Page 45 of Playing Hard to Hate

With the next round starting in just two days away, the city of Atlanta is holding its breath. Will Griffin Silver take the field, or will last night’s heroics cost the Braves their shot at the championship? Stay tuned for updates.

The phone flew from my hand, crashing against the wall before clattering to the floor. My chest heaved, anger still pulsing through my veins.

“Griffin!” Tate’s panicked voice echoed from the bathroom, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Fuck.

I rushed to the door, pushing it open just enough for steam to billow out, curling around me like a ghostly warning.

“Sorry, baby girl,” I murmured, my voice rough with regret. “Lost my temper.”

A pause. Then the soft splashing of water filled the tense space between us.

“I was scared,” she admitted, her voice small.

My fingers tightened around the doorframe. My jaw clenched. I’d been so consumed by my own fury that I hadn’t thought about how it would sound to her, the sudden crash, the violence of it. After everything she’d just been through, the last thing I wanted was for her to feel unsafe.

The bathroom door creaked all the way open, and Tate stepped out, her damp hair clinging to her skin, her face scrubbed clean but still tired.

She was drowning in one of my shirts, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, exposing soft, bare skin.

My boxers hung loose on her frame. Her juicy ass was the only thing holding the waistband up.

Something about seeing her like this, wrapped up in my clothes, in my space, settled the storm inside me. It had been my dream for far too long.

Her green eyes flickered to where my phone lay in pieces on the floor, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she walked toward the bed, pulling back the covers before crawling in, curling up against the pillows like she belonged there.

I watched her for a second, committing the sight to memory. Then, with a heavy exhale, I grabbed a clean towel and stepped into the shower, bracing my hands against the cool tile as the hot water pounded down.

Blood. Sweat. The weight of the night. It all swirled down the drain, washing away in rivulets of red and gray.

By the time I climbed into bed, Tate was already asleep, her breathing soft and steady.

I slid in beside her, careful not to wake her, but the moment I settled, she shifted, gravitating toward me in her sleep.

Her hand found my chest, her fingers curling against my skin like she needed to feel that I was still there.

I pressed a soft kiss to her hair, inhaling the faint scent of my shampoo on her, and let my eyes close.

For the first time that night, I felt at peace.

In the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of soft whimpers. At first, I thought I was dreaming, until I turned my head and saw Tate in the darkness, the moonlight illuminating her twisted in the sheets, her face drawn tight, her breath ragged.

“No,” she mumbled, barely audible, her fingers clutching at the pillow. “Please… Stop…”

My chest tightened.

“Tate,” I murmured, shifting closer, my hand brushing over her arm. She didn’t stir. I cupped her cheek, my thumb tracing the dampness there. “Baby, wake up.”

She flinched, her body jolting as a strangled gasp ripped from her throat. Her eyes snapped open, wide with fear, and for a second, she wasn’t here with me. She was still trapped in the nightmare.

“Hey, hey, you’re safe,” I whispered, brushing her hair back. “It’s just me. You’re here with me.”

She sucked in a breath, her fingers trembling as she reached for me.

“Fin, I’m a mess. I am never going to be perfect,” she whispered, voice raw.

“I don’t care about you being perfect. Never have, never will.”

“ You’re just saying that because you are perfect, you have everything!”

“No, Tate, you’re wrong. I only have everything if I have you.”

Her lips parted, and whatever she saw in my eyes must have soothed her because her breathing slowed. She shifted, her body inched closer, her hand slid up my chest, fingertips featherlight against my skin.

I felt the shift the moment it happened. The way her fear ebbed away, only to be replaced by something else. Her hand started to roam, down my chest, over my boxers, along my stiffening cock.

“Tate…” My voice was a warning, but she didn’t stop.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t want to think about the robbery or the tabloids…I just…I want to feel something good. I need you, Griffin.”

My pulse pounded, my body already reacting to the heat in her words and the way her leg slid over mine beneath the sheets.

I caught her wrist gently. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Tate.” I tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “I need you to tell me. I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Still, I hesitated. “This is your first time, baby. I need you to be absolutely certain. No regrets.”

Her fingers traced my jaw, soft and slow. “I could never regret you.”

That was all it took.

Because tonight wasn’t just about me or the need pulsing between us.

It was about her.

And I was going to make damn sure the only thing she remembered about this night was how good I made her feel.

I rolled her onto her back, my lips finding hers, claiming what I had wanted for years.