The Billionaire’s Secret Love (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance) (9 page)

I
stopped
at my front door, my hand on the knob, checking my back pocket for my keys as I balanced a wicker basket in the crook of my arm. The basket hadn’t seemed that heavy when I was packing it, but now that I was carrying it, I realized I’d misjudged. Fortunately, I didn’t have that far to go. It had been two days since I’d seen Tate. Two very long days. I missed him, missed him so much my heart hurt just thinking about it, but I’d had to do some thinking, then some talking, and after that, more thinking. Now it was time to act.

I left my apartment, locking the door behind me. It was time to talk to Tate. I wasn’t sure he was home, but I’d try there first, even if it meant pushing my way through more reporters. Jo had told me that interest had calmed down, but there were still a few of them trolling the street in front of the building, looking for a story. She still didn’t know what had happened. No one did, not really, but that wasn’t stopping the papers from trying to tie Tate’s cousin, Holden’s brother, Jacob, to organized crime and gang violence. The whole thing was nuts. I was so absorbed in thinking about Tate and the drama at Winters House, I almost walked into the door to the stairwell when it swung open.

Taking a quick step back, I looked up and met Tate’s dark blue eyes. “I was coming to see you,” I said nervously, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. He eyed it, then looked at me.

“You were?” He stepped into the hallway and let the door shut behind him. “Can we go to your apartment? I have some things to say.”

I nodded and turned around, fumbling for my keys. It reminded me of the last time we’d been at my door together. I’d put a lot of the blame for my panic attack on Tate, but that hadn’t been fair. The reporters may have been calling his name, but he hadn’t been the reason they were there. And he’d gotten me away from them safely, had taken care of me when he didn’t even know what was wrong.

I let us in, putting the basket on the kitchen table. “Do you want anything? Beer? Coffee?” I asked, feeling awkward. Tate shook his head.

“Can we sit down?” He went to the couch, and I followed, my carefully rehearsed speech falling apart in my head. I’d planned what to say, had a list of points I’d wanted to make, and now, I couldn’t remember a single one. I joined Tate on the couch, my knees pressed together, trying to think of what to say.

At a loss, I finally blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Tate asked in surprise. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize. If I’d answered Holden’s call, none of that would have happened.”

I shook my head. “It’s not your fault I have anxiety attacks, Tate. And it’s not your fault I had that one. It’s just something I have to deal with. Even before the shooting, I was shy. I’ve never liked attention. I’ve gotten much better, but I don’t know that it’s ever going to completely go away.”

“What does that mean for us?” he asked, moving closer and taking my hand in his, lacing our fingers. I looked down and closed my fingers around his, gripping them tightly.

“I don’t know,” I answered as honestly as I could. “I care about you. A lot. More than I should, considering I don’t really know you that well.”

“I feel the same way.” Tate reached out and tilted my face up to his. “I can’t stand the idea of losing you, Emily. You fit with me. I don’t care about the rest of the world. When I’m with you, everything feels right. Whatever we have to do to make this work, we can do it. If you don’t want to come to my building, I’ll move. There are family events I can’t avoid, but you don’t have to deal with anything you don’t want to.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I don’t want you to move, Tate.” A half-laugh escaped me, and I shook my head. “I saw my therapist yesterday—talked to her about how I was feeling. It helped me clarify some things.”

“And?” Tate asked.

“She reminded me that getting better is about facing my fears, not running from them. I’m never going to be okay with the kind of thing that happened yesterday. And I don’t think I’m going to love the idea of going to events where there are a lot of reporters. But if you’re willing to be patient while I work on getting better, I want to try.”

“It’s not about patience, Emily,” Tate said. “I want to be with you. I want you to be happy, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. You only have to tell me what you need.”

“You,” I said. “I just need you. If you can stand by me while I keep trying to handle this, that’s all I want. A chance to be with you.”

In answer, Tate pulled me close, his lips taking mine with a desperation I hadn’t felt before. I matched it with my own. Two days apart felt like a year. I’d been so scared I’d ruined everything by pushing him away. I fell back into the couch cushions, Tate on top of me, loving the weight and heat of his long body pinning me down. I ran my fingers through his hair, holding his hand, kissing him back with everything I had. When his hand slid under my shirt, I broke the kiss and said,

“I made you a picnic.”

