Sweet Dreams
Page 57

“Not exactly what I wanted to hear,” he murmured and started walking me backwards toward the bed, “but it’ll do.”
“Tate?”
“What?”
“If Neeta’s married –?” The back of my legs hit the bed and we both went down.
When we landed and Tate settled on top of me, his fingers slid into the hair at the side of my head but his eyes never left mine.
“It’s over,” he whispered.
“But –”
His lips touched mine and then he pulled back. “It’s over, baby.” He kept whispering. “It shoulda been over years ago but it’s definitely over now.”
“How could you –?”
“Because she’s Neeta,” he answered my not exactly asked question.
I shook my head and put my hands on his shoulders, not to push him away but also not to hold him to me. “I don’t understand.”
His hand left my hair and slid down to cup my jaw, his thumb moving out, the pad of it drifting across my lower lip as he watched and talked. “Years, she’s been under my skin. Took me that long to work her out.”
This was not the news any woman wanted to hear about another woman and I felt my body get stiff under his.
His eyes came to mine. “Laurie, it wouldn’t be for a few days that I’d feel the difference.”
“What difference?” I asked, my mouth moving under his thumb.
“Didn’t know it then, know it now.”
“What?”
“Two kinds of women get under your skin. The ones who do damage, they don’t feel good there but once you’re f**kin’ stupid enough to let them in you got no choice but to take the time it takes to work them out. Then there are the ones who don’t do damage, who feel good there, feed the muscle, the bone, the soul, not rip it or break it or burn it. The ones you don’t wanna work out.”
Was he saying what I thought he was saying?
“Tate –”
“You get me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly but even I heard the hint of hope in those three words, probably because it was me who felt that hope.
“You will,” he promised.
Wow.
“Tate –” I breathed.
“Quiet, Ace, done talkin’.” And it appeared he was as his head was descending and his hand slid into my hair again.
“But –”
“Quiet,” he muttered against my lips.
“I –”
He kissed me and my hands at his shoulders slid around his neck, definitely to hold him to me as he tuned me right out of my mind and right into the vibrations he was creating in my body.
His lips slid down my jaw to my ear as his hands slid down my sides to my h*ps and around, to my behind where he pulled them up, fitting my soft ones into his hard ones.
The thin thread I was holding onto my mind with twinged.
We had a lot to talk about. I didn’t know him, hardly at all. He’d played professional football, for two games but still, that was huge and the fact that he played only that short time was heartbreaking. He had a bad knee and he didn’t act like he had a bad knee so I wondered if he still did. And if he did, I wondered if he should be running. He had an eagle tattooed on his back and I wondered if that had something to do with the football team for whom he played only two games. He had shit going on in his life but he didn’t tell me what that was and I figured, since it seemed we were starting something, I should probably know. He’d just worked a woman out from under his skin and I needed to discuss that a bit further. Was she entirely gone? Was there a little bit of her left? What happened to make them history? Was I there now? How deep was I?
Not to mention, I needed a very long, thorough lesson in biker slang so I didn’t accidently mess anything up again.
I held tight to that thin thread and I turned my lips to his ear.
“We should finish talking,” I whispered.
“Fuckin’ you now, baby,” he whispered back, his tongue touched my earlobe and his hand slid from my bottom to between my legs were his fingers slid into the inside leg of my pajama shorts and drifted feather-light across my panties. “We’ll finish talkin’ later.”
“Okay,” I breathed which was a lucky thing, since his tongue and fingers snapped that thin thread that attached me to my mind and it was a miracle I could speak at all.
* * * * *
Laurie, it wouldn’t be for a few days that I’d feel the difference.
My eyes opened and I saw the room was dark. We hadn’t pulled the curtains again and I saw the outside lights shining in, illuminating Tate’s painted shoulder in front of me. I was curled into his back, my arm resting on his waist.
I stayed where I was awhile, hoping sleep would come.
Seems I got a f**kin’ type.
I closed my eyes tight in a flinch.
Boy, Tate could land a verbal blow.
Carefully, I rolled to my back and stared at the ceiling thinking of all Tate said, all Wood said, all Wood didn’t say and all I didn’t know about Tate.
Then I thought about my Dad, who still worked the farm even though he had a couple boys he’d hired to help him do it. Then I thought about if he could, or should, continue doing that and if he couldn’t, or shouldn’t, what would happen to our farm.
Then I thought about Tate more.
This took awhile and included me attempting to get comfortable and find sleep in three different positions. After I tried the third, I knew sleep wasn’t going to come.
Moving cautiously so as not to wake Tate, I slid the covers back and started toward the opposite side of the bed, trying to remember where Tate threw my pajamas.
I didn’t even get close to the edge of the bed before an arm hooked around my belly and I was on my back in the bed.
“Where you goin’?” Tate muttered, his voice drowsy.
“Can’t sleep or get comfortable,” I whispered. “You go back to sleep, I’ll –”
I stopped talking because Tate rolled me to face him then his hand slid over my bottom.
“Happen every night?” he murmured, still sounding sleepy.
“No, honey,” I answered, pushing lightly against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”
He lifted his head and then his face was in my neck.
“On the road,” he said there, his hands moving on me, “at night, I’d lie awake wonderin’ if you were sleepin’ okay.”
“That doesn’t sound very focused,” I whispered as his hand slid down my hip, my leg and then lifted my leg at the knee to hook it around his hip.