The Billionaire’s Secret Love (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance) (5 page)

"
D
o
you want to eat dinner?" Tate asked. Checking the clock on the computer, I realized I'd been playing the game longer than I thought. It was a common hazard with gaming. You could login planning to play for only a few minutes, then find that hours had disappeared into the virtual world.

I wasn't sure what I wanted. I wanted to keep kissing Tate. I wanted to play more of the game. And my growling stomach piped up to remind me that I also wanted something to eat. More kissing was the clear winner, but I didn't think I was ready to handle where that was leading, so I said, “Dinner sounds good."

I helped Tate unpack the picnic basket. At my raised eyebrow when I saw he'd chosen the wine I bought when I wanted a splurge, he said, "I cheated and asked Jo." After the wine, he pulled out box after box of sushi, each one marked with the familiar logo of my favorite restaurant. I didn't have to look in the boxes to know they would be all my favorite rolls. So far, Tate was stacking up to be the perfect guy, thoughtful, patient, and an amazing kisser, not to mention crazy smart, and a game developer. If I tried to hand design Prince Charming, I wouldn't have done this well. As long as I could forget that he was also a Winters, and everything that went along with it, I might find myself really falling for him.

Who was I kidding? I was already half-gone, and this was just our first date. Now that we weren’t kissing or gaming, my nerves cranked back up. Then Tate said, “How did you decide on Tech?"

I left out the parts about the shooting, my agoraphobia, and the fact that just getting to graduate school had been a miracle—forget about going anywhere out of state. Instead, I told him about how I'd wanted to go to Georgia Tech since I was a kid, which was also true. We fell into an unexpectedly easy conversation, skating over the big stuff like my anxiety and his family. I told him more about the game I was working on and how I'd been surprised when it had sold well enough to pay for a year of school with a little left over, and he filled me in on some of the advances in emergent gaming that they were putting in
Syndrome 2
, in addition to the new physics engine.

"Overachiever much?" I asked. "What made you decide to do both things at the same time? Just the physics engine is a huge advancement. I can't get my head around adding emergent gaming into that."

In emergent gaming, a character's decisions affected the outcome of the game. It was nothing new as a general concept, just cause and affect decision-making. Kick a puppy in the beginning, steal a weapon instead of buying it, and you’d find your character gradually becoming more evil as the game went on. But what Tate described had levels of subtlety, especially in the online portion of the game, that no one had achieved so far.
Syndrome 2
could be the most realistic game ever created, both in terms of gameplay and the visual experience. It was incomprehensible that WGC had created both developments at the same time in the same game. Tate laughed self-consciously and shrugged.

"Holden had been messing around with ideas for the physics engine, and I’d been thinking about ways to make character decisions influence gameplay in a less linear way. We were doing this stuff on our own, and when we sat down to talk about what should be next, we couldn't decide, so we did both."

"You guys are nuts," I said, laughing.

"Yeah, we had a staff revolt when we made the announcement. But we hired some new engineers, and our people are amazing.
Syndrome 2
is going to be late, but when we finish it—"

"It's going to be the top-selling game of all time," I declared. Based on the short section I’d played, I knew that for a fact.

"That's the plan," Tate said.

"So, how did you guys end up running Mana? That seems completely random."

"Probably because it was," Tate said, and he went on to explain the series of events that had led to him and his cousin buying the nightclub. I never would've guessed it would be so easy to talk to him. Normally, being around a guy I found attractive left me tongue-tied, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I had a reaction to Tate, but even though he made my heart beat faster and my head spin, I didn't seem to have any trouble talking to him. After some of the dorky things I’d said, I wouldn't have minded being a little tongue-tied.

As Tate talked, I finished eating and ended up just staring at him, the way his dark hair fell in his eyes, the curve of his lower lip. His voice trailed off, and my eyes met his. The desire I saw there sent a jolt down my spine.

