Tristan #2
Her face does something I love, that helpless involuntary response that she has no control over, and I know she’s close.
I can read it in every small tell I’ve learned over the past weeks, the way her breathing has gone shallow and her lips are parted and the flush has spread all the way down her throat.
“Come for me,” I demand quietly. “Right here, right now. Let go, dimples. I want to see you fall apart.”
Her features tighten and then let go, the orgasm moving through her in a wave that she contains well, just a soft barely-there sound escaping her lips and a shudder that I feel more than see.
I keep my hands exactly where they are and watch her work through it, her chest rising and falling quickly, her grip on the folders loosening.
“Good fucking girl,” I murmur, biting my lower lip as I watch the blissed-out pleasure slowly fade from her expression. “You did so well. Better than I expected, honestly. Next time, I’ll have to work harder to make you scream.”
I chuckle lightly as I say the words. I’m teasing, of course. I told her that I’m the only one who gets to see her like this, and I meant it. I love the rush of making her come with people nearby, but I know she’d never actually want to get caught, so I’d never let it happen.
But instead of smirking at my joke the way I expect, Chloe frowns, a startled, worried look passing over her face. “What…?”
“Hey, I’m just kidding. I’d never do anything that made you uncomfortable.” She still looks freaked out, and I dip my head, trying to read her expression. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”
The look of confusion on her face deepens, and a knot forms in my stomach as I realize what the problem is.
She can’t hear me.
“Chloe.” I raise my voice a bit, a jolt of panic shooting through me. But before I can say anything else, she drags in a breath, her features relaxing a bit. I swallow. “You couldn’t hear what I said before, could you?”
“No.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “But—but I can now. It’s okay. It was just a blip.”
My brows furrow. “A blip? What does that mean?”
She grimaces slightly. “My hearing went out for a second, but it came back. I heard when you said my name.”
“Has that happened before?” I ask, working to keep my voice level.
There’s a small beat, and then she nods. “Yes.”
Fuck. I want to press her for more answers, want to know how many times it’s happened and for how long, but I can tell from her rattled expression that pushing too hard right now will probably scare her into just shutting down entirely.
“You need to go to the doctor to get it checked out,” I tell her quietly.
“I know. I will. I promise.”
“Soon?” I press.
The corners of her mouth curve upward slightly. “Yes, soon. I promise.”
I reach up and cup the side of her face, tilting her chin up, and bring my mouth to hers. I kiss her slowly, taking my time with it, wanting to reassure her somehow even though I don’t know how to do it with words.
When I pull back, she looks calmer, the shakiness less obvious.
“I’m holding you to that,” I tell her.
I linger for another second, then drop my hand and step back. She straightens, adjusts her grip on the folders, and heads for the door. I watch her go, and the thing sitting in my chest right now has nothing to do with how good she looked coming apart thirty seconds ago.
I pull out my phone and make a note to follow up about the doctor. She said soon. I’m going to make sure she means it.
I slide into the back of the Audi later in the afternoon, the leather seat cool against my back.
“To my mother’s house,” I instruct the driver, trying to hide my slight wince at the words.
She texted earlier to tell me she had some things of my father’s, things she wants to give me. I haven’t spoken to her since she told me the truth about his cancer. Everything still feels raw. I wasn’t ready, but I can’t put this visit off any longer.
The drive to her estate passes faster than I want it to. I step out of the car and hesitate at her door, my hand on the bell, before I make myself press it.
When it swings open, my mother stands on the other side, her expression guarded.
“Tristan,” she says.
“Hi, Mom,” I reply, doing my best to keep the edge out of my voice.
She steps aside and gestures for me to come in. I cross the foyer past the dark marble and the artwork she’s collected from a dozen countries, following her into the living room.
We settle on the leather sofas with a clear gap between us. My mother sits primly on the edge of her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“You wanted to see me,” I say.
She nods, reaching for a small cardboard box on the coffee table.
She fishes inside, then hands me a stack of old photographs, worn at the edges from years of careful handling.
As I take them, memories come back—happy moments captured in frozen frames, my father’s smile a bittersweet reminder of what once was.
I leaf through the pictures. There’s my father and a ten-year-old Reid on Halloween. We went dressed as Han Solo and Chewbacca that year, and we flipped a coin to decide who would be who. Reid called heads, and called it wrong. In the picture, he’s pouting beneath the hot, furry suit.
Then, beneath that, there’s a picture of all five of us on my father’s yacht, posing against the backdrop of the ocean.
And under that, Beckett and his prom date.
And then Gabriel, with Peyton balanced on his knee.
Melanie stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder.
This must have been about a year before she died.
“He treasured these,” my mother says softly, her voice thick. “He would have wanted you to have them.”