Chapter 10 Four Seasons #2
He slides himself onto the counter, spreading his legs to make room for me to stand between them. “Come here. Let me clean you up.” He wets a washcloth and rubs some soap into it.
Fucking dream scenario.
“It’s gonna hurt, isn’t it?” I ask, putting myself exactly where I want to be.
“Not any more than a broken knee, I’m guessing.”
My hands rest on his strong thighs. My brief liaisons with men never involved a lot of exploration.
Mostly kissing with the express purpose of breaking the ice, and then a rush to get off, but it’s been awhile.
A few years. I’ve only been with women for so long that touching any part of Tristan’s body feels like a new adventure.
I’ve never really stopped to consider my type when it came to men, and I don’t know that I would have pictured someone like Tristan if I had.
Yes, he’s physically beautiful. His bone structure borders on severe, but his hair softens the harsher angles that make up his face.
There’s a boyishness to him, but androgyny, too.
I can picture him in a ball cap with scruff, and I can picture him with eyeliner and glittery lips.
His body is more substantial than someone like my brother, but there’s no bulk to him, only definition.
He’s exactly right, hits all the right notes.
I watch his gorgeous face while he cleans my cuts. He keeps his eyes on what he’s doing most of the time, but his flirty gaze meets mine a time or two. I try to smile at him, but he squeezes his thighs against my hips, staying serious. “I can’t do this if you keep moving your face.”
“Sorry.”
“Shh.”
“You almost done?”
“Why? Do you have something else you want to do with me?” he asks, something like a dare in his eyes.
I laugh. I wish. It’s occurring to me far too late that whether he’s willing or not, we can’t have sex here.
I don’t have a condom, I don’t have lube.
I don’t have anything that would make having sex with a virgin okay, much less good.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t explore other ways of memorizing each other.
“I guess I’m done,” he sighs. “I can’t do this if you won’t be still.”
“Sorry. I should take a shower anyway. I smell like a kumquat tree.”
“No, you don’t. You smell like you and me. Don’t shower.”
My heart rate doubles, and I can’t form a coherent thought. “Okay,” is the only word I remember how to say.
He puts the washcloth down, but his hands come right back to my face like he’s inspecting it. “This face…” He sighs, his gaze roaming all over it.
“What?” I ask, nervous again, not about the surface of my face, but what he might be able to see if he looks too close.
“It’s a really good one.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
He’s not looking me in the eyes when he says, “It’s always been my favorite.”
My eyes close as his lips feather past mine. Once again, I ask, “What does that mean?”
The kiss that follows is sweet and soft. His hands are warm and his body is firm in my arms as I lift him up, putting our weight on my good leg.
“Are you always like this?” he whisper asks.
I sigh, my forehead resting against his. Never, I want to say. Not even sometimes. But it turns out it’s a really complicated question. “I’m sorry if it’s too much,” I whisper because it’s a secret. For his ears only. “I’ve never felt like this before.”
He stares into my eyes, glowing again. Maybe it’s just the bathroom light shining through his hair. Whatever it is, he’s exquisite. I’m so lost in him, you’d need a search party with bloodhounds to find me.
I need out of this tangle. With true sobriety settling in, all these emotions are making me uncomfortable. I lower him to the ground because my knee is killing me, too.
“I need a minute,” I say.
He steps away from me. “Another one? Would you like me to go?”
“Of course not, but…”
He waits, standing straighter, poised to flee, shoring up his own defenses.
“Can we talk for a few minutes?” I ask. “Get some fresh air or something?”
His smile is tight and slightly false. “Whatever you need, Archer.”
We leave the bathroom, and he opens the patio door, waiting for me to limp past him. I ease into one of the chairs, and he sits across from me, his feet on the seat, knees bent to the side, regarding me with suspicious eyes. “Sober yet?” he asks.
I’d be wise to choose my words carefully. “More or less.”
“Are you slamming on the breaks because you’ve lost interest, or is it the fact that you slept with Jayne Beck last night?”
Whoa. There’s the elephant. “Neither,” I say, which is the absolute truth.
He continues, his tone as direct as his words are straightforward. Like no more bullshit. “Connor’s pissed. You know they’re friends, right? Connor and Miss Beck. Jayne. She’s his orchestra teacher, and they’re always texting about orchestra shit. For a teacher, she really has no boundaries.”
I don’t say anything because when you’re in a minefield, you should always avoid sudden movement.
“You’re not with her are you?” he asks.
“No, it was—” I’m about to say one night, but that always sounds shitty to say. I’m at a loss for words after that.
“I want to know, but I don’t,” he says.
“Then let’s not.”
“Does she mean something to you? Please just tell me. Be honest. It’s okay if she does, but it would make me wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“Whether I do. Whether I could,” he says.
“I told you she’s not the one for me.”
“And you think I am?”
I lean forward, elbows on my legs. “Is there a better way for me to say it?”
He glances at me, then away, eyes drifting over Austin’s glittering skyline. “I don’t know.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head quickly. This image of him questioning everything creeps into my memory and takes hold with claws. Another painting for another time.
