Chapter 23
Jesse
The look Tristan shoots me is positively wicked as he smirkingly grins up at me before giving me a light shove away from him. “Anything you say, sunshine. More music coming right up.”
Suddenly, I’m well aware of what he clearly already knew. Much as I do want to hear him play more, that was not the question I’d meant to answer.
“Now who’s a tease?” I grouse, as, with his characteristic easy grace, he perches himself on the shabby piano stool, turning his full attention back to the keys in front of him.
“Why, sunshine,” he gasps, glancing back at me, eyes dancing over his expression of mock outrage, “I’m only doing what you said you wanted.”
I have no idea how he manages to look simultaneously the picture of offended innocence and pure evil, but somehow, that is precisely what he does.
Something tells me that it’s every bit as purposeful as it is distinctly unhelpful.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” I shake my head at him, unable to keep a smile off my face as the first notes of his new piece flow from under his fingers.
Trying to shift my thoughts back to listening and watching instead of the promise that had burned through the last dark-eyed look and knowing smile he’d cast me before turning away, I tug my chair a few feet over so I’m at his side, then settle into its familiar comfort, unable to hold back a totally different sort of smile.
Little as I can wait for whatever will come next, I love this thing I think I’ve just discovered about Tristan.
Much as I think (and so desperately hope) he wants me as badly as I want him, I don’t think he is just teasing me by making me wait while he keeps playing.
No, I think his passion for music is so great that this is genuinely the thing he wants to do most in this moment, and it is impossible to help being moved by that.
Another nudge down the slippery slope of infatuation.
And as his fingers move over the keys, in turn caressing and flying and dancing, I can’t look away from him any more than I could want to stop listening to the music swelling through the room at his touch.
That first moment I saw him in Upshot, I was struck by how gorgeous Tris is; his slim, firmly sculpted body, his shining dark hair that is forever tumbling into his warm, changeable eyes, the contrast of black ink curving up along his pale skin, his grace, the full softness of his pink lips.
Now though, watching the way his face lights and transforms with each new mood of his playing, my heart flutters in my chest and I feel my attention transforming into staring.
Staring hard. Harder than that first day I saw him at the coffee shop and could only dream of what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.
My eyes drift down from his face, down his chest and stomach, taking in the places the thin material of his shirt clings to his body, then back up, tracing over the curve of his neck and the mesmerizing way his tattoos shift over the muscles beneath his skin with each breath he takes; breaths I can’t help noticing are heavy and fast, like my own.
And then I realize the sound of his music is gone, replaced by silence and the whisper of our breathing as he stares back at me.
Maybe I should be embarrassed that he’s caught me so lost in exploring his body like this.
Maybe I should look away and attempt to salvage my dignity by trying to pretend I wasn’t looking at all, but when my eyes nervously flick up to Tristan’s, instead of warm, dancing hazel, his stare is dark and smoldering, the half-smile curving his lips somehow both smug and downright sinful.
“Beautiful.” The word escapes me on an exhale that turns it from the compliment for his music I think I’d meant it to be into something else.
“You think so?” His voice is a positive purr as he pushes off from the piano stool and steps toward me in a movement that brings us nearly chest to chest.
When had I stood from my chair, let alone gotten so close to him?
Sexy and confident as everything about him is, his eyes have that flicker of vulnerability once again as they linger on mine, like he’s checking to see if I’m being sincere.
Suddenly, my own reserve and nervous self-doubt crumble in the face of his uncertainty, overwhelmed by the need to reassure him that he is exactly what I’ve said. That and so much more.
“So beautiful,” I whisper over the pounding of my heart; a heady mix of residual nerves and dizzying want and the thrill of his nearness.
I can’t tell if it’s him that surges up to meet my lips or if I bend down to capture his.
Maybe we both move at the same time. It doesn’t matter because all I know is that the next moment, there’s nothing but him.
His smell, the sweet taste of his lips and the feel of them parting under mine, the intoxicating, compact solidness of his body beneath my hands.
And fuck— His body—
It’s impossible to keep my hands in just one place, so I let them wander, exploring, drinking in the discovery of each new gasp and moan he gives me.
Everywhere I touch him, the feel of him, even through his clothes, burns through me like wildfire.
I can’t get enough of the hard, lean swell of muscle in his arms and shoulders, the smooth dip of his lower back, the slim firmness of his waist as I drag him closer.
This kiss is as hungry and intense as earlier in the kitchen, but slower.
Deeper. There’s an intent in it, in the way his tongue seeks out mine, in the heaviness of our mingled breath, in the way we cling to each other as his fingers tangle in the front of my sweater, pulling me urgently to him as my hands tighten their hold on his waist, refusing even the smallest space between us.
The feel of his lips curving up into a smile and the breathy gust of his laughter over my skin tell me he feels it too.
Plastered against me he is, every shift and quiver of his body echoes through mine, and when he thrusts his hips, a half desperate, needy movement that grinds his erection along my thigh, I let out a low, deep sound, stifled by the hungry heat of his mouth as my teeth sink into the softness of his lower lip.
My own dick is every bit as hard as his, straining at my jeans as I grind back into him, my hands guiding his hips to follow in a movement that drags a moan from both of us.
Panting out another laugh, Tristan breaks away, his gasping breaths heavy and shivering as he skates his lips over the sensitive skin of my neck, making my hips buck against him as my inhale catches in my throat. “You sure this isn’t too fast for you, sunshine? We can take things slower if you—”
Warmth, totally separate from the hot tension radiating through me, fills my chest at his words. He’s not teasing, not laughing at me. He’s checking in; making sure I want this.
Making sure I want this?
Jesus fuck—
“Fuck slow,” I groan as he rolls his hips, lighting my body with a flash of heat and arousal and pleasure so intense that, for a moment, I freeze, afraid that if he does it again or if I move against him, I’ll come here and now.
