Ella
He is . . . warm. He’s warm and soft and solid all at the same time.
His chiseled stomach is against my back, his pecs teasing my shoulder blades, and my back is fully curled into him. Or against him, whatever it is. One of his arms is resting beneath my neck and bends so his hand is shaped around my waist. His other arm is draped over me and reaching up to where our fingers are linked.
Holy crap, this is how those cheesy-ass couples wake up in romance novels.
Wait—why am I awake?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeepbeep.
“Holy fucking shit,” Tate groans sleepily. Huskily. Sexily.
“Concert-day alarm,” I mutter, untangling my fingers from his and reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I swipe the screen and the beeping stops, then I freeze. “Oh my God! Concert-day alarm!” I squeal, rolling over to face him.
“Whaaat?”
“Concert day!” I shake his shoulders until his startling bright eyes open and look up at me. “I love concert day!”
Tate’s lips curl up slowly. “You’ve only experienced one, darlin’.”
“I don’t care. I loved it. And another is today! Wake uuuup!” I grab his shoulders again, but he grasps my waist and flips me onto my back. I half-laugh, half-shriek as he rolls us and straddles me.
“Mmm. I like this wake-up call,” he hums, lowering his face to mine. “Can I get it often?”
“Depends. You gonna be bored of me tonight?”
“Never.” His hot breath cascades over my lips with the force of the conviction tinting his word. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever,” he whispers. “You gonna scream my name tonight, Els?”
“You gonna scream mine?”
“Darlin’, I don’t scream names.”
“Then, no. I’m not.” I tap his nose. “Name-screaming goes two ways, Tate.”
“You should consider adoptin’ a pet name for me. It feels like you’re tellin’ me off when you call me Tate.”
“I am not calling you God.”
He laughs and drops his face into my neck. “Fuck it. You got me figured out, darlin’.”
“Sassy woman, sassy mind.” I run my fingers through his hair and grin when he looks at me. “You need to get up.” I glance at the clock on my phone. “Damn, I need to get up.”
I shove at him to get him off me, but he simply grins above me.
“Taaate,” I warn.
He ignores me, instead lowering his mouth to mine. I whimper as his lips touch mine, and the soft heat makes me curve my fingers around the back of his head. His hands on my back are hot, but his kiss is hotter, his lips sweet and soft but dry, his tongue flicking against mine, begging for me to open, to give him more.
I do.
I fall prey to his predatory kiss, and I submit to the force of his will, allowing him to sweep his tongue through to a battle with my own.
His fingertips caress my skin sweetly while his mouth attacks mine ravenously. It’s the perfect mixture of reticence and recklessness, and so very Tate, so very me, so very us, so very everything I need right now.
“Still gotta go,” I murmur into his kiss.
“We can be late. Right?” He mumbles the words against my jaw, and despite my back arching, I shake my head. “Your body appears to be disagreein’.”
“My body needs a slap.” I tap the back of his head and wriggle so much he groans.
“Dammit, Els, that shit ain’t helpin’, darlin’.”
“Then get off!” I laugh, trying to ignore the clenching and the obvious wetness pooling in my panties. Because, yes, I did absolutely just rub my pussy against his hard dick.
“Shit, okay. But you owe me for this boner.”
I laugh loudly as Tate stands, his erection delightfully obvious in his tight boxers. My eyes linger at the bulge protruding from between his thighs, and I unwillingly lick my lips.
I mean, I know that. I felt that. I touched that.
Hell, I fucked that.
Oh, he’s rubbing off on me if I’m saying ‘fuck’ in my mind.
I like it. Feels kinda . . . badass.
“Like what you see, darlin’?”
I comb my eyes upward, slowly. Over the angel wings tatted just above his waistband, to the packed muscles of his stomach, to the gentle tattoos of his upper chest that curve over his shoulders and toward his full sleeves.
Then to his eyes. My eyes fall on his eyes, and I’m paralyzed by the brightness and the intensity.
“It’s not bad,” I manage, swallowing hard.
“Not bad?” he asks, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Slowly. Seductively. All boner in his boxers and six pack tensed and biceps bulging. Deliberately.
That’s the word. Deliberately.
“Not bad,” I confirm, my eyes flicking to his lips and back up. “I mean, you know.”
“Seen better?”
