“Okay you want to talk? Let’s talk.” My tone was tense, my arms folded in front of me like I was ready to do battle.
Because I was.
I kept pacing as I asked, “Did you beat up Milton back when I was dating him?” I snapped my neck around to look at him.
He tried to give me a very innocent look, but I was not buying it. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb. Answer me.”
“When are we talking about, exactly?”
“Oh, did you beat him up more than once?” I shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I went out with him on a Friday. Some charity event. There were photographers there. The next time I saw him, on a Monday, he looked like he’d lost a fight. Was that fight with you?” I spoke slowly, sharply, determined to get a square answer.
“Oh, that…” He gave me an engaging sort of grimace that turned into an audacious smile. “Yes. That was me. In my defense, I was provoked beyond all sanity. And the next time, well, he was asking for it. Don’t get all pissy about it. He’s a big boy, he can handle it. I was literally picking on someone my own size.”
I shook my head, beyond exasperated, because he clearly wasn’t sorry, and moreover, perversely, I found his shameless confession sort of endearing.
And worse still, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “You weren’t hurt, were you?”
I was a stupid, stupid girl. Hopeless really.
He stood and approached me, and I got the tightest hug for that one, his face buried in my neck. “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that? He didn’t hurt me. Not at all. It was kind of a letdown, really. He looked like he’d be more of a challenge. Do you know that second time was the last time I’ve been in a fight?”
“You beat him up a second time?”
“I knew he kept calling you, after you’d said to leave you alone. Before you ask how I knew, I made a point of finding him and asking him. That was the second time. He stopped calling, right?”
I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, so I just stared.
“Okay, my turn,” said Tristan.
He pulled back and all of the happy bled out of his face as he pondered his question. A twitch started pulsing in his temple, but he plunged ahead. “Did you sleep with Milton?” The words churned over in his mouth, like he didn’t have the stomach for them.
I rubbed my temples. “Tristan,” I warned him.
How quickly we’d wandered out of safe territory.
“I’m not going to interrogate you about the last six years. I just want to know about him. Consider it my one free question.”
I stood and started to pace, getting more agitated by the second. “He bothers you more than, say, someone more faceless? Someone you don’t know?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“Fine. No. I never slept with him. It never got that far. Now, my turn.”
“Your turn,” he agreed warily.
“Tell me about you and my sister.”
His brows shot together. “Dahlia?”
“Yes. That sister. Tell me what happened between you two.”
“Nothing. Nothing happened. I tried to help her and Jack out whenever I could, tried to be a phone call away if she ever needed help, but that’s all.”
“Bullshit. When Jack was three, he told me he’d seen you two kissing. I confronted Dahlia, and she as good as confirmed that it was true, though she stubbornly refused to give me any more information. I want to know exactly what happened. Did you date her?”
His breath puffed out in an agitated sigh. “No, of course not. You really thought I’d do that?” His voice was full of chastising affront.
I set my jaw stubbornly. No guilt trip was going to keep me from hearing what had happened. Not even a very good one. “Tell me what happened. Did you kiss her? And if you didn’t, tell me why Jack thought you did.”
“I started checking in on her, as soon as I found out that she was pregnant and alone. Like a big brother would do. Because that’s what I was. I’d married into her family. You know I take family seriously.
And she, well, she always had that silly crush on me. Frankly, it was annoying. She never even knew a thing about me when she started with that nonsense. But I always tried to be nice to her, because she was your baby sister, and I tried to look after her, because she was your baby sister. I guess she was reading more into it. One day she kissed me, planted one on me right in front of Jack. I let her get it out of her system; let her see that there was nothing on my end to feed whatever delusions were happening on her end. That was it. She got the picture. The end.”
“Why wouldn’t she just tell me that?”
“Who can say? She always resented the way I felt about you, the power you had over me. Maybe she saw it as a small way of getting back. The point is, there was nothing between us. Of course there wasn’t. I’d never do that to you. Your baby sister? Come on. Never.”
I felt such a wave of relief I nearly staggered with it.
I believed him. I just did. Moreover, I wondered how I’d ever been so certain he could do such a thing.
Perhaps I’d wanted to believe it. Perhaps I’d been looking for more reasons to bring him down in my esteem.
I had been in survival mode for a very long time. And whatever was happening to me now, well, that could only be the opposite.
It had only taken a few questions to get Tristan out of his fishing for information mood. I’d known that would work, had counted on it.
He wasn’t the only one with an arsenal in this war of ours.
What I didn’t plan on, though, was him behaving himself. He left not much later without even kissing me, or even trying to, and I told myself that was good. Maybe we were getting better. Maybe my theory (Familiarity breeding self-control) had been correct.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I didn’t hear from him for a few days after that, and then when he did call, wanting me to come over, I was in an airport, heading to New York for five days.
Within a five-minute conversation though, he convinced me to come over to his house the day I got back.
In fact, jet lagged, travel weary, I found myself driving directly from the airport to his place. What could I do? He was bored and waiting for me, he’d told me over the phone. Who could turn that down?
