Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

After the final bell on Friday I shrug on my waterproof, pulling up the hood to save myself from the torrential downpour, and I speed-walk to the bus stop just outside of the school grounds to wait for Tate. I’m glad that he wanted to hang out after school rather than on a weekend, because this way it will be easier to lie to my mom about my whereabouts. If we were going to go somewhere on a Saturday I would have had to make up a story about hanging out with Kit, which admittedly probably would hold solid seeing as my mom doesn’t have Kit’s home telephone number, but this way is easier. I can say that I stayed back at the library or that I was helping out with the Homecoming committee. Textbook excuses. Easy peasy.

When the bus stop comes into view I see that Tate is already there. A couple of his friends are hanging around him under the shelter but when he spots me he weaves his way out of the group and saunters towards me, with outstretched palms and a panty-dropping grin. I don’t even have time to worry about the cheerleaders and football guys who are watching us disbelievingly because, as soon as I’m three feet away from him, Tate grabs me by my waist and presses his lips to mine. He’s instantly drenched from the rain but he remains completely unfazed. He walks me backwards around to the side of the shelter so that no one can watch us, and my eyes flutter shut as he wraps his forearm around my lower back beneath my jacket and blazer, squeezing my body as close to his as possible. We haven’t hung out or spoken in a couple of days so he’s making it pretty clear that he’s been missing me. My cheeks heat up at how much his body is proving that he’s been missing me.

As if he can read my thoughts, Tate shifts his hips away from me and mumbles a “sorry” before he moves his mouth back to mine and then kisses his way down my neck.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmurs and then he lifts his head so that he can look into my eyes. This is my second time ever being kissed so I’ve lost pretty much every ounce of sense from my brain in the past twenty seconds. I just stare up at him, nod, and try to calm my breathing. “Want me to tell you where we’re going, or do you want a surprise?” he asks, smoothing his thumbs up and down my throat. If he keeps doing that I’m going to forget how to speak entirely.

“A surprise,” I say breathlessly, and he gives me a dazzling grin.

“A surprise,” he concurs, and then he wraps my hand up in his so that he can walk us back inside the bus shelter. Tate starts talking with his friends again, totally at ease, but I can sense some of the girls looking at me like I’m an extraterrestrial. I look at one of them from under my hood and she startles, surprised that she was caught in the act. I continue to stare at her until she looks away uncomfortably, her expression irked and embarrassed.

When the bus arrives only Tate and I get on it, probably because this one is heading to the town’s outskirts rather than the residential suburbs. He pulls his card out of his pants and tells me to go and sit at the back so that he can inform the driver of our stop without me hearing. The back? God, Tate Coleson really is a popular guy through and through.

I make my way up to the seating area at the back and, by the time I’m sat down, Tate is already almost by my side. He shakes the water from his hair, slides into the seat beside mine, and then he kisses me again, this time more fervently. The bus is empty and there’s no one to catch us so he moves his hand to my hip and he scoots me so that I’m closer to him. As the bus pulls away from the stop Tate lifts his lips from mine and his eyes rake down my body. When they reach my legs, poking out from beneath the hem of my skirt in thin rain-soaked tights, he runs his hand over my knee until he’s firmly clutching the sensitive underside. The sight of his large tan hand encompassing me so easily makes my breath stutter in my throat.

“It’s gonna be about twenty minutes,” he says, wrapping his other arm around my shoulders so that my head comes to rest against his chest. “You can nap if you want.”

I almost laugh because how old does he think that I am? Five? But then I realise that, actually, it was less than a decade ago that I literally was five, and as school was tiring the best thing that I could do right now would be to refresh myself with a nap. I tuck myself tighter against his torso and he makes a low satisfied noise as I close my eyes.

He gives my thigh a little squeeze when we reach our stop. I open my eyes sleepily as he interlocks our fingers and starts walking us purposefully down the centre isle of the bus. Looking up at him I feel as though I’ve died and gone to Heaven. Imagine waking up to Tate Coleson every morning. My legs wobble at the thought.

