Chapter 28 Ligaya
LIGAYA
Tristan is dipping me back and kissing me like he came back from war. My fingers grasp his hair, and my lips open to welcome his delicious taste. Our mouths fuse. The whole nightclub disappears.
It’s a kiss bursting with the pent-up lust that’s been accumulating for months.
He sucks my bottom lip before slipping his tongue inside my mouth.
I match his penetration with my own deep, hungry lick.
I can’t get enough of his minty, sugary taste.
We angle our heads to deepen the contact.
I moan at the pleasure of my breasts crushed to his chest, my nipples sensually rubbing the fabric of my dress.
When we finally come up for air, he’s panting as heavily as I am.
“Tell me we can keep doing that.” His voice is as rough as sandpaper.
“We can keep doing that.”
He dives in again, but the kiss is quicker.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t even spell the word “no” right now.
Leaving would also be a reprieve from everyone watching us, my friends most of all. I spent the night diffusing their excitable questions about Tristan. It was my attempt to lay the groundwork for the conversation about our platonic co-parenting.
Yeah, right. That kiss alone could get a girl pregnant.
I text Toby to tell him I’m leaving with Tristan. He sends me back a crude meme involving eggplants.
“Can you stay at my place tonight?” he asks while we wait for my coat. He doesn’t have one because he used a cab to get to Axis.
My curiosity reaches a new peak.
How does the father of my children live?
“Sure, I can stay over.”
A cab glides right up to the door when we exit. Inside, we hold hands and Tristan provides instructions. Less than ten minutes later, he’s helping me out of the vehicle.
I knew Tristan’s place would be simple, but I wasn’t prepared for a glorified storage unit.
The front door opens straight into a long, flavorless rectangle: gray-washed floors, an oatmeal-colored sectional, and a print on the wall of .
. . birch trees? Possibly asparagus? Whatever it is, it’s tragic.
“This feels like where secret agents hide after they fake their deaths,” I murmur.
Tristan chuckles behind me, tossing his keys on a glass console table that might as well have a museum placard reading Modern Minimalist No. 4.
I let him remove my coat and walk in slowly, taking in the rest: a sad little bar cart with a couple of unopened bottles of whiskey, a ficus plant in the corner that’s definitely fake. Even the throw pillows look like they’re ripped from the back of office chairs.
“Cozy.”
“Liar,” he says. “Your house is cozy. This is—”
“Temporary,” I fill in for him.
“I was going to say convenient.”
He’s unbuttoning his shirt. Casually, as if he’s unaware that watching him work those buttons loose one by one is hypnotic.
The shirt parts slightly with each flick, revealing the deep lines of his chest, his abs, that tiny mole near his sternum I’d like to lick and suck like I did when we made love.
“You want something to drink?” he asks as if stripping in front of a drooling woman is a regular occurrence.
“Sparkling water, if you’ve got it,” I manage, my voice half an octave higher than usual.
He nods and disappears into the kitchen, which is a small, sleek space with stainless steel appliances so shiny they practically reflect my impure thoughts. I duck into the bathroom to wash my hands and take a breath.
Even in here, the vibe is “executive short-term stay.” Unflattering lighting, rolled towels in a wicker basket, soap that smells like nothing.
There’s even a wall-mounted hair dryer. I splash cool water on my face and sigh at my reflection.
The dress is holding up better than my makeup.
My lips are raw from our kiss and mascara has smudged down my cheeks.
Brain: Slow down. You were swept away by passion, but it’s logic that will—
Body: Oh, shut the fuck up. Get me out of this bathroom so I can ride my baby daddy.
I find Tristan setting up a snack on the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. Almond butter on crackers, blueberries, and protein bars on display.
“Figured you’d be hungry. You’re eating for three, after all.”
“Thank you.” I snack for a minute and am pleasantly surprised to find his protein bars do not taste like a shoebox.
He guides me to the couch and lifts my feet onto his lap so I’m stretched out.
With utmost care, Tristan unbuckles the last heeled sandals I’ll be wearing for a while.
The straps unwind from around my ankles, yielding to his warm, confident touch.
After sliding them off, Tristan peppers my ankle with the gentlest brush of his lips, holding my foot like it’s fragile.
