the way I nearly choke on my breath, I’m clearly shocked. Tate Rasmussen is a freaking master with his tongue. Slow, wet, warm circles soon turn into rapid, desperate ones. Then he dials back the speed and slides to the other one. Again I nearlychoke on air. My eyes cross every time I try to focus my vision on the mass of snowy waves planted right in front of my face, so instead I shut them.
A warm ache spreads from my abdomen up my chest, to my legs, my arms, my fingertips. I’m writhing, whimpering. I say his name over and over. Not once does he stop. How Tate can deliver this much pleasure to my body with just his tongue on my breasts is a mystery. It makes me ache for more. A shiver pulses through me, ending at my lower abdomen. The ache intensifies, and suddenly, I want his tongue anywhere he wishes to put it.
“Yes,” I moan. “More.”
I take it back.Thisis the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body.
My head hangs over the top of the steering wheel, my pulse hammering at the bottom of my throat. When I open my eyes again, I notice there’s condensation coating the windows. I wonder if anyone can hear us with the windows cracked. A sweaty film covers my skin. I lean up, my face brushing against Tate’s glorious curls. He raises his head and our gazes meet once more. I could do this forever. I’m sweaty, cramped, bent out of shape, and painfully turned on. This could last for days, weeks, months, and never go any further and I would be eternally happy.
The sharp beep of my phone interrupts our wholly inappropriate parking lot interlude. We pull apart instantly, and I nearly laugh. It’s impressive how quickly we stop ourselves at the sound of a phone.
I fish it out of my purse and see an email alert.
“Everything okay?” Tate asks.
“Yeah. It’s just an email from my mom asking if I remember what her Facebook password is.”
Pearls of sweat dot his chuckling face. As muggy as it is outside, it’s worse in the car. Any residual cool air from when he blasted the AC has now disappeared.
“Sorry. We normally talk once a week when she’s home, but when she’s out of the country visiting her relatives, it’s messages like this almost every day.”
He laughs harder. I chuckle, then wince. The position I’m in must be aggravating my incisions.
I push off Tate and move back to the passenger seat. He braces me with his arms, making sure I don’t fall. When I’m back to sitting, I notice how the sweat highlights his physique. His arms are a perfect blend of thick muscle, veins, and golden hair.
“Still pretty sore?” he asks hesitantly, short of breath.
“Just a little.” I rub the side of my stomach. “It’s getting better. I just probably shouldn’t be in a position like that for long.”
Side by side, in separate seats, we steady our breathing. Tate turns on the car and cranks the AC once again. My scalp is soaking wet, as is the back of my neck. I gaze up at him, curious as to what the next step is for us.
He speaks before I do, and I’m relieved. “As much as I want to continue this, you need to rest.”
I’m crestfallen. Even so, I nod at him. Doctor’s orders are to refrain from any intense physical activity for four weeks after surgery, sex included. Even though my lower half is on fire and the only way to extinguish it is to engage in a bevy of lewd acts with Tate, it’s not possible right now.