Once we are completely out of the bus I realise that he has literally taken me to the back of Bumfuck, Nowhere. There isn’t even a pavement beside the bus sign. Instead, the road is encased by an arching alcove of evergreens, rainwater trickling heavily through the sparse gaps in the canopy, and a consistent pattering hammering against the leaves above us. There’s a small location sign just behind us but Tate’s grip on my hand doesn’t loosen enough for me to be able to lean over and read it. He glances down at me before he attempts to wade through the dense forest which seemingly lines the road out of town, his expression cautious.

“We’re only a minute away, I promise,” he says, probably sensing my unease. I keep my face impassive but it doesn’t convince him in the slightest. He pulls me away from the roadside, so that we’re both shielded behind one of the bordering trees, and he gently rubs his thumbs up my jaw. My body traitorously melts a little, so I really hope that he isn’t a serial killer. He leans down and presses his lips chastely to mine, to try and ease me up. The warmth from his mouth seeps into me and I shudder pleasurably at the feeling, not even minding the fat rain drops that are hitting against my forehead and exposed cheeks. He pulls away and says, “I wish that the weather was better, but I think that you’ll still like it. It’s my favourite place.”

The vulnerability in his voice catches my interest but he turns away and starts leading us through the trees again before I have the chance to study it. He’s taking me to his favourite place? My tiny ego shivers in delight.

It only takes another twenty seconds for the spot to come into view and I gasp when I see it. How have I lived here forever and never known about this place?

Hearing me, Tate turns his head and he gives me a small smile. “You like it?” he asks.

I love it. If anything, the onslaught of rain makes it even more atmospheric. As the thicket of trees becomes sparser we enter a secluded gravel clearing, encircling a gigantic lake. Its smooth silver surface is being pelted with shots of rain and it’s creating a thunder of ear-bashing slaps, harmonised by the thud of pellets hitting the emerald leaves around us.

I look up at him, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he watches me nervously, and I return his earlier shy smile. “This is so amazing,” I say, still shimmering with the fact that Tate Coleson invited me into his secret sacred place. “Where even are we? We have, like, the whole place to ourselves.”

His eyes roam down my body as he pulls me to his chest and he takes a long, deep inhalation, as if he’s breathing in my scent. “Silver Lake,” he mumbles, his hands rubbing up and down my arms. “And I’m glad you like it.” When he lifts his eyes back to mine, they’re dangerously sparkly.

He walks us backwards so that we stay under the sheltering canopy of leaves and then he shucks off his blazer and spreads it between a tree-nook, creating a sort of woodland throne. Somehow he manages to steadily sink us both to the ground, with me sitting on his blazer and him kneeling between my legs, his muscular thighs spread apart in a way that makes me blush. He dips down so that his head is level with mine, and then he takes my lips in his as he steadies himself, holding onto my hips.

He moves his hands so that he can pull down the zipper on my jacket and, once opened, he settles them gently on my waist. I have read a lot of romance books so I know that he’s probably about to touch my chest, and I’m half-tempted to apologise in advance because there is really nothing there for him, but he catches me by surprise when his fingers trail to the lower half of my shirt, and he softly splays his palm out across my quivering stomach. My knees knock against the sides of his wide ribcage and it sends a jolt of electricity through both of our bodies. He pulls away, his breathing completely off the rails as he falls back onto his haunches. The way that he’s sat is giving me the most explicit view of what lies between his thighs and I don’t think that I have ever been so red in my life. He hasn’t even used his tongue, although he said that he wanted to when we were in his bedroom the other day, but I can see that he has already stiffened drastically under the fabric of his pants.

He notices what I’m looking at and he instantly changes his position, getting to his feet and then coming to sit next to me. I’m half surprised that he doesn’t take my eye out when he crouches down at my side before sprawling his long legs out. His dad must be a behemoth if this is what Tate looks like before he’s even turned sixteen.

