19. Simone #2
A muscle ticks in Tristan’s jaw, and I can feel him winding up for the fight. Fine . I’d rather fight with him than deal with the tense, icy silence of the past three days.
"What do you want from me, Simone? You want me to pretend the threats aren't real? You want me to let you wander around Miami like nothing's changed?"
I tilt my chin up, glaring at him. "I want you to ask me what I want. I want you to treat me like a partner instead of a possession. I want to have some say in how we handle this situation."
Tristan pauses, his eyes narrowing at me. “Is this your idea of how I prove that I deserve you? By giving you a part in all of this? Involving you in our war room meetings?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
His jaw tightens. "Absolutely not."
"Why?" I cross my arms. “You’d be surprised by how capable I might be. Besides, I know things about my father and Sal that you and Konstantin don’t, just because I live?—”
“Because I don’t trust you,” Tristan snaps.
“You’ve lied to me. Plotted to kill me. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate me and want no part of this marriage.
So why the fuck would I trust you with our plans?
With sensitive information? Why would I think that you can be trusted with anything , Simone? ”
He stands up abruptly, moving around the desk toward me, and I can see the frustration radiating from him in waves. "And besides that, you have no idea what you're asking for."
"Don't I?" I don’t budge an inch. This is becoming a familiar pattern, and I’m more than ready to go toe-to-toe with him.
Tristan shakes his head. "No. You don't. This isn't some game, Simone. This isn't playing dress-up and attending charity galas. This is life and death. This is blood and violence and choices that could get people killed."
I swallow hard, hating that he’s partially right.
That I’ve never been raised to be a part of this facet of the mafia world, and that I’m probably not prepared to be a part of it.
But I’m so fucking tired of being shut out, of being talked around and over, of having choices made for me. And I’m not backing down.
"You think I don't know that?" I step closer to him, close enough that I can smell his cologne, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
A shiver of heat runs down my spine, but I ignore it.
"You think I've lived my entire life in this world without understanding what it means? "
Tristan eyes me. "I think you've been sheltered from the worst of it."
“That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of it. That I don’t know that my father killed plenty of men. That you probably have. I know this world is brutal, Tristan, and I know men die all the time trying to get what they want. I’m tired of being treated like I’m something fragile.”
“You could prove to me that you’re stronger than that, then.” Tristan stares down at me, his jaw working. “Prove to me that you want to be a part of this.”
“How?” I snort. “Let me guess. You want me down on my knees.”
“I want you to admit that you want me. That even though this marriage wasn’t your choice, there’s something undeniably strong between us. That I turn you on as much as you turn me on. That, together, we could be a force.”
I glare at him. “Fuck you.”
Tristan shrugs. “Fine. I’m not giving you a mile when you won’t even give me an inch.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is,” he interrupts. “Can you imagine what Konstantin and my father would say if I let you in on our meetings? If I brought you along? If I suggested that you not only get to know all that’s happening but have a say?
I would have to stand up for you, go to bat for you, fight for your right to be a part of all of this.
Why the fuck would I do that, Simone, when you can’t even admit what is plain as fucking day between us? ”
“I can help,” I bite out, ignoring everything he’s just said. If I don’t, I’ll have to admit that he’s right. That I’m giving him nothing and asking him to take a huge step for me.
But he’s the one who stole me. Who burst into my life and took it over without warning. Why do I have to give him anything?
“How?” Tristan braces one hand on the side of his desk, looming over me. “How can you help, Simone?”
“You can use my knowledge of these families, my understanding of the politics and the history and the grudges. I'm suggesting that you stop treating me like a liability and start treating me like an asset."
Tristan waves a hand. “Konstantin knows all of that. My father and I know a lot of it.”
“You don’t know Sal all that well. Or Enzo.”
“We know enough.” Tristan’s jaw is tight. “You haven’t shown me why I should let you in, Simone. Especially when you won’t let me in.”
We stare at each other like that for a long moment, neither of us giving an inch.
