Chapter 22 – Waverly
WAVERLY
We stumble through the door of Tristan’s apartment, my laughter mingling with Braxton’s while Tristan fumbles getting the key out of the lock.
The wine from dinner sits warm in my veins, turning everything slightly soft at the edges.
Three glasses, I think. Or was it four? Enough that I’m feeling bold, but not so much that I can’t feel the weight of Tristan’s hand at the small of my back or miss the way Braxton’s eyes linger on my lips when I catch him looking.
“Someone had a good time,” Brax teases, his voice carrying that amused rumble that makes my skin prickle. He helps me out of my coat, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. Not an accident. Never an accident with him.
“It’s Christmas Eve in Paris,” I say, turning to face him. “If that isn’t a fairy tale come true, I don’t know what is.”
“Do you like it more than Boston?” Brax asks, but there’s something else in his tone I can’t quite read.
“Paris is incredible. But Boston is home.”
A small smile curves his lips, making his dimples pop. They’ve both been a little… off or perhaps different since they went to Alain’s office yesterday. They also refused to answer my questioning looks, covering them up with smiles and acting the part of my boss and in-love boyfriend.
We spent the day meandering around Montmartre, and it was just so… natural. So perfect.
“But you like Paris?” Tristan asks, and Braxton turns toward the window just as I think I catch a frown.
“How could I not? It could also be the excellent company.”
Tristan flops onto the sleek leather sofa, loosening his tie with one hand while the other pats the space beside him. “Excellent company, she says. Hear that, Brax? We’ve been upgraded from tolerable bosses to excellent company.”
“Speak for yourself,” Braxton replies, moving to the bar in the corner and perusing the selection Tristan keeps here. “I was never merely tolerable. Or Satan, for that matter. I’m the likable one.”
I slip off my heels, sinking my toes into the plush carpet that probably costs more than three months of my rent.
Tristan’s apartment is ridiculous in the best way.
All clean lines and hidden luxury, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the City of Light like it’s a private show just for us.
The Eiffel Tower winks in the distance, flashing with multicolored lights.
“Nightcap?” Brax asks, already pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers without waiting for our answer.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Hicks?” I quip, accepting the glass he offers. I snort a laugh. “I still can’t believe your name is Braxton Hicks.”
He shrugs. “My parents were OBs. They thought it was funny since their last name was Hicks. And I think our princess is already a little drunk, so maybe just a small one for you since we have other things in mind for tonight and need you sober for them.”
Something hot and liquid pools low in my belly. Four days ago, he was just my hot, sexy, swoony boss. Four days and a lifetime ago.
Tristan pats the couch again, more insistently. “Come sit, Waverly. You look unsteady.”
“I’m always steady,” I lie, making my way to him with what I hope is elegant grace. I settle between them as Braxton takes the space on my other side, the leather cool against the backs of my thighs where my dress has ridden up.
“To unexpected gifts,” Braxton says, raising his glass, his brown eyes dancing with mischief as they meet mine.
“To taking what you want,” Tristan counters, his glass clinking against mine.
I drink, the scotch burning a path down my throat that matches the heat of their bodies flanking me.
I’m not a Christmas ornament, I remind myself.
Not a toy. I’m here because I want to be.
Because something electric happens when the three of us are together.
Something I can’t explain and don’t want to analyze too deeply.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Braxton accuses, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
“Just appreciating the view,” I deflect, nodding toward the windows.
“Liar,” Tristan chuckles softly, his breath warm against my ear. “But that’s all right. We appreciate our view too.”
His hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing idle circles that make my heart race and my skin tingle. On my other side, Braxton’s arm drapes across the back of the couch, his fingers toying with the ends of my hair.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” Braxton asks, his voice lighter than Tristan’s but no less affecting. “That little bistro was my find, you know. Tristan wanted to take you to some stuffy Michelin-starred restaurant where they serve foam and call it cuisine.”
I can’t help my giggle.
Tristan’s thumb pauses its movement. “You loved La Mousse when I took you there last time.”
“I loved watching the waitresses flirt with you more than the foam,” Braxton fires back, winking at me when I scowl like a jealous girlfriend until something hits me.
