Chapter 12 Ligaya
LIGAYA
The moment I begin driving, I am bombarded with all the ways this could go wrong.
Tristan is coming over. To my place. To hang out. To have a drink. Possibly to sleep with me. Possibly to see my messy sock drawer and my conditioner graveyard in the shower.
Oh god, did I clean up the kitchen before I left?
I haven’t had a man spend the night in over a year. Not since John and I broke up. And even that relationship, which technically lasted two years, had a fraction of the passion Tristan and I shared grinding against a kitchen counter with people not ten feet away.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and other places. With Tristan, everything feels heightened and urgent.
It also feels like I’m tempting disaster by getting too close to the fire. And yet what do I do? Run to disaster. Flirting with Tristan is like a moth flying into a flame and thinking, but I’m built differently! Delusional.
What if the chemistry fizzles once our clothes come off and he realizes I’m not exactly a sex goddess? What if I get a leg cramp? What if I do something stupid or make an embarrassing sound?
The old Tristan would never miss a chance to make fun of me.
Speaking of old Tristan, what if this is all another prank and he never planned to show up?
That would almost be a relief.
The jokester Turd is someone I recognize. An often irritating though occasionally amusing figure from my past.
But this Tristan? The one who lets me see how vulnerable and aroused he is? This one is neither irritating nor amusing. This Tristan could ruin me for other men.
I know I’m spiraling.
I talk a big game, but I’ve never had a one-night stand.
He’s standing by my door when I pull into my driveway.
On autopilot, I walk on the porch to let us in, willing my hands to stop shaking.
By the time we enter the house, I’m both dazed and nervous.
It’s an awkward combination, resulting in me rambling about pouring him a drink. Isn’t that what good hosts do?
I open a bottle of red and immediately slosh it onto the counter.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“No, they’re—” I pause to assess my mess. “Yeah. They are.”
Tristan doesn’t make a joke or flash a cocky grin. He simply tears a paper towel to clean up the wine. I pour carefully this time, but before I can fill the second glass, Tristan puts his hand over mine.
“We don’t have to do anything, Ligaya.”
I love the way my name sounds breathy when he says it. But the message wakes me up. I put the wine down and turn to him.
“If you don’t at least kiss me, I’ll be pissed,” I blurt honestly.
Now that he’s in front of me, my ability to take risks resurfaces.
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he jests while stepping closer.
I pull him down. Tristan’s mouth parts in invitation and his hands cradle my head. We sweep our tongues without thought, crush our lips without restraint.
Suddenly, I’m carried to the couch. I straddle his hips, pressing my aching center against his hard bulge.
He pulls back long enough to whisper, “Been wanting to do this all night long.” His fingers pull at the ties that hold my top, releasing them one at a time till everything gapes and I’m bare.
Tristan cups my breasts from the sides and plumps them together.
His thumbs tease each nipple and my back arches at the injection of pleasure.
“Your tits are so fucking perfect,” he mutters before taking one into his mouth, and then the other.
“Oh, god, just like that,” I mumble as Tristan leaves erotic, suctioning kisses on my skin.
“This?” he says with a graze of his teeth at my pulse point. “Or maybe you like this,” he mumbles while his rough tongue circles a nipple and his hands grab my ass.
“You’re such a showoff,” I say between moans.
He leans back and pushes his pelvis up against my soaked pussy and grabs my hips. With tight, erotic circles, Tristan rubs his hardness against my clit.
“Want me to stop?”
“No. I never want you to stop.” The words spill out with no filter.
Lust takes over, compelling me to remove Tristan’s shirt.
Rippling muscles undulate under his smooth skin.
My palms glide over his sculpted torso. When my finger traces down the trench of his abdominals and past his jeans to graze his cock, Tristan hisses.
“Can I?” I ask, my hand tugging at his pants to release his erection.
“No need to ask, Ligaya. You can do anything you like with me, sweetheart.”
“Anything? Really? So, you’d be OK if I painted your nails or—”
He kisses me and sucks all the teasing from my lips.
When we come up for air, our mouths are so close our lips graze as he speaks.
“Take it out, Ligaya. Now.”