He’d caught me staring at his lips, and I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking. My stomach fluttered, and I felt a prickle in my palms. I liked Tate. Like was such a tepid word. I didn't know how to describe the way I felt about Tate. Something in him drew me, pulled me out of myself, made me feel safe and thrilled all at the same time. I wanted more, even if I had only the vaguest idea what more would be. What would he expect? Dumb question. I had a pretty good idea what he'd expect.

At that thought, my stomach clenched and the prickle in my hands spread. My heart pounded in my chest so hard, I imagined I could hear it banging against my rib cage. I turned in the chair to face him, wanting to be closer to Tate, needing to ignore the panic rising inside me. I hadn't had an attack in a long time, and I was not going to have one with Tate. This isn't a panic attack, I told myself. It's just sensory overload. The best thing to do about that is to shut my brain off.

It felt like the craziest risk I'd ever taken, but I knew if I didn't do something, I was going to freak out, and I didn't want Tate to see me like that. Ignoring the thump of my heartbeat and the prickle in my palms, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to Tate's.

The second my mouth touched his, Tate took control. Kissing me, his lips coaxing mine open, he pulled me to my feet, backing me slowly away from the desk toward the couch on the far side of the room. I let him lead me, not caring where we were going as long as he kept kissing me. He fell backward onto the black leather couch, pulling me on top of him. The other times we'd kissed, Tate hadn't really used his hands. This time, he made up for it.

With my knees on either side of Tate's hips, my stretchy skirt rode up. Tate's hands closed over my thighs, pulling me down against him. I was mostly lost in the feeling of his mouth taking mine, but not enough to miss the length of his cock pressing against his jeans, nestled between my legs and right on my clit. If we hadn't been wearing so many clothes, he probably would've been inside me.

The thought made me shiver. I couldn't get my head around what was happening. Tate was kissing me, harder, deeper and far more thoroughly than he had before. I was on top, but I had no illusions as to who was in charge. His tongue stroked into my mouth, tasting me, and I couldn't help but answer the rhythm of our lips stroking and feeding on each other. It drove my already aroused body higher and hotter.

I ground down on his cock, through my underwear and his jeans. My breasts pressed into his chest, the padded push-up bra suddenly feeling too tight. I wanted it off. I wanted to be naked, my skin against Tate’s. It wasn't enough just to feel his hands on my legs, first stroking my skin, then rising to grip my ass, rocking me against him.

Every time we came together, a wash of pleasure scattered my brain cells and made me gasp. It was too much, and I wanted more. When his fingers slid beneath my panties and grazed my clit, I tore my mouth from his and gasped, "Tate."

I was shaking. Jagged streaks of a pleasure so sharp it hurt raked through my body. I was wet where he touched me, slippery and hot. If I'd been more in control, I probably would've been embarrassed. Instead, my mouth dropped to Tate’s neck, and I bit down, my fingers digging into his shoulders. A scream caught in my throat as he pressed one long finger inside my pussy.

I've never felt anything like this. With one hand on my ass, he urged me to rock against the hard length of his cock, rubbing against my clit. With the other, he fucked me with his finger. I was so tight, he only needed one. It didn't take long before I was coming, sobbing out his name against his skin.

The orgasm pulsed through me, my whole body squeezed tight, riding the wave of pleasure before it let go and I collapsed, breathing hard. A tear trickled from the corner of my eye, hot and wet on my cheek before it fell to Tate’s neck.

I should have been relaxed. I'd never come before like that. Ever. I should've been a boneless mass of satisfaction. For a second or two, I was. Then I realized what had happened, what I’d done. Tate was still hard between my legs, and every conscious thought in my brain fizzed out, replaced by panic.

What was I supposed to do now? Stupid question. I could think of any number of things I should do, but my muscles wouldn't work. Paralyzed with indecision, I couldn't look at him. This had gone way too far, too fast, and I was lost.