Apparently not me.
I grabbed us takeout from this old, Italian place, Sophia’s, that was conveniently located just five minutes from the airport. We used to have it delivered to Bev’s, back in the day. It was killer, and I hadn’t had it in six years.
I wanted that takeout.
We shared a long hug when he opened the door for me, looking delectable in a white T-shirt and jeans.
We pigged out on stuffed shells and the greasiest garlic bread I’d ever consider worth the calories.
I had almost stopped to grab a bottle of wine at a liquor store on the way to his house. I’d parked the car before I’d remembered why that was a bad idea.
That calculatedly absent alcohol was the only thing that made our dinner together that night any different from the old days. No, not the old days. The good old days. The great ones.
After dinner, I found myself on the couch again with him, watching our favorite show together and letting him slowly take liberties that I knew from the start were going to lead farther.
Eventually, he eased into lying behind me on the couch, an arm thrown over me, the other under my head, being used like a hard pillow.
I laughed at the show we were watching, and my body moved just enough to brush him. With that brief contact, my back arched instinctively, pushing my butt hard into him in an artless invitation.
My head said no to that, but it was, unfortunately, several seconds slower than my traitorous body.
He sucked in a harsh breath.
We were on the thinnest of ice, so when it cracked, and we both went crashing through, I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.
Any vague remnant of caution I’d felt walking thr
ough his door was quickly overrun by the promise of sheer carnal oblivion.
Physical need could be a terrible thing, and I didn’t even need to get into how messy the rest of our baggage was.
His hand covered my breast over my clothes, fondling, fingering my hard nipple, kneading at my pliant flesh.
My top had a built in bra, so when his hand delved into the side of my blouse, it made direct contact with skin. I pushed myself into his hand, gasping.
His mouth was on my neck, my eyes closed with pleasure, when my hands went to the front of my slacks. I felt him working at the fastening of his jeans behind me.
I didn’t get my pants all the way off, just pushing them past my hips to bunch around my knees.
I didn’t even manage to turn around. The second I felt his bare skin against me, his hardness digging into me, we shared but one goal. To get him inside of me, by the fastest means possible.
One of his hands gripped my hip, anchoring me as he pushed hard against me.
My back bowed; my body contorting until I was angled to allow him entry.
He started to surge into me with a rough curse. He had to work in slowly, the fullness of it overwhelming, the voluptuous sensation of every raw tender nerve being worked making me so frantic that I bit my fist in some desperate attempt at restraint.
His hand snaked down, rubbing my clit with a light, fast touch, meanwhile the progress of his cock into my cunt was at an all-time slow.
“Please,” I called out.
“I can’t rush it. I don’t know when you’ll let this happen again, and the last time few times were so fast, so fucking rushed, that I’ve regretted that I didn’t savor them more.”
I wiggled my hips impatiently. He kept moving deeper, stopping completely when he was fully submerged. Instead of pulling out, or thrusting, he began to circle his hips, shifting inside, dragging his shaft around and around, hitting nerves, setting off sparks.
The sensations that caused had my eyes rolling up into my head, and I was shaking like I had a fever.
“It’s too much,” I gasped, one hand flying up to grip at his hair, the other reaching for the coffee table. I could just reach the edge of it. I scored my nails across it, and the soft dark wood finish gave under my fingers.
He’d have a bitch of a time hiding the damage.
He brought me over like that, with that torturous circling and his relentless fingers. I was still clenching on his cock as he shifted, rolling me until I was pinned flat on my belly below him, his hand pushing down hard on my shoulder. He began to move with purpose then, deep thrusts that pounded me into his couch.
“Fuck, Danika. Do you have any clue how often I think about this? It’s a wonder I get any fucking thing done, when my mind is always right here, buried in this divine cunt. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this? Missed you?”
I whimpered, but he wasn’t done bombarding me—with his thrusts or his words. He kept at it, cursing, praising, rutting, caressing.
Meanwhile, I could barely get a breath in, my face was being pounded so deep into the sofa.
He shouted, his voice rough and low, as he came, grinding into me at that perfect angle.
I was close to coming again too, so close that I started cursing him as he pulled out.
“Shh, sweetheart. I got you. Let’s go to bed. I’m not even close to being done.”
He got off me and helped me up from the couch.
I pulled my pants up awkwardly, feeling disoriented. “I stood up too fast,” I told him. You couldn’t go from facedown, ass up, to upright and not have to pause to get your bearings.
He pulled me close, propping me against him, his arm thrown around me. He nuzzled into my hair, into the sensitive spot just behind my ear. “Come to bed with me,” he said very, very quietly.
I didn’t respond, didn’t think I needed to, since he’d already begun to tug me with him to the stairs.
I paused in the door of his bedroom, needing a moment to take it all in.
The huge painting on the wall, of me, was of course the first thing I focused on. I still couldn’t believe he’d done that. Who the hell bought a ninety thousand dollar painting of their ex and put it in their bedroom?
