STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“Taking some time to myself,” I answer, emphasizing the word “myself” so he’ll leave me alone.

“Obviously. Why?” he asks, voice once again hard and smooth. He takes a few steps toward me, his hands slung into his pockets and shoulders back— his swagger is clear even in the darkness.

“Because I wanted some time to myself,” I say in a flat, nasal-voice (thanks, tears), and turn to go before he can get any closer and get a good look at my reddened eyes.

“Hey,” he says from right behind me, and while his voice is still stony, the edges are far softer than normal. I freeze, afraid to turn around lest my teary, sniffling face be close to his. Instead, I peer over my shoulder, my eyes falling on the gray fabric of Tyson’s shirt. My head only comes up to his shoulder…which means that my face sits right against his breastbone when he pulls me to him in a single, quick motion.

I’m surprised, so much so that I almost push away. His body is hard, all muscles that feel like rocks against my skin. He puts his arms around me, but his embrace isn’t exactly tender— it’s more…controlling. But not in a bad way— in a way that makes me relax. In a way that makes me feel small, and protected, and like Tyson Slate and his muscles and swagger and eyes and harsh voice are between me and the emotions that were so overwhelming just a few moments ago. I exhale and let myself cry against him, pulling my arms up to my chest so his body practically encompasses mine. He’s so broad shouldered that my entire body fits into the span of his chest.

“This night just sort of sucks,” I finally say, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. I can’t believe I’m letting a near-stranger hold me like this— but then, he’s so clearly in charge of the situation that I can’t find it embarrassing. After all, if he didn’t want me weeping in his arms, he wouldn’t have pulled me, weeping, into his arms.

He inhales patiently, his breath a steady, even rhythm. I wish I could see his eyes. From up against him, though, all I can see are his biceps and the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow coming in along his jawline.

“Sometimes just when things seem to be at their worst, they get better then you could ever imagine,” he whispers.

I tense and chew my lip. I feel my heart thudding, but more then that, I feel my center tightening and tingling. “That sounds like wishful thinking,” I say, trying to play off the attraction I’m feeling at his words.

Tyson chuckles, though it’s deep in his chest— so much so that were I not pressed against him, I doubt I’d have noticed. “Listen, let’s go back inside and try and make the best of this admittedly shitty party.”

I wipe my eyes as he looks down at me to see my reaction.

“Only if we both agree that we won’t insult the other. Or at least, that we’ll try not to. We seem to have a knack for it, intentional or otherwise.”

“Deal,” he says. His arms are still holding me though, and the gesture feels strangely intimate and growing more sexual by the moment.

I mean to step away from him, to start walking. My body, however, doesn’t obey me; I don’t let go. I stay pressed against Tyson, taking note of the way he feels, the beat of his heart, the smell of him, the heat of his skin. I close my eyes and tension I didn’t realize I was carrying in my jaw and shoulders melts away. He’s so strong; he’s so clearly in control. What do I have to worry about?

He slides one hand firmly up my back to the side of my head, and presses my cheek tighter to his chest. He thumbs at my hair for a moment, twisting his fingers around my curls, and then I unexpectedly feel his breath against the top of my head. He’s lowered his chin to the crown of my head, and then he kisses me there. I feel unwound; it’s hard to believe I was crying just a few moments before. That tension, that tightness that only comes with tears, is gone. It’s all gone. Everything but Tyson is gone.

Tyson shifts again, his mouth running along my hair, down to my ear. I find myself rising on my toes to give him easier access, the act instinctual rather than planned. Tyson’s breath is hot against the upper curve of my ear for a moment, and then his lips part. I expect him to whisper something, but instead he bites lightly at the top of my ear, running his tongue along the skin there.

My knees weaken, and my mouth opens, and the smallest of sighs emerges from my lips as I tilt my head more. Tyson responds by pulling me even closer to him, the pressure nearly painful, and then licks down the back of my ear, stopping to kiss me at the spot just under my earlobe. No one has ever done this before— no one has kissed me anywhere but the lips before— but Tyson so clearly knows what he’s doing that I’m not worried. That’s not to say I’m not nervous, of course, especially when I feel his mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing against my skin there. He eases my head to the side with one hand so he can kiss up and down my neck, and then, without fanfare or any discernible effort, lifts me off the ground slightly. He brings my neck to his mouth, and when I feel him sucking lightly in a way that I know will leave a mark, I moan from both the sensation, and the idea of there being some sign of this perfect moment on my body later.