STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

He nudges my head so he can kiss the front of my neck, the other side, and then lifts me higher until our lips find one another. Tyson kisses hard and confidently; there’s no exploring, no tentative pecks, just strength and masculinity and power. I part my lips and he slides his tongue into my mouth, which makes me moan again. Who am I, even? I don’t do things like this with guys. I certainly don’t make noises like this. But Tyson is coaxing these feelings, these sounds, these wants from me, and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t want to stop him— no, it’s more than that. I don’t want to be able to stop him. I want him to stay in control. I want to give up all the responsibility and authority and risk-aversion I wear like armor, and let him run my body instead.

I moan again, louder this time, because Tyson just licked from my collarbone up to my ear, then nibbled on it lightly.

Tyson murmurs, “I knew I needed to have you when I saw you in the gym that day.”

“Have me?” I say, startled— but still unable to twist away both because of his hold on me and the general wobbly feeling in my legs. Does he mean “have” me in the abstract, or “have” me as in sex? I assume the later, given the way he’s pressed to me, the way his mouth is on me— but I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t want to tell him that. But…I also don’t want to tell him no, because the truth is…I’m not opposed to the idea of Tyson taking my virginity. He’s so in control, after all; I wouldn’t have to worry…

“Yes,” he breathes, which doesn’t answer my question, exactly. I feel one of his wide hands sliding down my back, his fingers wrapping around my upper thigh. I moan again at how close his fingers are to the wetness between my legs, at how strange and wild it feels to have someone else’s hands there rather than my own. My thighs tighten, like my responsible, good-girl body is trying to reject him while my Tyson-Slate-addled brain is begging me to let go, to let him do this. To let this calm, powerful, strong person take the reins from me, if only for a little while.

I lift my chin, and his lips find mine again. He kisses me deeply, then begins to inch his hands farther up my inner thigh. I feebly protest the motion, and he pulls his mouth away from mine.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

I’m taken aback by the question, mostly because I’d nearly given in entirely to Tyson’s authority. I chew my lip, trying to dredge up my saner self— the version of myself who would never, ever make out with a guy like Tyson, and would certainly never let him touch her like this. But that girls feels tucked away, and in her place is a version of myself that I don’t totally recognize, but totally adore— a girl who doesn’t have to be cautious and careful and wary. A girl who can let a man make her moan without guilt. A girl who wants to feel Tyson Slate’s fingers—

“There you are!” a male voice says, and Tyson steps away from me. I feel like I’ve been dropped a hundred feet, even though I know it was a few inches at best. I rock, unbalanced, the heat between my legs and around my heart surging and dissipating like I’ve been dunked in ice water. I blink, unsure what’s happened. Tyson has spun around, and he’s now facing away from me, talking with a group of guys who have come down to the lower yard with sparklers and firecrackers. I barely catch the conversation; my head feels cottony and confused.

“Wait, who’s that?” one of them asks. Tyson steps aside, and it’s only now that I realize his body was blocking mine. That he was intentionally blocking their line of sight to me, hiding me away.

“One of the freshman cheerleader’s friends. She was sick, I came to check,” Tyson says with a shrug, and walks toward them. “Last thing I want is a publicity issue about the house or the team right before game one.”

“Good thinking, Dr. Slate,” one of the guys snorts in response.

“I told you not to call me that anymore,” Tyson says in response, but it’s good-natured. Or at least, as good-natured as his still and steady voice can sound, I suspect. They walk into the dim light that rolls off the deck and begin to light sparklers in giant handfuls, swigging beer as they do so. I stare, confused. Did that just happen? Is he embarrassed of me? I want to shout that he can go fuck himself then, but instead there’s just a core of hurt in my chest, growing and churning until I finally shake my head and slink away into the dark.