Chapter 47
KATIE
Tristan’s pants are in the dryer when Alexis buzzes the door with the dinner he asked her team to prepare. It’s an unfathomable luxury having a full catering staff, and I always feel a little guilty asking other people to prepare my food when I can do it myself.
I open the door to see Alexis buried behind a mountain of catering dishes on a tray. “Katie,” she grunts as I rush to help her through the door. “This isn’t like you. And you don’t even like lobster. Tristan, on the other hand…”
She turns, her sharp eyes catching on something behind me before they widen.
I know what she’s going to see before he steps forward—six feet and three inches of nearly nude, sculpted Tristan Prince.
His boxers are a blue so bright it’s almost painful, and I should have made him put on a shirt, but I like looking and I think he likes showing off.
He’s been in my space since we got back from the garden, gaze always hot and intent.
Heat crawls over my cheeks and down my chest as Alexis’s eyes dart between us.
“Hey, there.” Tristan’s smile is warm as he reaches for the tray. “I’ve got it. Thanks, Alexis. And sorry about all the—” He gestures for his chest. “My clothes are in the dryer.”
“No problem. I’ll come back later for the dishes,” she says, then clears her throat. “Or maybe tomorrow.”
He chuckles and lets her out, and I helplessly watch him walk. His back and ass flex deliciously as he opens the door for her. His eyes are alight with mischief when he turns around.
“Tristan,” I groan softly.
“Problem?” I can see him fighting a smile.
“You’re so obvious.” I bury my face in my hands.
He snorts and pulls out a chair. “And why shouldn’t I be?”
I drop into the seat across from him, tucking my knees up under the Prince sweatshirt I’m wearing.
It’s one of Tristan’s that he left here last year and never bothered to reclaim.
His eyes travel up my body and over my face, and I think I see satisfaction in his gaze before he starts opening the catering dishes and setting them down next to the chess set on the table.
“I just thought you’d want to keep this quiet,” I say softly. There’s a jump in my stomach as I say the words. I’m the help, not an heiress or a brilliant scientist, and everyone will know.
“I don’t,” he says steadily before he tilts his head. “Do you?”
I feel like I’m only getting half the story as he watches me.
I don’t remember the last time I saw Tristan this intent on something.
Actually—my eyes narrow—why is he acting like this?
There’s a sharpness to his gaze and a smile he keeps fighting.
He’s plating lobster for himself and clam pasta for me, and I watch, head cocked.
“You’re being weird.”
“Just what a man wants to hear after having a mind-blowing orgasm.”
I snort. “Don’t deflect. I know you. You have that look that you did when you and Sienna were gambling on Aiden and Emory’s relationship. All—scheming. Something is up.”
He looks like he’s trying not to smile as he passes me a plate. “White wine?”
“Sure.” I purse my lips. “Let’s play a game.”
His left dimple pops out. “We’re already playing chess.”
“Let’s spice things up.” I start resetting the pieces. I feel like champagne is being trickled over my tongue, light and fizzing and setting my blood to humming. “You”—I point a piece at him—“are way too good at keeping secrets.”
“I’ll play.” He lounges back. “But I get to be white.”
I roll my eyes. “You want me to spoon-feed you your dinner too?”
He chuckles. “What are the stakes?”
“Each of us gets to ask a question and receive an honest answer. One for every piece taken. No pawns. Too easy.”
His grin is blazing. “You’re on.” He moves a pawn toward the center, his typical opening.
Three moves later, he captures my queen’s knight. He sets it on the table with a precise twist of his fingers before he folds his hands over his flat stomach and lounges back. “Let me see,” he drawls. That dimple tugs. “Am I good in bed?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You are such a man. Yes. Yes, you’re amazing.” My eyes go to his muscled chest and his lean hips in those boxers that reveal more than they conceal and back up to his teasing grin.
His own eyes gleam before he leans forward. “No, Katie, we were amazing. It takes two.” He taps the stolen piece on the table. “That’s the secret to good sex.”
I shift on the chair. “It felt easy between us.” I chance a look up at him, viscerally aware of my inexperience, but he’s smiling at me, more with his eyes than his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. “It did.”
I want to do it again, and worse, I’m not certain I’ll ever feel what I felt with Tristan with anyone else.
I look back down at the board and hurriedly counter by stealing his king’s knight.
“Make it good, Bailey,” he croons.
I crack my knuckles. “First time you thought about me naked?”
He chokes on his beer. “Really?”
“Yep.”
His tongue peeks out to pick up a drop of beer on his lip and my stomach dips in response.
“Early,” he says hesitantly. He turns the beer bottle in front of him. “Ah, probably that time you nearly fell off the ladder. You were um, wearing shorts, and I—” He winces, looking sheepish. “Guilty.”
I bark a shocked laugh. “Shorts, really?”
“You have nice legs,” he exclaims before he leans forward, eyes alight. “Let me win and I promise you I’ll treat them very well.”
That champagne feeling is swelling inside me. I move a pawn, pretending to be unaffected. “That was the first day we met, Tristan.”
He moves his bishop. “I wasn’t being a pervert.”
“Your words,” I tease, my eyes on the piece that he’s made vulnerable.
“I just—I noticed, okay? But you needed a friend, not a fling, so you went into the friend-employee box, and then—” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That box must have gotten too full, and well, I don’t think I’m closing it anytime soon.”
“Don’t close it,” I say hurriedly, then look down at my pieces again. I can feel his gaze on my face, and my skin starts to heat.
I want to figure him out, but I definitely don’t want him to know just how badly I want this. How much I want to be part of his world, someone worthy of being claimed by him, of being more than a fling.
