Chapter 7
TRISTAN
I t’s been two days since I stole Beat’s vibrator.
I thought I was going to lose my fucking mind listening to her moaning and writhing above me.
But stealing it didn’t make things better.
The thing was covered in her pussy juice.
It was all over my hand. I may have used my pillowcase to clean it off. And huffed it while I slept.
I have a problem. And her name is Beatrix.
I can hear her in the kitchen. It’s after nine. I’ve been up for an hour. Flip is at some endorsement thing Hemi forced on him to help bolster his reputation. She wanted me to come too, but I told her my brother had a game. Flip’s bad reputation is not my issue to solve.
I feel shitty that I used my brother in a lie, but I’ve been off the bunny circuit since Hemi reamed us out.
Besides, I don’t want Beat listening to what happens in my damn bedroom.
Her being here has allowed me a slight reprieve from all the performing.
So I guess it isn’t all bad. Plus, she makes kickass food, and she’s exceptionally organized, helpful, and generally sweet when she isn’t dealing with me.
I listen to Beat move around, wondering what she’s making. Probably something delicious. I’d bet my left nut she’s not wearing a bra. Maybe she’ll be wearing those tiny sleep shorts. Or that nightshirt from two nights ago that barely covers her ass.
I should definitely not leave my bedroom to find out. I roll over and shove my face into my pillow.
The smell is fading, but I breathe deep anyway.
I’m such a sick fuck.
And I’m pissed off.
As nice as it’s been to have a clean house, amazing meals, and an incredible financial planner around, I need her to move out.
I need her out of my space and my head.
I need…to stop thinking about her in ways that will screw everything up.
I roll onto my back. She’s humming a tune.
She can sing. It’s another item on the list of things about her that frustrates me.
I roll out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a thud.
I stalk across my room, already unreasonably angry.
Mostly at myself. I grab the doorknob and fight not to open it.
But I yank the door open with so much force it dents the drywall.
She startles but doesn’t turn around, which irritates me more. If she’s not ignoring me, she’s taking shots at me. I don’t want her here, and I’m uncomfortably aware of her at all times. There’s no happy medium with us.
She’s wearing my favorite sleep shorts again.
And a tank top. No bra lines, as predicted.
She’s all curves and softness. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail.
I don’t know why the graceful slope of her neck is so alluring, but I want to wrap my hands around it and feel her pulse thrum under my palms. I want to hear her make those desperate, needy sounds again, but for me this time.
Yeah. I’m so fucked.
I should have gone out last night and gotten laid.
I should have brought someone home and fucked them while she was trying to sleep above me.
I should have, but I couldn’t.
Just another item to add to the piss-me-off list.
I stalk across the kitchen and yank open the drawer two inches from her right hip.
I grab a spatula and a mixing bowl and slap them on the counter beside her.
Then I open the drawer to her left and grab a fork.
She’s made a tray of bacon, there’s a platter of cut fruit, blueberry muffins fresh from the oven—my fucking favorite—and she’s busy making some kind of yogurt thing, probably to dip the fruit in.
Everything she makes tastes amazing and is balanced and healthy.
She keeps everything in top form around here, she continually asks if we need anything. I’m always an asshole. I don’t want to get used to having her around. Or worse, like having her here. So I say something shitty, and she dishes it right back. Like she’s on to me. Because she is.
I’m in a fury trying to make some eggs. Something to take care of myself and not indulge in whatever she’s made. Even I don’t understand what I’m doing as I get closer and closer to her. I keep reaching around her. My erection nudges her ass when I get too close.
Everything feels out of control. Like a play gone wrong and I can’t recover. I’m pissed. At Flip. At Hollis. At Beat. At those perfect little shorts.
She spins around, her ponytail slapping me in the chest. I want to wrap it around my fist and kiss a path up her throat to her mouth.
No, no, no. That can’t happen . Then she isn’t just a problem, she’s my problem.
But even as I think it, my eyes drop to her pouty lips.
My frayed self-control is about to snap.
“What the hell are you doing?” She tips her chin up, defiant, eyes wild and stormy. “Can you back the fuck o?—”
I cup her face in my palms and slant my mouth over hers, cutting off the angry shit coming out of her.