It was so twisted. And dammit, some part of me thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever done.
After a time, my attention shifted to the rest of the spacious room.
I sized up his bed. I wasn’t pleased with what I saw. It was intimidating. It was huge and red and built more like a miniature house than a bed.
I shot him a look. “That your torture chamber?”
“It’s a modified reproduction of a Chinese wedding bed.”
“That didn’t exactly answer my question.”
He began to undress me, starting with my slacks. When his hands went to my panties, I moved away.
“Let’s get in bed,” he urged softly.
I shook my head, still staring at that bed, getting more agitated by the second. “Why do you have a bed like that, Tristan?”
“Come on.” He grabbed my hand, trying to tug me toward it.
I shook him off. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” I licked my suddenly bone dry lips. “Any surprises you have for me?”
He sighed deep, ran a hand through his hair, and just stood there, looking very uncertain for a man with a bed that looked like it belonged in a BDSM playground.
I set my jaw and moved to it. When he tried to follow me, I held up a warning hand. “Stay there.” My voice was cold.
It was beautiful in a way, painted red and carved intricately. Determinedly, I climbed inside. The mattress was soft. It didn’t even hurt my knee as I crawled across it.
When I spotted the row of drawers at the head of it, my suspicions were confirmed. I didn’t even have to open them, though I did.
Handcuffs. Ropes. And a shitload of other things that I couldn’t have named, but knew the purpose of.
I moved back to the opening of the bed, swinging my legs out, and just perching there for a long time, my mind racing.
My eyes snagged again on the picture of me. He must’ve had it for months. How could that possibly go over well, a sexy painting of your ex looking down on all of your sordid kinky bed activities.
I pointed at the painting. “What the fuck is with this kinky shit? I think that’s actually worse than the restraints. You like my painting to watch you when you fuck other women?”
“Such a pretty girl, such a dirty mouth.” He sounded resigned, but still fond.
I glared at him. “Don’t get cute with me. Explain this messed up shit to me. Now.”
“I haven’t had anyone in this bed in ages, okay? There’s nothing for the you in that painting to watch.” He paused. “Well, except for copious amounts of jacking off. But other than that, Painting Danika should have nothing to complain about. And frankly, in my mind, Painting Danika loves to watch me jacking off.”
Eyes wide, I just kept shaking my head at him.
He shrugged, trying and failing to look sheepish, then looking down while he outright smiled. “Too far?”
I ignored him, still fixated on those restraints and the comment about no one in the bed for ages.
The comment was easy to reconcile, when I recalled that he had that hotel suite at his disposal.
And the restraints, well, it’d be a lie to say I hadn’t had a clue he was kinky. I just hadn’t thought it was this essential to him.
The bed reminded me of a lifestyle.
It reminded me of Frankie.
“It was Frankie and James, wasn’t it? Did those kinky fucks bring you over to the dark side?”
He started laughing. Hearing my own words, I started laughing, and neither of us could seem to stop for the longest time.
“It was you, actually.”
That confused the hell out of me. “How do you figure?”
“It started with you. The submission, the restraints. I don’t have a fetish, but I definitely found a p
reference. With you. When I started dating again, my, um, sexual triggers were just desensitized. Not being able to get high didn’t help, not back then. I just needed a little extra something, to make things exciting, because it was hard for me to get excited about anything at all, for a very long time.”
I looked down at my feet. “You know what? Let’s not talk about this anymore. I get the picture. But just to be clear, if you ever try to spank me, I’ll probably knee you in the balls.”
He laughed. “I don’t spank. You know what I do. You like what I do.”
“God, the things that can happen in six years and still it feels like no time’s passed.”
“I don’t know how I even did it,” said Tristan softly. “Looking back from here, I have no idea where I found the strength to let you stay out of my life for so long.”
I looked down at my fidgeting hands. “You’re a strong guy. It looks, from where I’m standing, like you handled it just fine.”
“You were always the strong one.”
My brows drew together. “Bullshit.”
“Let me finish. You were. Just because you’re a girl, and you don’t get into fistfights, doesn’t mean you aren’t tougher than me. You faced your pain head-on. You always have. I can’t tell you how much I admire that. I wish I were like you. I have from the beginning. There is no one I admire more. You don’t run away from anything.”
I was sitting on his bed, we’d just had sex on his couch, and we were pretending this was friends, and so this made me crane my neck to look at him, my smile wry. “What do you call all of this? Being together like this, pretending it’s only friendship? Don’t you think denial is a form of running away?”
He came and sat beside me on the bed. Without a word, or seemingly any effort, he plucked me into his lap. He pulled me hard against him, wrapping his arms tight around me so I was facing forward. I couldn’t see his face in this position.
“You aren’t in denial, so this isn’t running away for you. For me, perhaps, but not for you.”
I barked out a short laugh. “So what would you call it, in my case?”
“Pity.” His voice was a quiet, reverent utterance. “You’ve taken pity on me. And I’m in denial, telling myself that it’s more for you, like it is for me.”