Tate sat up, pulling me with him. “You made me a picnic? You can cook?”

“I can cook,” I affirmed. “I’m not going to get any Michelin stars, but I made lasagna, garlic bread, and a double chocolate cake.”

He looked at the basket on my kitchen table. “You were bringing me a picnic?”

“I want to eat it at your apartment. Tonight.”

Tate understood what I was saying. “You don’t have to go back there, baby. We can wait.”

“No,” I said firmly. I loved that Tate wanted to protect me. I’d probably come to depend on it, to depend on the knowledge that I had someone who would try to keep me safe at all costs. But there were some things I had to do, especially
because
they were hard. “That’s your home, Tate. Your family is there. I have to be able to go back.”

“You were going to bring me the picnic? What if there had been reporters?” he asked.

“I would have dealt with it. I needed to see you.”

He stood, his hand gripping mine. “I drove over here.”

“It’s okay.” I said, then paused. “Are there still reporters in the garage?” I was going to push myself to face my fears, but I wasn’t ready to dive back into my nightmare.

“No reporters,” Tate promised. “Jacob has security all over the building, including the garage. No one gets in unless they’ve been personally vetted. I’ll have you added to the system so you can drive in the garage and come straight to my place.”

“Then let’s go,” I said. “The sooner we have dinner, the sooner we can get to desert.”

I won’t lie. My stomach flipped over when we drove into the garage. At the sight of the elevator and the spot where the reporters had ambushed us, my heart sped up. I took deep breaths and held Tate’s hand, reminding myself that I was safe until the elevator doors slid shut and we were moving away from the garage.

“You okay?” Tate asked, kissing the top of my head. I smiled, resting my cheek against his chest.

“You don’t have to keep asking,” I said carefully. “I don’t want you to be worried about me all the time. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Humor me. And you’re never going to be a burden. Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

“You say that now—” I started. Tate cut in.

“We both have things in our lives that aren’t easy. It makes me a little crazy that I can’t protect you from the media,” Tate confessed. “I want to promise you that they’ll never bother you again, but I can’t. I can arrange security, protect you with all my resources, but that’s no guarantee.”

“I know that, Tate. I do.” I unpacked the picnic basket, putting the lasagna in the oven on warm. I had other things on my mind than food. First, I had to make things right with Tate. “I overreacted the other day. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t overreact. You had a panic attack.” He leapt to my defense so quickly, it brought tears to my eyes.

“I didn’t mean the panic attack. I meant blaming you. Asking you to leave.” He looked away, and I realized all over again how much I’d hurt him. Crossing the kitchen, I got in his space, demanding his attention. “I was wrong,” I said firmly. “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t promise that mess won’t happen again. And I can’t promise I’ll be able to handle it when it does. But I can promise I won’t bail on you. I won’t blame you. The next time we have a disaster, we’ll stick together.”

“Damn straight,” he said. The raw emotion in his deep blue eyes stole my breath. He stared down at me, his eyes locked on mine as if he were unable to break our connection. I could have stayed there forever, face to face, wrapped in Tate’s embrace, falling into his eyes. It was too soon to call this love. Wasn’t it? I didn’t know. With Tate, I was on completely new ground. I had no idea what we were doing, what labels to put on it. I only knew that all I wanted was Tate.

I rose on my tiptoes and tilted my head back, sliding my lips over his in a soft kiss. “I’m not sore anymore,” I murmured, my lips rubbing his with each word. “And I bought new underwear.”

I shrieked in surprise as Tate’s hands closed over my waist and he lifted me, tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Before I could get my breath, the world turned upside down and I was bouncing on his mattress, looking up into blue eyes heavy with desire.

“Let me see,” he demanded. Always happy to follow Tate’s orders, I stripped off my shirt to reveal an almost sheer black lace bra. “Now the rest.”

I peeled down my jeans, leaving me in nothing but the bra and its matching thong. Tate’s eyes flared wide. “This too?” I asked, hooking my thumb under the strap of the bra.