We sit in silence for a minute as we try to get our breathing to return to normal, and Tate leans his head back against the tree trunk, his Adam’s apple rolling up and down his neck as he swallows. His caramel skin looks even more tan under the shade of the leaves and it’s so beautiful that I don’t want to look away from him. I fold my hands over where he touched me on my stomach and he tilts his head down to the side so that he can watch me.

“What’s with the tummy thing?” I ask, kind of boldly, but I’m too curious not to mention it.

His eyes flash up to mine but he drops them back down to my stomach, a soft blush appearing and staining his cheekbones. “Uh…” he rubs one of his hands across the back of his neck, as if he’s embarrassed or nervous and not sure if he should tell me. “I just… because it’s where…” He breathes out a shaky exhale and shifts a bit, dropping his hand down again. “Not right now, of course, ’cause we’re both young and all but… when we’re older…”

I lean my head around so that I can meet his eyes and he runs his hand down his face, groaning a little.

“It’s just… it’s where you’ll make babies is all,” he finishes, and my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Whatever I expected him to say, it was not that. Tate wants babies? Why have I never thought about boys as wanting to have children? Honestly, I have never really thought about babies, but the idea that Tate Coleson thinks about… making them… it makes my breath catch.

“Okay,” I say shakily and he laughs, dropping his head into his hands.

“Sorry, that’s so weird. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he says, sitting straight again so that he can tentatively gauge my reaction. Our gazes lock and we both laugh, ignoring the loud current of excitement that hums between us with the knowledge that he wants to make a baby, and he heavily implied that he wants to make it with me.

Looking for a distraction I notice something on the other side of the shore, so I ask, “What’s that?” pointing to the wooden structure to the East of the lake, the golden wood turning a deeper, almost mahogany colour under its blanketing of rain.

“I think it’s-” Tate pauses for a moment and swallows hard. His voice has gone so deep that I feel it reverberating inside of me. He runs his hand through his hair, water droplets cascading down his defined jaw and neck, and he tries again. “I think it’s an old chalet or a bungalow, but it’s been derelict for ages now. Super quaint and traditional.” He thinks for a moment. “I bet my dad and me would know how to fix it up real good.”

I look up at his face in surprise because I’m pretty sure that this is the first time that Tate has ever mentioned his dad. He moves his hand to mine and locks our fingers together as if he can sense what I’m thinking.

“My dad recently moved back to town… and I’m kind of hoping that my mom’s going to let me go and live with him, once he’s got his business all set up and running again. I want to start working with him as soon as possible,” he says. His eyes flash down to my mouth but then he quickly looks away, and he tries to shield the large swell between his thighs with his rigid fist. “He’d love you, just so you know,” he adds, eyes still looking out over to the little wooden chalet.

I look down at out connected fingers and ask, “Did he bring you here? Is that how you found this place?”

He nods, smiling, and a crimson blush delicately spreads over his cheekbones. “Yeah – I’m gonna sound like a wet-wipe but I guess it’s sorta special to me, because of that,” he answers, laughing as he shakes more rain from his hair. Tate Coleson is so cut that he’s borderline Sasquatch, so the fact that he isn’t afraid to admit his emotions lights up a flock of fireflies in my belly, and it makes me like him even more. “I haven’t brought anyone here, ever. Not Madden. And especially not Huddy, even though we…” he sighs and rolls his shoulders, the large bones making intimidating cracking sounds. “We share everything,” he finishes.

My stomach drops a little, but I don’t say anything. At least Tate seems to be as uncomfortable about Hudson as I am – but then I have to wonder, why the hell does he stay friends with him?

I stroke my thumb up the long length of his pointer finger, falling rhythmically into the dips around his large knuckles, and his attention immediately snaps back to me. I avoid his gaze until I reach the tip of his finger and then I look up at him from underneath my lashes. The doe eyes seem to flick a switch in his brain because he hunches around me again, threading the fingers of his free hand into my hair.