Tate started to sit up, and the change in position got me moving. I eased off his lap, scrambling to my feet, frantically tugging my underwear back into place, and straightening my skirt, unable to meet Tate's eyes. Heat bloomed in my cheeks, and I knew I was blushing a bright red. Letting my hair fall over my face, I turned around, looking for my shoes. I had to go. I knew it was lame and stupid, and I was proving that I wasn't enough for him by running away, but I just couldn't do this. It was too much. Too much sensation. Too much that was new.

I could feel my thoughts getting away from me, tumbling over themselves, screaming at me to run, to go, to get somewhere safe. I knew in my head that everything was okay. I was just freaking out. But an iron band of panic closed around my lungs until I couldn't breathe. My heart thundered in my ears. Tate was talking to me, and I could barely make out the words.

I grabbed my purse and keys from his desk and fled, tears streaming down my cheeks, the echo of his voice chasing me to the elevator, the sinking feeling of failure heavy in my heart.

I
don't remember getting
home. Tate's office wasn't that far from my apartment, and I was practically running, so it couldn't have taken too long. When I got there, I locked the door behind me, dropped my purse and keys in the kitchen, and headed straight for my bed, curling up under the covers. I held my pillow tight to my chest, trying to stifle my sobs.

I
hated
this. I wanted to be anyone else. No, not anyone, just someone normal. Someone who could make out with a guy she liked and not completely freak out. Someone who could have a hook up and not make a total idiot of herself the way I had. I knew what had happened. While it hadn't been a full-blown panic attack, it was close enough, and I'd been there too many times not to understand how they worked. I'd been too wound up, already anxious, though a lot of that had been excitement and not fear. Still, I’d been on edge, and the sudden vulnerability of Tate's hands on me, of him making me come, was too much.

I understood how it had happened, but I shouldn't have run away. At that thought, I sobbed harder. I was a grown woman, not a teenager. I couldn't believe I'd run like a coward. There was no way Tate would want anything to do with me now, not when I'd proven how out of my league he really was. My phone beeped with a text, and I realized I still clutched it in my fingers.

You okay?

Tate. I was surprised he wanted anything to do with me. Shame and regret pulled me down, drowning the remains of my panic attack in a heavy blanket of sadness. I couldn't hide from him anymore. I'd run away after he'd taken the time to give me the most romantic date I'd ever imagined, and now he was checking on me to make sure I was all right. I owed him an explanation. At the thought of telling him why I'd run away, fresh tears streamed down my cheeks. It was enough knowing how badly equipped I was to handle normal life, but explaining my past, the anxiety attacks and agoraphobia to someone as successful and accomplished as Tate Winters was horrifying and depressing. I couldn't explain, but I had to apologize. Fumbling with my phone, I wrote,

I'm sorry.

I didn't know what else to say. ‘Thank you for a nice dinner’ didn't come close.

Tate texted back,
Are you at home? Are you okay?

At home. Not really okay
, I answered.

What happened?

And there it was. I wanted to blow him off so I wouldn’t have to tell the truth. A lie would be so much easier. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't a good liar at the best of times, and Tate deserved better than that from me. He hadn't done anything wrong. I was the one who was fucked up. It wasn't fair to let him think this was his fault. Forcing my fingers to move, I wrote,

Sorry. It wasn't you.

I hit send and stared at what I'd written, knowing it wasn't enough. Sucking in a deep breath, I forced myself to keep going.

I have panic attacks.

I hit
Send
again, feeling as if I’d thrown myself off the side of a cliff, my stomach tight and nauseated, my ears ringing.

Was that a panic attack? In my office?

It was close
, I admitted.
I'm sorry
, I typed again.

Don't be sorry
, he answered almost immediately.
Can I call you? I want to talk to you.

My first instinct was to say no, but that was always my first instinct when I felt this way. The panic made me want to pull the covers over my head and hide for the rest of my life. It was wrong. I knew that. Sometimes, saying
no
was the smart answer. This was not one of those times.

K.

A second later, my phone rang in my hand, sending a shock of sheer, icy panic through me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second before I accepted Tate's call.