Without looking at me, he asks, “Have you been with many men? Or mainly women?”
“Mainly women. A few guys. But not for a while. Is that what’s bugging you?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath. “Is that what’s bugging you?”
“Nothing’s bugging me—Tristan—shit. I like you more than anything. I want you—fuck—so much.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because—you hugged me less than five minutes after we met. You didn’t call the police when I climbed your tree. You held my fucking hand when I thought the world was ending. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because maybe you’re just as lost in all this as your brother is.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I say quickly. It’s not something I have to think about. What’s happening with Tristan feels separate from everything else, and in a lot of ways, it feels more important, too.
“Maybe we should go back in,” he says, sounding defeated.
Without another word, he stands and opens the door.
I wait for him to go in first, deciding to let him choose how this night ends up.
If he starts gathering his things, I won’t fight him.
If he goes to the bed, I probably won’t fight that either.
It’s all in his hands, though I’m pretty sure I’ve tortured him enough for one night.
I watch through the glass as he looks around the room, eyes lingering on his shoes. The bed.
He sits.
I exhale and get up. When I’m inside, and the door to the balcony is closed, I move to sit beside him. Surprising me, he slides his hand between both of mine. If this is how we spend the entire night, I’m a hundred percent okay with it.
I angle my head so I can see his face. “Can I be really honest with you?”
With a nervous breath, he gives me a short nod.
“After what happened in the kitchen the other night—this didn’t feel like a possibility anymore. At least not anytime soon. If I’d known we’d be here now… But I didn’t know that, and I did what I did, and if it changes how you feel, I understand.”
“Did you think about me when you were with her?”
“Tristan…”
“Did you wish it was me?”
I tell him the unvarnished truth. “The whole point of being with her was to stop thinking about you.”
His lips part, and I can’t tell if he hates me now, or appreciates my honesty. Or if he doubts it. “What’s gonna happen when I go?” he finally asks.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just studies me. And then, “I think you will.”
I swallow hard, grateful he believes that, at least.
His hand slips out of mine and moves to stroke the inside of my thigh beneath my shorts.
It feels so fucking good. I close my eyes and slide a hand under the back of his shirt.
Once I’m hard again, in as smooth of a seduction as I’ve ever experienced, he turns and eases his way onto my lap, a straddle, both hands on my waist, his face inches from mine. “I need more than a promise.”
I nod. Because whatever he needs to make sure he comes back, I can do. The only thing I can’t handle tonight is the thought of never seeing him again, never getting another chance to feel the way he makes me feel—known, understood, and forgiven.
Taking his hips in a tight grip, I pull him closer until our stomachs touch. Until his cock is right on top of mine. Our noses meet. I press my mouth softly against his. “Take anything you want from me. Whatever you need.”
His kiss cracks me open, and I swear he does—he reaches inside and takes something. One more thing for me to miss.
“I need all of it,” he whispers, his fingers gliding through my hair. “Everything.”
My heart soars, and also somehow sinks. “I knew you were gonna say that.”
He kisses me again, and I start to fall backward.
Using all my will power and what’s left of my strength, I roll us over.
I drag his lower lip with me as I pull away to take in the vision of him beneath me.
The smooth tan of his skin, the curve of his eyelids, the dark pink of his mouth, the golden glow of his hair in the lamp-lit room. I take it all in.
With my hand behind his neck, I lean into him. I hear the catch of his breath. My heart leaps—stops, then starts again with a wild thump.
I touch my mouth to his, parting his lips with mine. Our tongues meet, his warm and waiting for me.
His kiss engulfs me. It swallows me up. It pulls me under.
My fingers play at the hem of his shirt—not hesitant but entreating. His whispered word is “Yes.”
I take it off, pulling it over his strong arms, and I lay him back down.
He watches with rapt attention the way my eyes drag across his gorgeous skin, snagging on those nipple rings.
I kiss his stomach and the firm swell of his pecs.
I lick past one of the nipple piercings before finding his mouth again. His body arches beneath me. Toward me.
My hands meet his hips and the waistband of his pants. “We can’t do everything,” I say.
“Don’t say ‘can’t’. Take them off,” he says.
He’s still only wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, having hastily dressed when I was falling off his tree.
Though I’m hesitating, he’s not. I groan as his fingers slide behind the button of my shorts.
He’s undoing them—me—and as much as this may be a huge mistake, I don’t want him to have one moment of doubt about the way I feel.
I do want all of him. Every inch, every word, every breath he takes.
All his worries and hopes, his dreams and fears—all his promises.
I stop holding back. There’s no point. I meet his mouth with greater force, aware of the quickening of his breath as he pushes my shorts past my hips, moving them down my legs with his feet.
When they’re off, I pay back the gesture, sliding his off to reveal the most beautiful body. God, he’s so fucking perfect.
And he’s so hard. Wet at the tip and flushed a deep pink, even his cock is beautiful. Perfectly thick and standing tall. My mouth waters, and I lower myself between his opening thighs.
“Oh, God. Archer.” His fingers slide through my hair, and I glance up at him. His lips are parted, eyes hooded with unrestrained desire as he pants from how real this just got.