“Shouldn’t ask your assistant that. She’s seen all your brothers shirtless.”
He darts back across the room and pins my hands above my head before I do so much as protest his sharp jump onto the bed. “You’ve what?”
“Seen your brothers shirtless,” I repeat, staring into those fiery eyes.
His fingers tighten on me. “Who hasn’t?” he growls, ironically softly. “But get this, darlin’. The only one of us you’ll see naked is me. The only one you’ll feel inside you is me. The only one who will make you scream, silently or otherwise, is me. You got that?”
“Got it,” I hum quietly. “It’s okay. You’re sexier anyway.”
“Oh, the confidence to admit I’m sexy.”
“I said sexier. Don’t get cocky.”
He digs his hips into mine. His cock pushes into my pussy, teasing my clit, and I clench. “Too late.”
My phone beeps again, an excruciatingly painful noise. And I grab it, end it, and shove it into Tate’s face.
“Up. Now. Off. Later.”
“Is that a promise?”
“You gonna keep it?” I ask, sitting up.
“Els, I’m makin’ it. Tonight you are mine. Again.”
We bundle into the SUVs. The whole time to the venue, Aidan eyes us suspiciously, but Tate grabs my hand and he looks away. Seconds later, I pull my hand back, because, well, we’re working. And I know it makes no sense, that I’ll have sex off duty but that on duty I won’t touch him.
For me, it helps separate the two Tates I know . . . almost. The asshole and the nice guy. Helps separate the manwhore from the man who holds me tightly and won’t let me go.
It helps to separate the guy I can’t trust from the one I can.
I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my head as we park outside the arena. Questioning. Confused. But I ignore him and follow Aidan out of the SUV. I duck my head as the cameras flash and girls scream.
It seriously perplexes me how they can stand here for hours just to see the guys. Like, they can’t wait until they get inside the arena in eight or nine hours?
Ajax opens the door for me and I dart inside. Phew. Conner guides Sofie and Mila into the building, flanked by the rest of the band. Tate’s eyes are still burning into me, and I do my best to escape past him, but he grabs my hand before I can get away.
I attempt to snatch my hand back, but he squeezes tighter. I tug harder and he lets go.
“Working,” I whisper angrily, clasping the tablet to my chest and walking away.
“It ain’t a secret, darlin’,” he calls after me.
“I don’t care.” I stop and look at him, ignoring everyone’s eyes on us. “You need to get into your dressing rooms and get ready to come down here for sound check. Now,” I add, glancing over all four of them.
“Damn, you’re a slave driver,” Kye tuts, grinning.
“I’ll drive my boot up your behind if you don’t move it,” I threaten, spinning and walking away.
“Shit, Tate. You’ve rubbed off on her a little too much.” Aidan laughs.
“I have two feet, Aidan.” I throw a glare over my shoulder and slam open the door to the backstage area. I kick it shut behind me and walk through the hall to the wings. I check to see that all their things are being readied on the stage, then jump down and take a seat in the first row.
“They don’t mean you any harm,” Ajax says, taking the seat next to mine.
“Mhmm,” I reply, swiping across the screen of my tablet. “Unfortunately none of them are aware of the concept of lines, therefore they cross them regularly.”
“Like Tate trying to hold your hand?” Sofie asks, setting Mila on the floor and pulling her seat down.
“Precisely.”
“Yet last night he was stealin’ your nachos, and you woke up together this morning.”
“This is work.” I sigh and put the tablet down. “We both have jobs to do. When we leave here—if he leaves with us—then he can do whatever the hell he wants to do. Right now he has to remain professional.”
“If he leaves with us?” Ajax questions, leaning forward. “Ella, you do know he isn’t gonna let you out of his sight, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yeah.” Sofie nibbles on her thumbnail. “I mean, even I’m surprised. The only thing Tate cares about as much as you is his dick.”
I sigh and turn back to the tablet. “Look, I’m not expecting anything from him. I’m not expecting his super-protective-alpha-male routine to be anything other than kindness, so can we move on now?”
“If you want.” Sofie leans back. “But it ain’t gonna change a thing. I know you ain’t used to tenderness, but take it, doll. He’s the hardest fucking idiot I’ve ever met in my life, but he’s also one of the sweetest. You aren’t soft with a little girl if you’re made of heartless steel.”
“Mama! Bad word!”