He begins massaging my feet. I moan loudly at the pressure of his thumb along my arch. He glances up, one brow arched.
“That good, huh?”
“So good.”
He grins while rubbing the knotted muscles into submission. My head tips back against the couch. My whole body goes liquid. After a few minutes, I’m more aware of his hands than my feet. They are large and calloused and so damn skilled. I’d like those skills applied to other parts of my body.
“Come here,” I rasp.
Tristan inches closer till our faces nearly touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters reverently.
My nipples ache and my skin is feverish. I lift my chin to invite his kiss.
“Tristan Thorne, is that an ultrasound wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“I’m so fucking turned on right now.”
He’s not the only one. I kiss the corner of his mouth and whisper, “Take me to bed.”
Swiftly and with zero effort, Tristan carries me in his arms like I’m a bride.
We enter his bedroom where he gently places me on a bed.
It’s a room as generic as the rest of the condo.
It’s redeeming feature is the king-size bed.
My least favorite part is the corner lamp, which is unflatteringly bright.
My body has changed in the last few months.
Personally, I’m fascinated by my baby bump, but I wouldn’t call it attractive.
I’ve never been a supermodel, obviously.
I’m definitely not as tall and skinny as the woman who slid up and pressed her body against Tristan at the bar.
But I can usually rock a thong. Today, I’ve got the Kevlar-strength support undies to smooth out my silhouette. It isn’t sexy, that’s for sure.
“Can you turn off the light?” I ask.
“Why? Don’t you want to see me?”
I guffaw at his false humility. “Tristan, you know you’ve got the body of an athlete and the cock of a porn star. Don’t be coy.”
“You think I have the cock of a porn star?”
“Not the point. Just turn it down, please. I . . . I don’t look the same. I’ve got this bump that—”
“You have a baby bump? Can I see it? Please?”
“Seriously?”
“Please,” he pleads softly, as if in awe.
I stand and offer my back to him, a silent invitation to unzip my dress. With a tender swipe of my hair to one side, Tristan exposes my right shoulder and my neck. His hot mouth kisses my skin, interspersed with the slightest graze of teeth.
“These have been tempting me all night,” he whispers while moving his hands under my breasts and squeezing. He’s tall with long limbs, so Tristan works my body from behind me, his hard cock on my back while his fingers roam all over my torso from my breasts to my wet center.
“You have the best tits.”
“They’re much more tender now,” I admit. “So sensitive.”
“I can’t wait to taste them again. Been dreaming of them, Ligaya. Been dreaming of you.”
He slides the zipper down. The dress pools at my feet.
Tristan sits on the bed and places me between his knees so he’s eye level with my chest. Then, he dives in.
Licking gently at first and then opening his lips to put as much of my flesh into his mouth as possible.
He sucks and kisses. His tongue flicks against my diamond-hard nipples one at a time till I whine with a mix of pleasure and desperation.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
“More. I need more, Tristan.”
“Then you’ll have to promise me something first.”
“Yes. Anything. Get my underwear off for me.” I push down at my control top underwear. “Ugh, it’s stuck!”
He holds my wrist still and forces our gazes to lock.
“I never want you to wear this ironclad abomination again. Our babies need to breathe, Ligaya. And I need to see the baby bump you promised me. When I take this off, I will throw it out the window, do you understand?”
“That’s littering.”
“OK, you’re right. It goes straight to the garbage.”
“You’re so bossy.”
“You have no idea.”
It takes both of us struggling to get the damn thing off. I’m sweating by the time I get naked. Unfortunately, the whole process was the farthest thing from seductive. They should put a warning on the underwear package: CONTROL TOP BONER BUSTER.
Except, when Tristan takes off his pants, he’s as hard as a steel pipe.
His eyes shimmer and his features convey determination. Tristan is irresistible like this, all corded muscle and heated touch. Fingers clench around my hips before spreading wide to grab my ass. The V that frames his engorged cock is as deep and defined as a ridge.
The man is a work of art.
“Get on the bed, Ligaya. I’m dying to worship your body. You’re perfect.”
Body: You heard the man! Lie back and let him worship me already!
Uterus: Finally, I’m free from the shackles of your internalized misogynistic fashion standards.
Brain: Sigh. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.