I’m right. Her lips are soft and pliant, a stark contrast to the cutting words we stab each other with all the time.
She makes a shocked sound as I stroke inside.
Her hands wrap around my wrists, and her nails dig into my skin.
I fully expect her to shove me away and possibly slap me across my idiot face.
She should. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses her hips into mine and shoves at my tongue with hers, fighting her way inside my mouth.
I’d kissed her half hoping this raging chemistry was a lie, that this attraction I feel is some strange response to how irritating I find having her around.
But apparently my body is a big fan of things that piss me off.
Her mouth tastes like fresh fruit—strawberries and pineapple.
Her hair tickles the back of my hands. She smells so damn good.
And this kiss, this one fucking kiss is everything I didn’t want it to be. It’s not like any other. We’re years of history colliding. Her mouth on mine is a balm, and desperation has me tipping her head so I can deepen the kiss. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. All I want is more.
I finally pull away so I can drag in some much-needed air.
We stare at each other, both of us heaving like we’ve finished running up a mountain.
I want to glue my mouth back to hers and put my hands all over her body.
But she might still slap me. Maybe it’s taking her a minute to get her bearings and realize this is a colossally bad idea.
Because it is. It’s the worst idea ever.
She’s my best friend’s sister. The last person I should touch.
Her life is a mess, and I don’t have the bandwidth to help her fix it.
I don’t want the responsibility. But I want her.
“God, I hate you.” Her voice is a soft, smoky rasp that sends a shot of lust straight to my already aching cock.
She releases my wrists, and her hands twine in my hair, gripping the strands as she pushes up on her toes and tries to drag my mouth back to hers.
“You drive me up the wall,” she adds. It sounds like an accusation.
Before she can fire off another insult, I suck her bottom lip, letting it slide through my teeth. And then I take her mouth in another searing kiss.
I run my hands down her sides, squeezing her ass as I lift her onto the counter.
She moans when my erection presses between her thighs, and she hooks her legs behind my back.
When I try to push my tongue into her mouth, she bites it, then sucks on it.
She’s fisting my hair, making needy noises as we frantically make out. And it’s not enough.
I find the hem of her shirt with one hand and her ponytail with the other.
I wrap the length around my fist as my palm skates over her ribs and cup the swell of her breast. She moans and juts her chest toward me, like she’s looking for more.
I thumb her nipple, and she gasps. She fits perfectly in my hand.
Even that annoys me, so I pinch the tight peak, and she shrieks.
I tighten my grip on her ponytail so she can’t retaliate by head-butting me or using her teeth.
“Stop trying to rip my hair out.” I brush over her nipple with my thumb again, a barely there caress.
“Why? Worried about premature balding, asshole?” She gives it a vicious tug.
I let her ponytail slip through my fingers and grab her wrists.
After finding the pressure point that makes her release my hair, I pin her hands behind her back with one of mine and reclaim her ponytail with the other.
I tug her head back, lips hovering over hers.
“I told you, you didn’t want my attention, but you had to keep on pushing. ”
“Seems like you didn’t mind my pushing all that much.”
I bite the edge of her jaw. “You have no idea what you’re in for, Bea.” My lips skim the column of her throat. The smell of her lotion and shampoo is overwhelming. Intoxicating. I should really walk away. Stop before it’s too late.
“Guess I’m about to find out, eh?”
I suck the skin when I reach her collarbone and bite the swell of her breast just above her nipple. “You moan in your sleep all the goddamn time.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It wakes me up almost every fucking night.” She makes the softest sounds. Little whimpers that have me wondering what’s eating up her subconscious. “I bet you’re dreaming about me. Wishing I’d come up there and give you what you think you want.” It’s been happening to me all week.
“Why are you still talking?”
I cover her nipple through the thin fabric of her top and bite, then suck hard. She groans and pulls against my restraining hands, pushing her chest toward my mouth.
I release her ponytail so I can pull her tank down. The stitching tears as her breast pops out. Even her nipples are perfect. A deep blushing pink. Small and delicate. Suckable. Biteable. I do both.