10. Isolde
Isolde
How is one supposed to act after fucking their bodyguard?
This thought has haunted me the past four hours, because that’s all the time that’s elapsed since Tristan’s cock tore into my cunt. Since he came inside me.
Just the mere memory heats my skin.
For a full minute, our ragged breaths filled the living room. Still bent over the couch, his cock still inside me, it was like we didn’t know which of us would be the first to move.
When I slipped away, his cock dislodging, I think he tried to grab my shoulder, but I motioned him away. The bathroom lights were bright in comparison to the dark living room.
“Isolde?” Tristan knocked on the door before opening it.
He found me covered in body wash, the steam curling the hairs around my face.
I have this thing where I immediately have to shower after a sexual encounter. It’s not a slight against the man or anything. I’m not saying he’s dirty or I am, but the need to be fresh and clean rather than a sweaty, sticky mess always forces me to act quickly.
“I’m okay,” I told him. “Go to bed.”
He opened his mouth, ready to debate, before changing his mind. “You want me to bring you a new shirt?”
I almost dropped the soap. “Uh, yes, please.”
He wordlessly placed it on the counter. I realized as he left, he’d been walking around the apartment naked.
That fact doesn’t bother me, but I wonder if now he’ll always walk around naked? Obviously, I wouldn’t mind.
But then I’m thirsty for the Ghost, as Abe once told me.
Tristan had asked me to say one thing, and like a slut I’d begged him to fuck me. And he had.
Heat spikes in my belly before it boils into something else. Dawn is bound to bring awkward questions, and I have only myself to blame.
Tristan is already in the kitchen when I get up for the day. That’s not what catches me by surprise, though. The washing machine is running.
“I threw in the towels,” he says over his shoulder.
It’s one of the day’s tasks listed on my chore chart.
“I put a fresh one in the bathroom for you already,” he adds, slicing some avocado. “You want some eggs?”
“Thank you.” I sit down at the square kitchen table. It’s hazy outside, the summer weather dictated by fires across the Canadian border. “You didn’t have to do the laundry.”
He busies himself with breakfast. We make it a good ten seconds before he blurts, “I’m sorry about last night. It was really unprofessional. I. . .”
“I asked you to fuck me,” I remind him. “You were just obliging.”
His shoulders fall. The frying pan crackles.
“I’m sorry for asking,” I say a minute later. He must be upset. I guess I expected this, but I’d been hoping that maybe he liked fucking me.
“Isolde.” He stops me and turns from the stove. Whatever he says dies on his lips, and I wonder how pathetic I look if he’s speechless.
“I know what an angry fuck is,” he says.
I’m cascaded with the memories of his body over mine, his hips slamming into my arse.
“Are you angry at me?” he asked.
“N-no. . .”
“So, you’re just angry at the world and needed a release?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, not sure if he needs a reason to make sense of last night.
“That’s what I thought.” He swings back to the eggs, taking them off the hob. “You going to tell me what you were angry about?”
“Did you fuck me last night so you could try and get information out of me?”
His shoulders tense. “No.” The word is bitten off. “I didn’t fuck you to try to get information out of you.”
He places a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.
“Do you want coffee?” he asks. He’s already started the coffee maker, the delicious scent of caramelized beans warming the kitchen. “Or tea?”
He catches the way my brows lift.
“That’s the beverage of choice for all Brits, right?”
Hardly, but it’s been a long time since someone has offered me a cup of tea. I’m oddly grateful for Tristan’s sweetness.
“Earl Grey?” Tristan confirms holding up a box I keep in my pantry. It’s Trader Joe’s brand, further confirming I’m no longer in my country of origin.
He grabs a mug, filling it with water, and pops open the microwave.
“Wait!” I jump out of my seat. He didn’t miss a beat when I asked him to fuck me last night, but he freezes, his brows lifting at my reaction. “There’s a kettle down there.”
I keep it tucked away since, admittedly, I don’t drink tea as much as coffee. Once I retrieve it from the correct cabinet, Tristan takes it from my hands, motioning for me to go back to the table.
He fills it with water, turning it on. At first all I hear is the bubbling water, but then there’s another noise.
Tristan’s laughing. “Did I just offend you with my microwaved water?”
His eyes crinkle, the sharp jawline even more handsome thanks to the smile on his face. It’s like he’s lit from within; that’s how damn magical he appears.
“We have this thing about using kettles.” I’ve had to correct Ren before too.
When the kettle clicks off, he adds the teabag, smiling as he watches me from the corner of his eye like he expects me to correct his tea making. It comes across as teasing, the kitchen lighter than it had been when I first walked in.
At least for a minute.
“I. . .” Have never seen Tristan struggle for words, but he stares at the mug before he hands it over. “I’m sorry if I went a bit too hard last night. If I got too. . . rough.”
It’s definitely not the steam from the tea making my cheeks flush. “No, it was. . .” Hot. Incredible. I would let him fuck me anyway he wanted, so long as he made me feel that good again.
“I liked it,” I admit, staring at the swirling tea.
But Tristan has clearly been ruminating too. “You slapped my hand away when I tried to pull your hair.”
The embarrassment that pierces my soul is visceral.
Tristan hasn’t looked away, keeping me in sight. I know he’ll read my face and think I’m just saying shit to make him feel better.
“No, I was just a little surprised at the time.” I don’t want him thinking I wasn’t okay with last night.
I was very much okay with any and all activity involving his cock.
“I’ve actually always liked my hair being pulled during sex,” I admit, feeling slightly more emboldened now that he hasn’t called me an ugly hag.
“You know. . .” I play with the food on my plate. “Since you’re here for a while. . .”
He doesn’t say anything, but like always my skin heats the moment his gaze lands on me.
“We could do it again?” I shrug, going for what I think is nonchalant. “You know, maybe, make it into an arrangement.”
“What a way to ask him out,” Sammie’s ghost teases.
Guys don’t date me. But perhaps if he finds the idea of friends with benefits acceptable, we could have some fun while he’s living here.
Trevino’s phone lights up. He picks up the call, striding out of the kitchen, and there it is. Tristan Trevino is, in fact, not interested in fucking me again.