SEVEN TRISTAN #2
By the time we stumble through his bedroom door, Tristan's flushed and panting, eyes glazed. He pins me against the wall and kisses his way down my throat. I relish each gasp and groan I drag from his lips.
“Clothes off!” he commands.
We shed clothes as we go, leaving a trail from the door to his bed. By the time we tumble onto the bed, we're both naked and hard. And I’m positively aching for this man.
He blankets my body with his, rocking against me in a slow grind that makes us both groan. I arch into him, fingers digging into his back.
"Tell me what you want," he rasps against my throat.
"You." I’m breathless. "Just you."
He sucks along my collarbone—I’m sure he leaves a mark—and reaches between us to wrap a large, masculine hand around both our cocks. A loud groan escapes my lips as I buck into his grip, and it's all I can do not to come right then and there.
Tristan sets a brutal pace, as if chasing the edge of orgasm. I watch lust and wonder chase across his expression. He's gorgeous like this; I never want to stop looking at him. And I feel wrecked and wanting.
His fingers twist into my hair, and he crushes our mouths together, kissing me desperately. My cock pulses in his hand and I spill between us with a muffled shout, which seems to tip him over the edge after me.
We lie there panting, a tangle of sweaty limbs.
After a moment, I huff out a disbelieving laugh. "So much for 'one kiss at a time'," I say. I can hear a hint of panic in my voice.
He brushes my hair back from my forehead and leans in to kiss me slow and deep. Is he hoping to soothe away the panic?
We finally break apart.
While my lips still tingle from Tristan's kisses, he seems to have recovered quickly.
"See? That wasn't too bad, was it?” Although the tone of his voice is light and playful, there's something in his gaze that seems unsure, worried.
But how am I to know what Tristan’s thinking? We barely know each other.
"Cat got your tongue, Myles? Don't freak out on me now."
I'm not even sure how to react. Heck, I don't even know where to look. My eyes settle for his stubbled chin.
But, goddammit! That's way too close to the lips I just kissed, the lips that are still faintly moist from my touch.
Trying to keep the tone of my voice equally light, I say, "Well that's one hurdle you helped me to cross."
"And that, my dear friend, is one benefit of having slutty friends."
Say what now? Did he call himself slutty? That doesn’t sit well with me.
My gaze pins his. He's smiling, but I'm not sure it's genuine. It seems guarded, somehow.
I don't like hearing Tristan talking about himself like this.
"Since you’re an adult, you’re entitled to have as many partners as you want as often as you’d like. It doesn't mean you're a slu—what you just said."
Shrugging his shoulders, he says, "I am what I am. It's no big deal."
And that right there tells me so much about the man standing before me.
It's like a window has just opened, giving me the smallest of opportunities to take a peep into who Tristan is as a person.
He exudes confidence, and I'm comfortable enough in my manhood to admit that he's handsome and sexy.
He's physically strong, and from the little I've seen, he's good at his job and good with people.
But there's a part of him that’s vulnerable, and he tries to hide his vulnerability with that cool, laid-back facade of his.
I don't want him to feel like he's not good enough because of his choices.
And suddenly transported back to Christmas when he told me those same words: I'm good enough.
I want him to feel the same way, that he's good enough.
It's a strange thing, though, to feel fiercely protective of a man I barely know.
Right now, there are so many things I need to process. Like the fact that I just made out with a man, that I just came… with a man.
"Got it," I say, picking up from Tristan’s last statement.
“Stay the night, Myles.”
I study his expression. His eyes are guileless, vulnerable.
A mixture of fear and want. There are so many things for me to unpack.
My wife hasn’t been gone a year yet, and here I am kissing and getting naked with someone who isn’t her.
And on top of that, I’m contemplating spending the night with him.
If Nix weren’t with his grandparents, my answer would have been an outright “no,” not that Tristan would have even asked me to spend the night if my son had been home.
I swallow, trying to dislodge the log that’s stuck in my throat. Wordlessly, I nod.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
“Yes… I’ll stay.”
I wake to sunlight streaming through the window and an unfamiliar weight across my chest. I blink open my eyes to find Tristan curled against me, arm slung over my torso, breath puffing warmly against my neck.
Memories of last night flood back in a heated rush, and I have to bite back a groan. We'd stayed in his bed exploring each other's bodies for hours, learning what made the other gasp and moan. I'd never felt so attuned to another person. It was intoxicating.
Terrifying.
Tristan stirs, nuzzling closer for a moment before freezing. I can feel the tension seep into his body and know he's remembering too. Panic flickers in my gut. Have I ruined everything? What if he just wanted to get his rocks off, and now he regrets it?
I chance a glance down to find him peering up at me through a fringe of mussed hair, eyes unreadable.
"Morning," I rasp, mouth dry.
He studies me for a long moment, searching. I force myself not to look away, to meet his gaze steadily even as my heart hammers. Finally he breathes out a sigh, tension bleeding from his frame, and his lips curve into a soft smile. "Morning," he echoes, leaning up to brush his mouth against mine.
The kiss is gentle, almost chaste, but it sparks heat in my veins all the same. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, the panic receding, and kiss him back.
"Coffee?" he asks when we part, the smile still on his face.
"Please," I say, my smile widening to a grin. "You read my mind."
"Getting there," he quips.
My laughter follows him out of the room.
Over a cup of coffee, we talk about everything except what happened the night before. All too soon, it’s time for me to get going.
"I need to be on my way,” I say, rising to my feet and slipping on the clothes I’d discarded on the floor.
For a sliver of a moment, Tristan’s face falls, and he looks almost sad. But then he quickly schools his expression.
"Sure." His eyes are cautious now.
Not long after, I'm back in my apartment.
I'm not going to think about the kissing and the hot as heck frotting session—yes, I know that’s what we did—with Tristan until I'm not feeling so conflicted.
One thing is certain, though, I want to be a good friend to Tristan.
And I'm committing myself to being one, no matter what.
It doesn't seem as if he has many people in his life who care about him.