Sofie gasps. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll put a dollar in your pig when we get back, okay?”
“In her pig?”
She looks at me, her lips in a thin line. “Carla helpfully suggested the boys get a swear box for when Mila’s around. Mila took to the idea, and well, she’s some twenty dollars richer than she was twenty-four hours ago.”
“Oh. Nice.” I tap my finger against my lips. “I don’t like Carla much.”
“No one does,” Ajax laughs, standing. “We all just pretend, and y’all do it the best.”
I smile at him. Other people filter into the arena, including the topic of our previous conversation. When everyone is in their proper place, the guys step onto the stage, water bottles in hand.
Aidan, Kye, and Conner all check on their instruments before they start, but Tate keeps walking. He steps right off the stage and approaches me, his eyes burning brightly.
He stops right in front of me and lays two fingers on the top of the tablet. Slowly, he pushes it down so it’s flat on my lap, then strokes along the side of it until he finds the power button. Then presses it.
“Not today,” he says softly.
My eyes narrow suspiciously, but he pulls the device from my hands and gives it to Ajax, who slots it into Sofie’s purse. I glance at the burly security guard, but all he does is lift his eyebrows in response and fold his arms across his chest.
Tate’s hands curl around my armrests and he leans forward. “Today, Els, you watch for fun.”
I say nothing. Even as he walks back toward the stage and pulls himself up onto it, I stay silent. Even as he walks across the stage to his seat and sits down, resting his guitar on his knee and looking at me, I stay silent.
I don’t say a word.
Because this . . . isn’t meant to happen. I’m supposed to work. I’m supposed to organize their butts and keep them in line.
Tate’s lips pull up at the sides, only barely, and the memory of his lips on mine floods my mind. The softness, the forceful yet oddly soft caresses, they consume me, take me over.
And I sit back in my seat and hug myself.
“Well, Carla, honey, aren’t you lookin’ good today?” Tate drawls, still looking at me.
“Always do, Tate,” she retorts, seemingly not recognizing his eyes on me.
Asshole.
“You look real good today. That shirt is damn good. Oh, and I see you brought Tits with you!”
Double asshole.
I look toward the girl he dubs Tits and see a girl, indeed with huge breasts, and long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a waist that I could wrap my hands around. A body clearly surgically enhanced.
“Always a pleasure, Tate,” Tits croons, sitting a couple seats up from Sofie and crossing her legs. She runs her hand through her hair, and when he looks at her, my eyes narrow.
Sofie reaches over, grasps my chin, and forces me to look forward. “You hurt him. He’s tryin’ to do it back because he’s a moron. Act like you don’t care and he’ll give it up.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t care.”
“Then tell that to my daughter. She might believe you, doll.”
Electric. Crazy. Insane.
Three words to describe the pandemonium in the arena right now. Screaming girls, laughing, singing Dirty B., amazed backstage people.
Sofie and I are standing in the wings, feet away from the guys, and I’m almost certain my ears are ringing from the screams echoing from the seats. Because, holy hell, Tate was right when he said I’d only seen one show. These girls scream crazy loud.
But I still get it. The excitement of the last concert. The craziness. The goddamn deafening shrieks. The everlasting adrenaline rush that fills my veins with extreme delight and insanity.
It boils inside me and encompasses me until I’m buzzing, too. Until every word and every chord is vibrating across my skin and consuming me with its sheer force.
Dirty B. strum their final chord and the lights dim. The arena erupts. Screams. Claps. Whistles. Yells. It’s a wonder I can tell one from the other, and the curtains closing are a welcome reprieve from the intense schedule of tonight. Water, clothing changes, water, song changes, water, damp cloths, changes . . .
Tate puts his guitar down and meets my eyes in the darkness. I’m mad at him—hell, am I mad at him for his dumbass stunt earlier. I annoyed him, okay. But that doesn’t give him the right to annoy me back. It doesn’t make it okay.
I was being professional. He was being a royal dickhead.
Tate walks toward me, each step powerful. I move back, but he’s quicker than me. He wraps his arms around me, leaving one hand clasping the back of my head and the other falling between my shoulder blades. He’s strong and determined, the smell of sweat and cinnamon envelops me, and I get a brief glimpse of his fiery eyes before he presses his mouth against mine. And he, God, he forces his mouth onto mine deliciously. The force of his kiss knocks me back, and I forget that we’re surrounded by people, that eyes are on us.