“Mmmm, you fucking me nice and slow sounds good to me.” He lets out a breathless laugh as I groan, partly at his terrible joke, and partly at how my dick jumps and leaks at the words.
Because, underneath the teasing I’d definitely heard in his voice this time, there’s no mistaking that he meant what he said.
With one last evil grin up at me, he leans in to close his lips around the skin he’s just been exploring, sucking and licking at the base of my throat until I’m gasping and dizzy with the sensation and have to push him gently away to try to pull myself together.
He lets me go, but the sight of him as he takes an unsteady step back, black hair tousled, pupils blown huge in his hooded eyes, lips slick and swollen, parted to take in his panted, shallow breaths that match my own, does nothing to help.
And because I can’t stop myself, my eyes drift down over his heaving chest, down between us to the outline of his dick tenting those damn sweats of his.
I want this.
I need this.
Jesus fucking Christ I want him— Every cell in my body is alive and burning with desire, more intense and desperate than anything I’ve ever felt.
“Bed.” I’d meant the word as a question, if I’d even meant to say it at all, only it catches in my throat, coming out low and growly. A command, not a request.
Tristan’s eyes go wide, and for a moment, I’m terrified he’s offended or maybe even afraid. The next moment though, he lets out a quiet sound, a needy, breathy whine, his dick twitching visibly beneath his sweats.
This time, it’s without a doubt me that collides with him as I consume his mouth, letting one hand slip down his hip to grab the taut roundness of his ass as the other does what I’d imagined that first day I saw him, taking a fistful of the silky warmth of his hair and pulling, just hard enough to tip his head back for better access as we stagger across the small distance to my bed.
“Fucking yes—” Or at least I think that’s what he gasps against my lips.
Whatever he says, the breathless, wrecked sound of his voice is the hottest thing I think I’ve ever heard.
I can feel the hammering beat of my pulse racing through every inch of my body as I gracelessly tumble us onto the bed, pinning Tristan to the mattress.
He lets his legs fall open around my hips as he arches up to grind against me, and without thought or hesitation, driven by the need to feel him better, free of the rough confinement of my jeans, I reach between us, jerking open my snap and zipper and struggling to pull them off.
As I work, Tristan’s hands join mine. His lips kiss their way over my neck again until, even less gracefully than I toppled us down onto the bed, I’m kicking out of the stiff material, sinking back down onto him.
With only the thin barrier of my boxers and his sweats between us, my dick slots perfectly alongside his as I crash back down on him, licking back into his mouth as he opens to me.
Just the sensation of his hardness pressed along mine is so intense that I can’t keep from rocking my hips against his, drunk on his quiet moans that hum against my lips and around my tongue.
Desire drowns out nearly every coherent thought, leaving nothing beyond sensation and need and the heavy panting of our breath. Too soon, I can feel the pressure of a threatening orgasm starting to build as my balls tighten, sending shocks of pleasure through me at every movement.
Jesus, it really has been too long—
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I want to strip him bare, see his gorgeous body, not halfway hidden by a towel like it was earlier tonight, but laid out for me to linger over.
I’m not ready for this to be even partway done.
Nor do I want to come all over the inside of my boxers like I’m going to if I don’t stop.
And then I freeze up. Every function of my brain and every movement of my body totally and completely shut down as paralyzing guilt washes through me, so overwhelming that for one horrible second, I’m sure I’m going to be sick.
All over the gorgeous, perfect man who’s only now just realizing that, instead of continuing kissing and touching him back like any fucking normal human would, I’ve gone stiff everywhere I shouldn’t be stiff and limp everywhere I shouldn’t be limp.
Squeezing my eyes shut and forcing myself to breathe, I roll off of him, dizzy from the deafening pound of my pulse thundering through my ears.
I can’t—
“Hey, you okay, sunshine?”
I blink my eyes open again, realizing suddenly that Tristan’s no longer on his back but sitting, a good couple feet away from me. That his arms are yet again in that defensive, crossed position, wrapped around his chest.
“Look, I’m sorry if I pushed things— I thought—”
He pulls his knees up against the fold of his arms. That gesture, along with the pained, apologetic, almost frightened look on his face as his eyebrows pull together and his eyes dart between mine cuts through the choking fog of my unwanted feelings, settling my stomach enough to make it safe to push up off the bed to sit beside him and open my mouth to try to reassure him.
“You did nothing wrong, Tris. You’re perfect. It’s just—”
I swallow hard, suddenly unsure what exactly to say. There’s no good way to explain something like this.
“I, um, lost someone.”
The look of sorrow that fills Tristan’s eyes is almost too much to handle. And I fucking hate that I’ll always worry I see a little bit of that sorrow—that sorriness—there in his eyes each time he looks at me from now on. I have to tell him though.
At least he doesn’t look afraid anymore.
“He was my boyfriend. Stephen.” I can’t look at him now, and so I let my gaze drop to the empty space between us. “He died,” I add, completely unnecessarily. “A little over five and a half years ago, which sounds like a long time, but—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Tristan’s voice is low and soft as he edges back toward me again, slow and hesitant as he unfolds his arms and reaches a cautious hand out to brush against my wrist. Like he’s not sure I’d want him near me.
Jesus, it’s all I want—
Maybe he feels the way I relax into that small touch, because he scoots a bit closer so that we’re nearly chest to chest as he runs his hand up my arm, over my shoulder, and up to softly cup my jaw with his slightly calloused palm.
“If you want to though,” his thumb strokes gently against my cheek, and that place in my heart that’s been gradually filling with him expands suddenly, warm and bright in the midst of the suffocating heaviness that’s overtaken me.
“If you want to talk about him or anything else, sunshine, I’m here for it. ”