Tristan #3
When I said it matched the color of her eyes, there was a fraction of a second when all of that cold composure dropped away, and I swear there was a tiny tremor in her hand when I put the ring on her finger. She probably thought I didn’t notice.
I noticed.
I realize, with a flash of irritation directed mostly at myself, that I’m hard. Just from thinking about her, from replaying a trip to a jewelry store.
I should ignore it. Finish up, get dressed, and go meet Reid for dinner.
Instead, my hand drops to wrap around my cock.
Just get it out of your system, I tell myself. Take the edge off, and you won’t get distracted by her like this anymore.
It feels like a thin excuse even to me, but I don’t care.
My fist starts to move, slow strokes at first that build in speed and urgency quickly.
Chloe’s face keeps flashing through my mind—the curve of her lips, the flash of her gray eyes, those fucking dimples—and before I know it, the orgasm crests, my balls drawing tight as pleasure shoots up my spine.
I brace my free hand against the tile, stroking out every last drop of cum until I’m completely spent.
As it slides down the drain, I breathe hard, water hitting the back of my neck.
Fucking Christ.
I straighten up, trying to ignore the way my chest is still heaving, my heart still thudding hard as I quickly finish cleaning up.
The shock of cold air as I step out of the shower is just enough to bring me back down to earth. I pause at the sink to splash cold water onto my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror for a long moment.
I can’t stay in denial about this for much longer.
I’m so fucking attracted to her.
I think I’ve known this for years. And I think that there’s a good chance this will make our marriage even harder.
How am I supposed to keep this in check? I could barely hold it together for a single car ride—how are we going to live in the same house?
The buzz of my phone jolts me out of my thoughts. I check the caller ID—it’s Spencer Noble, an old friend of mine from business school. He’s been trying to reach me since my father died and I’ve been putting it off, which isn’t fair to him. I pick up and swipe across the screen to answer.
“Hey, Spence.”
“There he is.” He lets out a wry chuckle, although his tone is warm. “I was starting to think you’d gone off the grid entirely. How are you doing, man?”
“Yeah, sorry. It’s been a hell of a week.”
“Don’t apologize. And how are you actually doing? Not the version you’d give someone who doesn’t know you well.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, towel around my waist, hair still damp. “Honestly? Numb, mostly. My relationship with him was complicated, so there’s no clean way to grieve it. My brain keeps trying to just shut the whole thing down and move on, which I know isn’t actually a strategy.”
“That tracks though,” Spencer says. “Given everything. He wasn’t exactly an easy man.”
“No. He wasn’t.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “And there’s been some other stuff on top of it. The will reading was a whole situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“The kind where apparently my father had opinions about my love life from beyond the grave.”
Spencer laughs, and then catches himself. “Wait, seriously?”
“He tied it all to a marriage contract. I don’t get the CEO position or my part of his shares unless I get married.”
“Jesus. To who?”
“Chloe Dawson.”
Dead silence.
“Spence.”
“I heard you,” he sputters. “I’m just—the ice queen? That’s who Julian Thorne decided you should marry?”
Something moves through my chest at that, an unpleasant twist. I’ve used that nickname plenty of times. Half of our year at Wharton used it. It never bothered me before tonight.
“Don’t call her that,” I say sharply.
Spencer pauses. “Sorry. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I stand up and head to the closet, pulling out clothes one-handed. “We’re getting married. The plans are already in motion. I bought her a ring today, actually.”
“Hold on.” He sounds stunned. “You’re actually going through with it.”
“I’m actually going through with it.”
“Damn.” He lets out a breath. “Okay. That’s a lot, man. On top of losing your dad.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine.” I pull a shirt on. “I just need to get used to the idea. It’s only been a week.”
“Fair enough.” He’s quiet for a second. “We should get together. Grab a drink, catch up properly. You can tell me everything.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Soon.”
We wrap it up, make loose plans, and then the line goes quiet.
I set my phone on the kitchen counter and stand there in the silence of my house, the ocean visible through the back windows, the last of the light going out over the water.
My mind is already turning over everything that’s coming—the announcement, the wedding, moving her into this house, three years of my life that are going to look nothing like anything I planned for.
I meant it when I told her it was manageable. Three years, and then we both walk away and do whatever we want.
I’m just starting to think I may have undersold how complicated the next three years are actually going to be.