All I think of is this mouth sweeping across mine, his lips making mine come alive in the best kind of way.
All I think of is his fingers splaying across my body at various points, the tips digging in, burning me, branding me, delighting me.
He pulls back and I breathe in harshly. “Fuck,” he whispers roughly, releasing me and walking past me. He doubles back almost as quickly, grabs my hand, and tugs me after him.
I stumble with the force of his tug, but Ajax is hot on our heels and helps me to steady myself with a quick touch to my upper back. My heart is thumping as the doors open and we’re assaulted by bright camera flashes and a roaring scream.
Tate lets me go to Ajax’s side and moves to the girls clambering over the waist-high barriers for his attention. I swallow hard, my mind flashing with memory after memory as girls wrap their arms around him and he leans in close for pictures.
For too long, I watched someone who claimed to want me all to himself hit on girls. For too long, I was second best. For too long, I was worth the dog crap I stepped in in Central Park.
For too long, I had fear inbred into me, burned so deeply that I’d swear it’s burned into my soul. Mentally, emotionally, or physically, it doesn’t matter. Pain is pain—some kinds are just more visible than others.
And right now, Tate is hurting me. He doesn’t know it, and I shouldn’t let it hurt, but I can’t fight the sliver of pain that mixes with the heavy pounding of blood through my veins.
“Take me back,” I beg Ajax, turning and taking his arm. “Please. To the hotel. Take me back.”
“Ella, sweetheart . . .”
“Ajax, please.”
He sighs. “I can’t take you anywhere unless Tate tells me to go with you.”
I take a deep breath and step away from him. My feet take me to Tate, where I grab his arm and tell him, “I’m going back. I have things to do.”
He blinks at me harshly and, without looking at the fans, hands one back her pen and turns me by my shoulders. “Sorry, ladies. Gotta go.”
He urges me to the SUV, and Ajax opens the door. Tate grabs me and lifts me in, and when the door slams, I turn away from him. My arms curl around my waist, my stomach twisting. The harsh pounding of my heartbeat fizzles out to a slow throb as I center myself.
I’m not being beaten up or cheated on. I’m not being used and abused.
Not anymore.
I’m not that girl.
I. Am. Not. That. Girl.
I am Ella Dawson.
I fear nothing.
Neither of us says a word as we travel back to the hotel. The air is tense and it makes it hard to breathe, but it’s not a fearful tension. When we arrive, I unclip my seat belt and shove the door open before anyone else is out. I put every ounce of remaining strength in my body into not sprinting into the hotel and demanding a room to myself.
Tate puts a hand on my back, but I shove it off. He says nothing, but the sigh that leaves him says everything.
I jab at the elevator buttons and fight the burn in my eyes. Hell no, I’m not going to cry. I swore when I drove away from Manhattan that no other man would ever get my tears.
Tate unlocks the door and I shove past him and throw my purse onto the sofa. “The hell was that?”
“Was what?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.
“That goddamn kiss!” I point at him. “You spend the morning chatting up Carla and ‘Tits,’ ignore me all afternoon, then you walk off the stage and you kiss me! What the hell kind of bullshit game are you playing?”
“Yours,” he growls, advancing toward me. “The one where we’re intimate privately but strangers publicly.”
“We’re professional publicly!”
“You wish!” he snaps, winding his fingers into my hair and holding me solidly against him. “You want me to forget how you taste? How you feel? How you moan into my mouth when your pussy is hugging my cock? You think I can wipe that shit from my memory, Els? ’Cause I can’t. Not for a fuckin’ second. And for some goddamn reason you’re more than every fuckin’ girl I’ve ever brought back to my room. I told you I’d get under your skin, but that was before I realized you’re so fuckin’ under my skin that nothin’, and I mean fuckin’ nothin’, is gettin’ you back out.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “How long?” I whisper. “How long do I have before a random girl comes knocking at your door?”
“What?”
“How long?” I push at his grip and he loosens it. “It happens, Tate. It always happens. It happened before and . . . Damn!” I take advantage of his eased hold on my arm and step back. “I saw it,” my voice is quieter. “Back there. You love it. You thrive on it. The girls. The attention. What happens when I can’t give you that anymore? What happens when they’re newer and shinier and prettier than I am? They take over. Just like before.”