"Emily," he said, his voice unbearably gentle. "I'm sorry."

My breath hitched as I said, “No, I’m sorry. I'm sorry, Tate. It was a really nice date. The best date. I'm just fucked up. I'm not normal. I don't do normal things. I shouldn't have gone out with you. I should've known that would happen."

"Emily, no,” he protested. “You're not fucked up. It's okay. We can try again."

I didn't know how to explain it to him. How to make him understand. "Tate, it's just too much. I don't know what we're doing. I don't know how to date someone. I just can't."

There was a long silence, so long that I wondered if he'd hung up. I checked the screen of my phone and saw the timer on the call ticking upward. He was still there, just not talking. Finally, he said, “Don't give up on us. We'll figure it out. I think there's something good between us, and I don't want to walk away. We can take it slow. Slower. Whatever you need. Just don't give up."

I didn't want to give up. I wanted to try again. How long would it take before Tate got sick of dealing with me? Did it matter? If I walked away now, I wouldn't have him, anyway. I knew from experience that the only way to deal with my anxiety was to face it head on, no matter how awful it would feel.

I hadn't freaked out from spending time with Tate. I'd actually been surprisingly relaxed and at ease with him. It was the sex that had freaked me out. It had been too much, and I was too inexperienced. Tate was offering to go slow, but maybe slow was the opposite of what I needed. Maybe I needed to just suck it up and get it over with so the whole sex thing wasn't such a big, scary unknown. The thought grew in my mind. As crazy as it was, it felt right. I trusted Tate. He hadn't pushed me, and he'd said he was willing to be patient.

"Emily?" he asked, and I realized I'd been sitting there thinking for too long.

"We should have sex," I said in a rush.

"That's not taking it slow," Tate said, sounding confused. That made two of us.

"It's not sex itself that freaks me out," I tried to explain. "It's just that I haven't done it before.”

"You haven't done it before?" Tate asked.

"No," I admitted. "I've been doing really well with the whole anxiety thing, but new things are always a problem. I don't know what I'm doing, and I think that's why I panicked."

"So you want to have sex as therapy?" His voice sounded funny, not like he was laughing, but tight and weird.

"Not just as therapy," I said. He probably though I was crazy.

"It's not that I don't want to sleep with you,” Tate said, “because I really, really do. But I don't want to push you, or rush you, and jumping right into sex when it scares you seems like a very bad idea."

"I don't think it is, though," I said. "It's hard to explain."

“Try. I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you want us to have sex, you're going to have to give me a good reason we shouldn’t wait.”

"The short version is that the best way to deal with my panic attacks is to do the thing that scares me in a safe and controlled environment."

"We were in a safe and controlled environment tonight, weren't we?" he asked.

Any normal person would have thought so. "Not really, because I didn't know what was going to happen, and that was part of what set me off. If I know that we’re going to have sex, that takes the uncertainty away. Does that make sense?"

"Kind of."

"So you'll do it?" I asked, half-hoping and half-terrified that he'd agree.

"When? Where?"

I thought about that. Soon, because I didn't want to give myself time to worry about it. Not at my apartment. There was a comfort level in being at home, but if I decided I wanted to leave and we were at Tate’s, I could just go. I had a feeling it might be harder to get him out of my place if he wasn't inclined to leave.

"Tomorrow night,” I said. “Your place."

"What time?"

"Eight.” I said. I didn't want to make it like a date, so after dinner. But not too late.

"I'll see you at eight, then," Tate said.

"Okay. See you tomorrow," I said lamely. I hung up the phone, concluding what had to be the weirdest conversation of my entire life. Then I forced myself to get out of bed, wash my face, and put on my nightshirt. I was suddenly exhausted. I’d just propositioned Tate Winters, and in fewer than twenty-four hours, I was going to lose my virginity to him. It was crazy, but I knew without a doubt I wouldn't regret it. And maybe, if I didn’t freak out and ruin it, we could try for something more.