I move a pawn, then meet his gaze. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart or a chess game he wants to win. I’m always in the background, but never with him, and god, I never want it to stop.
“Oh, Bailey.” He grins. “Bad move.” He captures my queen, and my jaw drops.
“I was distracted,” I protest. “It’s the bare skin.” I scowl at him. “Normally, I would never.”
He tosses it from hand to hand. “I know. And yet.” His smile is viciously satisfied. “This should be worth two questions, don’t you think?”
“Um, sure.” I’m on my back foot now. There’s a free-falling sensation inside me as he sips his beer, and suddenly I think I’ve been trapped by the game I started.
Tristan Prince wants something, and I’m not sure what. His throat moves in a long swallow before he sets his beer down and cocks his head. “First time you thought about me naked?”
“Early,” I say hesitantly. His brows go up as his fingers dance over the knight in front of him, a clear threat, should I keep trying to control the middle. “Fine,” I sigh. “The first time we went up to the roof. Your birthday three years ago.”
His knight topples, and he quickly rights it.
“Two weeks after we met? You thought about me naked that long ago?” There’s an odd hitch in his voice that makes me squirm in my seat.
I’m being too honest and I’m clinging too tightly and this is definitely going to end catastrophically for me.
But I can’t stop. Tristan cracked something open—a protective shell I’ve had around myself for years.
“Yes.” I pull my bottom lip into my mouth. “It was the same for me. Friend, principal—” I shift uncomfortably. “The box got too full for me too.” My face is hot.
“God,” he laughs, and I can’t quite make out why. He shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face, and I think he says something that sounds like idiot, but that doesn’t make sense.
I sip the cold white wine in front of me. It’s crisp and light and does nothing to cool the heat in my stomach.
“So what did you think?” he asks. “Too weird for you? Any regrets?” His voice is oddly husky.
I should. I should regret hooking up with him, but every time I look at him, I feel like my chest is expanding. “I should, right?”
“I don’t,” he says carefully. “And I think you shouldn’t regret it either. If that’s what you want.”
My heart seems to swell. Of course he’d laugh while hooking up and of course he’d be open and honest and caring afterward. Whoever ends up with him won’t deserve him. I’m certain of it.
I take a long inhale. Admitting this feels momentous. “I don’t want to regret it.”
His mouth curls up. “So don’t.”
I roll my eyes at his confidence before I ball up a napkin and throw it at his head. “Easy for you to say.”
His eyes are alight as he snatches the napkin before it can hit him. “You have very bad aim with napkins. I hope your aim is better with bullets. And no.” He swallows. “It’s not easy for me to say.”
My pulse stutters. “Fine. Then I want more.” I tip up my chin, daring him to say no.
His gaze sharpens. “More of what we did earlier?”
My body feels like it does after a long sparring session—on edge and thrumming. “What about you? Is that what you want?”
“Katie.” His words release on a huff of a breath. There’s a rueful smile on his mouth, half of a joke I’m not privy to. “It will always be about you.”
“Then yes, I want more. For however long we can do this. Until you get married.”
He tips his head, his gaze strangely searching. “Then I’m all yours. For however long you want.”
Despite his words, he doesn’t try anything as we watch a documentary on the couch. He just lounges back, one arm behind his head, spread gloriously on my couch like he’s nearly naked here all the time.
I catch him darting glances at me occasionally, particularly at the scenes where they’re interviewing the athletes, but he doesn’t say anything.
And when it’s over, he grabs his pants out of the dryer and wanders to the door, rubbing at his chest. “Long day tomorrow,” he says with a yawn.
“Long day,” I agree, thinking of the date he’s supposed to go on. I feel vaguely ill at the thought.
“See you in the morning for a run?”
“Day nine hundred and forty-seven of you trying to beat me,” I tease.
His lips tilt and he stalks closer, backing me up until my shoulder blades meet the wall of the kitchen.
“I have beaten you at least three times,” he says hotly.
My stomach flutters from his nearness. His soft mouth is so close.
I want to feel it on mine again, but I’m worried if I kiss him now, I’ll never want to stop.
I press my hands to the wall so I don’t grab him and beg him to stay. His mouth hovers over mine.
“Tell me you want me again.”
I can’t breathe.
My heart is pumping in my chest.
He brushes his lips over mine before he tugs at the bottom one with his teeth. “Katie, baby. Tell me you liked it. Tell me you need me inside you.”
I can’t. I can’t admit to the conflagration inside me. This deal, this piece of time we get, is not that. It’s not permanent.
“Tristan,” I breathe. “Don’t.”
He sighs against my mouth. “Try again tomorrow, I suppose.” He captures my lips. His tongue slips easily into my mouth and heat spirals hard inside me, a fire set by the way his teeth land in the flesh of my bottom lip—a gentle bite that feels like a claiming.
I can’t help the low sound I make as I stroke my tongue along his. I dig my nails into his chest and arch toward him before I laugh at my own stupidity.
“What?” he asks, still feathering kisses on the edge of my mouth.
“I was just thinking that if I kissed you now, I wouldn’t want to stop.”
A fine tremor runs through his shoulders, and I half expect him to keep going, but he pulls away, his eyes glazed. I’m panting against the wall while he takes a shaky step back.
“See you tomorrow,” he says softly before he disappears out the door.
It takes me a full minute to catch my breath. One kiss from Tristan Prince is far more intense than any workout I’ve ever done. He’s dangerous.
Today, I survived.
Tomorrow? I’m not so sure.