“Ella.” He comes to me and takes me in his arms once more. “I’m not him, darlin’. I’m not that fuckin’ asshole and I never will be. I say you’re mine, then you’re mine, and it stays that way.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Forever.” He almost growls the word, each syllable sharp and fierce. “For-fuckin’-ever. No one is comin’ here except you.”
I crush my lips against his. Like a reflex, my tongue flicks against his and incites an intense fight. His grip gets tighter and my hands grasp at his shirt and our bodies slam together in a desperate collision. Together, we maneuver our way toward the bedroom, fingers tugging at shirt hems, lips sweeping irrationally. Together, we push through his bedroom door and collapse onto the giant unmade bed.
“Mine,” he whispers. “You’re mine, Els. In the most fuckin’ protective, possessive way, you belong the hell to me.”
I swallow my gasp and wrap my legs around his waist. I don’t care. I don’t care if we’re being waited on downstairs or if the past is clouding things. I care about touching this man, feeling this man, becoming one with this man. Even if it’s only for minutes. I want to feel it. I need to feel it.
I need his words to be proven by his actions.
Tate’s hands roam over my body, beneath my shirt, pulling it over my head, to my bra, cupping my breasts. His mouth ghosts down my neck to my cleavage. He unclasps my bra, taking a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. His tongue swirls and spins around the hardened bud, and I grasp at him harder, begging for more despite the endless painful pleasure.
I tuck my hands beneath his shirt and run them up his back. The material crumples and I tug his shirt over his head, desperate to feel his body against mine. I need to feel his skin pressing mine like the night needs the day and the dark needs the light. Like touch needs reciprocation, I need Tate’s unabashed physique molded against mine.
My hands take on a mind of their own. They roam and explore every crevice of his back and his stomach. My fingertips dip and curve into every deep, muscled canyon of his body.
In return, he swipes his hands across me, every touch igniting fireworks and explosions across my skin and in my bloodstream. His hands cup, massage, probe every part of me. His fingers tease along the waistband of my pants.
My hands. They tease his hand, too. And my hands, they unbutton his jeans, undo the zipper, and tug down the cotton. I brush my fingertips along his rock-hard length and revel in the bobbing of it in my loose grip. I revel in the hardness of his cock in my hand and in the firmness of his grip on me.
And Tate removes my pants and tugs my legs up. He slides inside me in one long, easy stroke. He fills me entirely and completely and quickly. I conform to his body in the only way I know how. Explicitly. Entirely. Wholly.
His thrusts are fast and powerful. Each one dominates me and I give myself over to his determination. I give myself over to his powerful touch and hot breath and harsh moans as he drives into me.
I give myself over to him.
Pleasure floods my nerves. Heat swamps my skin. Adrenaline pounds through my veins. Every second, every touch, every sensation, I breathe it all in and I let myself go crazily.
I let myself go in his arms.
My name, whispered, follows his deep and drawn-out groan. I fold myself into him despite the fact that he’s still very much inside me, and he wraps his arms around me. His hold is warm and firm, and I bury myself in the certainty of his embrace.
“Mine.” The word is whispered onto the top of my head. “I fuckin’ told you,” he breathes. “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine, Els.”
“I think so,” I whisper back, curling myself around him, koala-style. Gripping him. Embracing him.
“I know so.” Hot, gentle breaths cascade across my skin, and I move into him farther. “My Els. My darlin’.”
I hold him, the lump in my throat too much to process.
How can someone want me so much? How can he want me so much that he can proclaim me his for more than just possessiveness? How can he want me in such a way that he’s willing to let me fight and resist until I’m helpless to the irresistible pull, too?
How can he want me the way he does, full stop?
“Why?”
“What?”
My fingers ghost across his chest. “Why am I yours? I don’t understand.”
Tate cups the side of my head, slowly, his fingers easing across my cheek. “Because you’re you,” he whispers, his mouth but an inch from mine. “Because you’re beautiful, and you’re sweet, and you’re so fuckin’ strong I can’t stand it. After everythin’, you’re so fuckin’ solid it breaks my heart, Els. Because you’re the best damn person I’ve ever met. That’s why. That’s why you’re damn well mine.”
I hold him, so tightly I can almost feel his tattoos beneath my fingers. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be,” he murmurs.