“Wait? It’s called La Mousse?”
“Yes, and mousse means foam.” Tristan rolls his eyes.
I snort out a laugh I can’t stop, earning full teeth smiles and light laughs from them.
“The restaurant was perfect,” I tell them when I’m done laughing. “I’m grateful there was no foam. Seriously though, everything has been...” I trail off, unsure how to finish that thought without revealing too much of myself.
“Perfect?” Tristan suggests, his hand sliding an inch higher on my thigh.
“Unexpected,” I correct.
“Is that good or bad?” Braxton questions, suddenly serious, which is rarely his brand of tea.
I look at him, then at Tristan. My bosses. My lovers. The lines I’ve crossed and can’t uncross. “It’s good,” I admit, a little shaky. “Complicated, but good.”
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tristan offers, setting his glass down on the side table. “Not tonight.”
He leans in, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. My eyes flutter closed as his lips work their way down my neck. Braxton’s hand moves from my hair to my shoulder, then traces a path down my arm until his fingers intertwine with mine.
“Tonight is just us,” Braxton agrees, his other hand tipping my chin toward him.
“The rest we’ll figure out as we go.” There’s something in his eyes as he says that.
Something I can’t read. A look of desperation or hope or maybe even fear, but before I can try to make sense of it, his lips are on mine.
His kiss is different from Tristan’s. Playful where Tristan is intense.
Coaxing where Tristan demands. I melt into it, the taste of scotch and desire mingling on our tongues.
Tristan’s hands continue their exploration, one sliding up to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my dress, the other pushing the hem higher up my thighs.
“Let’s move,” Tristan urges against my skin. “I want to see you naked against the lights of the city.”
Braxton pulls back, his eyes dark as he nods in agreement. Tristan stands, pulling me up with him, then leads me to the wall of windows. Behind us, Braxton follows, his hands finding the zipper at the back of my dress.
“Wait,” I say, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. “Can people see in?”
Tristan’s lips quirk in that almost-smile that makes him look dangerous. “No one can see in. But you can see everything out there. All of Paris at your feet, Waverly.”
The zipper slides down with a soft hiss, and my dress pools around my ankles.
I’m left in nothing but black lace and the thin gold necklace Braxton bought me today as an early Christmas gift from a shop we passed.
Neither of them knows how to stop buying me things, no matter how I fight and protest.
“Look at you,” Braxton breathes, his hands spanning my waist from behind.
Tristan steps back, leaning into the glass of the balcony doors, leisurely unbuttoning his shirt as he drinks me in. “You should see her from this angle,” he says to Braxton.
And at Tristan’s mentioning that, I cast my gaze away from him to the glass. Not the view, but the window. My reflection is almost ghostly with my pale skin, dark hair, and silver eyes wide with anticipation. I hardly recognize myself, but I also know I’ve never been more alive than I am now.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of clothing being removed.
“She looks nervous, Tris,” Braxton comments, and I feel his bare chest press against my back, his hands sliding around to cup my tits. “Are you nervous, Sunshine?”
“No,” I lie again, then correct myself. “Maybe a little.”
“Don’t be,” Tristan says, coming to stand in front of me. He’s shed his shirt, leaving him in just his trousers. The hard planes of his chest and abdomen make my mouth go dry. “We’ve got you.”
His hands replace Braxton’s on my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace until they harden under his touch. Behind me, Braxton unhooks my bra, sliding it down my arms until I’m bare from the waist up except for the necklace that’s cool against my heated skin.
“This looks even better than I imagined,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the delicate chain, then continuing down between my shoulder blades.
“So pretty when you give in and let us spoil you as we want,” Tristan whispers against my lips, his hands on my hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my panties. His lips curl up into a smile, and at this point, I don’t bother protesting.
He tears the lace from my sides, then Braxton’s hands are there, one slipping between my thighs from behind.
“Already so wet for us,” he murmurs appreciatively, his fingers finding my center.
Tristan watches, his eyes darkening as Braxton begins to stroke me, but there’s something else in his eyes. “Tell me what you want tonight, Waverly.”