“I wanted to bring you here so that I could ask you something,” he says, bringing my face in closer to his. “And you don’t have to say yes… or, if you already had plans…” He trails off for a moment, his eyes looking deep into my own, as if he’s trying to read my mind before he follows through with the rest of his sentence. He braces himself – and I secretly brace myself – and then, with a deep, shoulder-heaving inhalation, he asks me, “River, will you go to Homecoming with me?”

My mouth pops open into a little o, because this is the second time in the past five minutes that he has completely knocked me for six. My eyes widen and he watches me carefully, as if he’s tensely waiting for my response.

Never in my life did I expect anyone to ask me to go to Homecoming, let alone Tate Coleson. I’m all aquiver but no way am I going to let this moment pass me by.

“Tate,” I whisper, blinking myself through my shock so that I can give him my tiny excited smile. “Of course, yes, I would love to.”

His whole face breaks into the most gorgeous grin that I have ever seen, with twin creases setting deeply into the caramel skin of his cheeks. He stoops down so that he can kiss me again and I’m all but knocked out by the wave of testosterone that washes over me. Maybe it’s the rain, but the air around us seems to be even more charged than usual, heavy with the dampness from the lake and our heady raging hormones.

Our entwined hands fall into my lap and I let out a gasp that has his chest stretching the cotton of his shirt. I move my other hand to his collar, tugging him into me, and his eyes flare.

“I would only ever want to go with you,” I admit breathlessly, and his lips crash into mine.

The fingers that he had laced through my hair move down to my neck so that he can grip me steady, and then his thumb begins to move up and down the column of my throat.

“I can’t wait to see you in your Homecoming dress,” he whispers huskily against my mouth, before taking my bottom lip gently between his teeth. I make a small sound and it unlocks a deep rumble from within his chest. He drops his hand from my neck, spreading it protectively across my tummy, and just as he begins to firmly press, he slips his tongue inside my mouth.

“Tate,” I exclaim quietly, and he pushes his palm against my stomach with more pressure, his fingers flexing as they grip into my softness.

He pulls away only so that he can ask, “Can I keep going?” and I nod ardently, his hair gently caressing my forehead as I lean back to look up at him.

He brings us back together and slowly slides his tongue all the way in, his low grunt hitting the back of my throat as he fully claims my mouth. I shift around on his blazer because I’ve got a fire going on in my privates and, from the loud sounds of his heavy inhalations, Tate can tell. He glides his tongue out in a lush, never-ending stroke before pushing it back in even deeper than before. He’s wet and warm and so big everywhere that my body is growing limp beneath him.

He notices and pulls away, his dazzling eyes looking down at me urgently. The hand on my belly moves up to my jaw.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’ll stop, that was too much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, stay with me baby.”

I lift my hand to my face and laugh as his fingers try to coax me back to full consciousness, my head shaking in embarrassment. “I’m the sorry one,” I say, and then, trying to be light-hearted, I add, “if I borderline black-out from a kiss, imagine how I’ll be when-” but Tate moves his hand up to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips and preventing me from ending my sentence.

He swallows hard and then leads my eyes down to his crotch. I don’t exactly know how it works with boys but I think that Tate has somehow grown even bigger than he was a few minutes ago, the long length of his arousal protruding even more obviously now against the sorry fabric of his pants.

“I think that it might be best if you don’t finish that sentence,” he says, in a voice that is painfully calm. He takes in my astonished expression, both lust-filled and terrified, and then adds a strained, “Please.”

I nod my head, my lips brushing against his palm, and he pulls it away so that he can access my mouth again. He gives me a slow multitude of delicate pecks and then he helps me to my feet, bringing me in under the curve of one bicep, our hands still interlocked. He picks up his blazer and, without even dusting it off, he half-shrugs it over his other arm before we start silently traipsing back up the shoreline and into the thick greenery.

Tate doesn’t let go of my hand for the entire ride home.