Later that evening
Tate admitted to himself that he didn’t know how to like a guy, let alone fall in love with one. Everything that comprised his actions and thinking detailed drinking with a man, taking him back to his flat, undressing him, and having his way with the stud. He’d ditch them before dawn, someway and somehow, forgetting the guy’s name on purpose and sleep the rest of the morning away, alone, just the way he enjoyed it, and wanted his life to be.
Could he fall for Persimmon? Had he already? Why did he push Persimmon away tonight? And why didn’t he follow through with a round of heavy-duty and mind-blowing s*x with the good-looking man? What had gone wrong tonight unlike the other nights in his life when he had drinks with a man and brought him home?
Truth be told, Tate fel