“I’ll get that.” He flicked the clasp of the bra, leaning back to watch it slide down, the straps catching on my elbows. I thought he was going to take it off, but he twisted the fabric around my arms, trapping them as he pulled my wrists over my head and lowered me to the mattress. “Stay there,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered. I meant for the words to sound ironic, but they came out breathy. I couldn’t help it. Tate ordering me around when I was mostly naked was hot. Beyond hot. It was nuclear.

He arranged my legs on the bed, spreading them wide. My skin was flushed, my back arching, instinctively trying to draw his attention to my breasts. The room was warm, but my nipples jutted, diamond hard and a dark pink. My body wanted Tate. Every part of me wanted him. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted to lay with him in the tangled sheets afterward. I wanted to watch him eat the dinner I’d cooked. I wanted everything.

He stripped off his clothes in quick, efficient movements, displaying his athletic body to my hungry eyes. A pulse of heat between my legs made me squirm. I was already wet, and we hadn’t done anything yet. At the sight of his hard cock, thick and long, I drew in a breath. I still couldn’t believe it had been inside me.

A second later, he was kneeling between my legs, a condom in hand, looking down at me, his gaze traveling over my mostly naked body, taking in every detail. He reached out a hand and touched my shoulder, his fingertips a brand on my skin, burning. Claiming. They traveled over my body, stroking my collarbone, circling one breast, then the other, rounding my ribcage to dip in my belly button, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It took everything I had not to move, but I sensed that he needed my compliance. He needed to know I wasn’t going anywhere.

I let out a whimper as his fingers glided over my hipbone and through my dark curls to dip between my legs. The whole time, his thick cock was right there, close enough to touch, so hard it was almost tight to his flat stomach.

“Fuck, you’re wet, Emily.”

I was. So fucking wet. I had no words to answer, so I spread my legs a little wider, tilting my hips to rub my clit over his fingers. A sweet charge of pleasure flashed through me.

“I had plans for you,” he said. “Things I want to do to you. But they’re going to have to wait. For now, I have to fuck you.”

I’d never imagined hearing a man talk about fucking me would make me so hot. With anyone else, it probably wouldn’t have, but there was something about hearing Tate say he had to fuck me that was almost as good as the real thing. Almost.

“Now, Tate. Please.” It was all I could say. He took me over, pinning me down with his long body, sliding his hand around the back of my thigh to pull my knee up, spreading me wide for his cock. At the feel of him pressing into me, I whimpered. He was still too big, and I was too tight, but the pain was an erotic contrast to the thick hum of pleasure as Tate’s body became a part of mine. He took me in shallow thrusts, easing his way in. By the time he filled me to the hilt, I was writhing beneath him.

One of his hands wrapped my wrists, still tangled in my bra, pinning them over my head. His mouth dropped to nip at my breasts. It was too much—the pressure between my legs, the raw flare of pleasure when his cock filled me, the dragging pull of bliss when he withdrew, the sharp little bites and slow sucks on my nipples. I was drowning in it, drowning in Tate, and all I could do was wrap my legs around him and hold on for the ride.

I heard myself breathing out his name, “Tate, Tate, Tate,” over and over, utterly lost as every part of my body tumbled into orgasm, my pussy pulsing around his cock so hard I saw stars. He followed me, dropping his head to my neck, his mouth hot on my skin as he gasped out his release.

I couldn’t move afterward. Neither could Tate. We lay there, panting for breath, one of his hands still holding my wrists over my head. Eventually, he untangled my bra and tossed it to the floor. He was gone less than a minute to deal with the condom, then slid back into the bed, pulling me into him. I rested my head on his shoulder, relaxing into Tate, trailing my fingers over the light speckle of hair on his chest.

“Was that too weird for you?” Tate asked.

“It was perfect,” I said, not sure what he meant. Nothing he did was weird, especially the way he fucked me. “What part?”

“The hands. Your bra.” He trailed his fingers over my wrist, lifting one to study the faint red marks—more a flush on my skin than anything that would bruise. I wasn’t worried about it. I smiled into his warm skin at the memory of him holding my wrists down while he’d moved inside me.