Page 12 of Tate: Gemini King
“Maybe we should stop talking about this. We’re going to be stuck here all night. We don’t want to do anything stupid. I don’t do casual sex anymore. I’m not going to let my ex change the fact that I believe in love.”
“So you’re only going to have sex when you fall in love?”
We are failing to stay away from danger zone territory. I’m too full to argue with Tate and the wine in my glass is calling my name. Tate might have had his heart broken, but he’s a tall, muscular, attractive white man in a small town. He has women throwing their panties at him just because he’s a fireman. My love life is an utter failure and the last thing I want to do is confess to Tate how long I’ve spent avoiding men just to stay away from heartbreak.
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“No,” he says. “But I want to know how you feel.”
The throbbing in my thighs moves somewhere else. I don’t know if I can tell Tate my feelings. Not without more wine. The smartest move here is to lie to him and engage in profound self-preservation. Men will go to great lengths to deceive women they want to sleep with and the last thing I want to do is end up in bed with Tate only to find him gone in the morning.
Like I said — he’s not that hot.
“You don’t give a crap how I feel.”
Tate gives me an unpleasant smirk. I don’t smile back. This isn’t funny to me.
“Of course I care,” he says with that annoying seductive voice. “Why do you think I got us a dog?”
I scoff and roll my eyes. Did I actually expect this asshole to say something that makes sense?
“You got us a dog because you’re mentally ill.”
Tate laughs loudly, like there’s something funny about the concept of him having a mental illness. He desperately needs to get that thick head checked.
“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”
The wine must be hitting me a little too hard because I blurt out my next words without considering the possible prison consequences. “Smothering you would help me sleep at night.”
I have to give it up. He hasn’t died from the shrimp which means he doesn’t have a shrimp allergy. Or a wine allergy. I’m the only one with my head in the clouds and Tate is more clear-headed than ever. I hate this. Yet another scamming ass social media spell. I need to start spending my money on something useful. Scratch cards might be a good investment.
“Smothering me?” Tate asks. “What does that mean?”
“You are so fucking dumb, white boy.”
He laughs again. I don’t like how confident he sounds. It makes me nervous. I’m supposed to be trapping Tate but suddenly, I feel… vulnerable.
* * *
six
Tate
I shouldn’t get excited that Natasha is tipsy as fuck right now. I’m a responsible adult who would never take advantage of my roommate in her state of inebriation. Not sexually at least. Without half a bottle of wine in her system, I doubt Natasha would be sitting across from me talking about her feelings. She’s so fucking pretty and even prettier when she relaxes and stops treating me like I’m sick in the head just for wanting a good look at her tits.
Anyone in my position would have done the same thing. We already have a dog together. We might as well make this happen.
“I’m only going to have sex with a man I love,” Natasha says. “I’m too old for games. Too old for casual. Too old for situationships.”
Just hearing Natasha say the word ‘sex’ sends my desires into overdrive. I need to have her. I don’t know how the hell I’m actually going to do it, but I want it so fucking badly it hurts.
“Don’t you think sex could be good for you?” I ask her. Natasha’s lips tighten into a thin, disapproving line. She looks and acts like she hasn’t had sex in decades. I struggle to believe dick wouldn’t improve her attitude. Or a tongue in her pussy. She shakes her head, spilling those insanely big curls all over her shoulders.
“No. Not without love it isn’t.”
My dick is about to burst out of my pants watching her lips and her sexy ass mass of curls. Hot fucking damn, she’s gorgeous.
“I respect that.”