Tristan shifts to one side, moving me toward the desk, and when I turn, I feel myself bump against it, my ass hitting the side.
Tristan cages me in instantly, his hands on either side of my hips, gripping the wood as he leans over me.
“Let me in, Simone, and then we can talk.”
I swallow hard. I know what he wants. It would be easy to make him believe that I’m giving it to him. I could sink to my knees in front of him, I could sit on the edge of the desk and spread my legs for him. But the problem is that if I do that, I don’t know that it’ll be pretending.
It’s getting harder and harder to fight my desire for him every time he touches me.
Harder to pretend that he’s not telling the truth when he reminds me that I want him just as much.
An ache spreads through me as I look up at him, dark and forbidding, his jaw tight and his green eyes drilling into mine, and I know I can’t give him the inch that he wants.
I might lose myself if I do.
“You first,” I whisper, and I see Tristan’s teeth grind together, feel the muscles in his arms tense on either side of me.
Neither of us moves, or speaks. There’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the building tension in the air, and I wait for him to do something—to kiss me, to force me down to the floor, to pick me up and move me where he wants me so that he can use his cock to remind me that I’m his.
He does none of those things. He breathes in, deeply and out, and then shoves himself away from the desk, running one hand roughly through his hair. Against the front of his suit trousers, I can see the thick, hard ridge of his cock, his erection straining to be free.
And then, exactly as I did after our last fight, he turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving me there.
—
It takes me several minutes to shake myself free of the shock from him walking out on me.
Tristan doesn’t walk out on our fights—he pushes them to some kind of conclusion.
The thought that maybe I’ve pushed him to his limit, that he’s done with me, ignites a new fear in the pit of my stomach that I don’t entirely understand.
I stand there in his office for a long moment, staring at the door he disappeared through, my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence feels different now—not oppressive like it has been for the past three days, but charged. Electric. Like the air before a storm breaks.
I should leave. I should go back to my room, or find something else to occupy my time, or at least give him space to cool down. But instead, I find myself moving toward the door, my feet carrying me forward before my brain can catch up and tell me what a terrible idea this is.
The mansion is quiet as I make my way upstairs, my guards for once nowhere to be seen. Maybe Tristan told them to fuck off. Maybe they’re just making themselves scarce. Either way, I don’t care, because I’m not done with this fight.
Just because Tristan has decided he’s finished with our conversation doesn’t mean I am.
I take the stairs two at a time, heading all the way up to the master bedroom that Tristan once thought we would share and now sleeps in alone.
I throw the door open, expecting to walk in on him, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
The bathroom door is closed, and I approach it, reaching for the handle, only to stop before I open it.
There’s a sound on the other side of the door. A harsh sound of flesh against flesh, hard and furious, and then a low, masculine groan.
Awareness prickles down my spine as I realize what I’m listening to.
I should turn around right now. I should go back downstairs, or to my room, or anywhere but here.
Instead, I press my ear to the door.
Another groan, one that I know is Tristan’s—his groan of pleasure that I’ve heard before. That sound continues, flesh meeting flesh in a desperate rhythm, and I feel my thighs squeeze together as I listen to my husband touching himself.
I should be disgusted. I should be appalled that I'm standing here listening to my husband pleasure himself in the bathroom.
But instead, I'm transfixed, dampness growing quickly between my legs.
I can hear the desperation in it. He left the office minutes ago—he must have come straight up here, desperate to get his cock out, desperate to come because of our fight. Because of me .
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to reach down and do the same. Not because he forbade me to, but because I refuse to admit that he’s turning me on just as much. That I want to throw the door open, bend over the sink, and take his cock instead of letting him finish himself off.
Another groan, deeper this time, and I can picture him in there—his head thrown back, his hand wrapped around his cock, his muscles tense with need. The same need I saw straining against his trousers downstairs, the need he walked away from rather than taking what he wanted from me.
Why didn’t he just take it? He always has before. He’s never hesitated to remind me that as his wife, it’s my duty to pleasure him when he desires it. He’s never balked at taking what he considers is his.