Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Michelle
I have a bizarre dream. I’m at Pilates, and Lauren is screaming at me about flushing out my bowels while I try to make the most perfect little leg circles I can, pointing and flexing my toes like my life depends on it.
It takes me a minute to shake off the dream, blinking blearily into the predawn dark. I’m as warm as if I just finished one of Lauren’s hellish sessions.
Oh.
Oh my god.
I freeze, stiffening.
I’m warm because somehow, in the middle of the night, Tristan Gold has tucked me up against his chest. One arm cradles my head, his huge palm stretched out in front of me. Another arm’s heavy around my waist, his hand tucked under my hip.
It’s hard to swallow, and not because I’m mad.
Nope.
Because just being held feels so good I could cry.
Tristan’s body is massive around mine, and I feel safe.
Warm and wanted and…wanting.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I can’t remember the last time I woke up in someone’s arms like this.
I never let my boyfriends cuddle me at night; I couldn’t sleep with them pressed up against me.
It always made me feel self-conscious, like if they touched me while I wasn’t awake, I couldn’t control their reaction to me, couldn’t distract them from the imperfections I’m sure they’d find.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan’s voice is rough with sleep, his breath hot against my hair.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I squeeze my thighs together, too, because not only am I comfortable, I’m also getting really turned on from being in his arms.
Unplanned sex deprivation has apparently led to some unexpected consequences.
“I just, uh—”
“Shit. Sorry, Michelle, I didn’t even realize we were…that I…Listen, I didn’t mean to—”
I turn around as he tries to pull away, hooking one leg around his hips and digging my heel into his muscular butt cheek.
He stops wriggling, gusting a rush of hot air across my forehead as he exhales.
His eyes are only half open, but there’s a question in them, a question that demands an answer, demands words I’m afraid to say.
“What if we did…what you suggested last night?” The question pops out of me nearly without a thought, a sign of just how haywire my brain goes around Tristan.
My heart hammers in my chest, a whirlwind of second thoughts spinning through my brain. I can’t take back the words, no matter how ill-advised this could be professionally.
I also can’t deny how much I want him to say yes.
His Adam’s apple bobs.
Silence unfurls between us in the early dark.
“Brush our teeth?” he finally asks, and I huff a laugh, my core tightening in response. I wriggle my hips closer, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes widening.
“I’m going to need you to tell me exactly what it is you’re after, Oxford.”
I finally make contact, the hard length of him beneath his boxers jerking against my leg as I pull my body close to his.
“You. You’re what I’m after.”
He gives a pained groan, his light brown lashes fluttering shut.
He’s so beautiful, so devastatingly handsome in the dim light filtered through the fabric of my curtains, that it’s all I can do not to reach up and touch his face.
“Be careful, Michelle, because once you cross that line, you can’t uncross it.”
I snort, giving in to my impulses and stroking my fingers along the coarse stubble of his jawline. A masterpiece.
That’s what he is, a Renaissance sculpture of the perfect man, chiseled well enough for the gods to envy. Marveling at him, I simply run my fingers slowly up and down his jawline as the seconds tick by.
He’s letting me decide, I realize.
Giving me time to change my mind, to tell him, No, haha, I was just kidding.
I’m not, though.
“Oxford,” he says with a growl. “Put the pillow back between us, or say what’s on your mind.”
“You said we could have sex. Keep it casual and easy, right?” I mean to say it nonchalantly, normally, but it comes out a breathy whisper. I rock my hips just a little, unable to resist the body twined around mine, and we both groan as my core brushes against his hardness.
“Michelle,” he says, his voice strained. “Don’t start something you’ll regret.”
I frown, slightly hurt.
“Oh. You didn’t mean it—you were drunk. God, I’m an idiot, sorry.” A joyless laugh erupts out of me, and I jerk my hand away from his face and throw my leg back to my side, starting to roll over.
“Fuck, no.” It’s a feral growl, and then Tristan is on top of me. His green eyes are wide awake now, and there’s no hint of humor in the edges of his expression.
This is the Tristan Gold I know from the field, the singular intensity normally focused on the opposing team now all on me.
His weight’s barely on me, but it’s enough that a shiver of anticipation goes through me. His gaze is hot, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
I definitely don’t want to.
It’s the careful way he’s straddling me, though, waiting for me to tell him what I want…that has me melting more than the feel of his muscled body over mine.
I’m at the edge of the cliff of doing something I can’t go back from. If I take another step, I’ll be in free fall. I stare up at him with big eyes.
I haven’t felt this in control, this powerful…maybe ever.
“I meant it,” he finally says. “But I’m not going to take something you aren’t willing to give—”
I surge up, pressing my mouth against his, not giving a shit about anything but what I want in this moment…him.
He responds immediately, cupping a hand against the back of my head, his mouth opening with a low moan that has my toes curling.
This—this is what I needed.
I needed this all-consuming kiss, I needed the physicality of our bodies entwined, and I need him.
“Michelle,” he groans, and the way he says my name coupled with the intensity of his gaze makes me moan.
“I want you. I need you,” I say, my gaze darting between his eyes. They’re flecked with darker green, and so beautiful and sincere it’s almost enough to make me believe this means something to him.
That I might mean something to him.
It’s a dangerous way of thinking, and I cut it off as soon as the thought enters my mind, losing myself in his touch.
Tristan kisses me like a starving man, his hand tangling in my sleep-tousled hair, his blunt nails scraping against my scalp. I relish in the sensations coursing through me, from his hardness pressing into my skin, from his hands on me, and from his mouth on mine.
Soon, though, it’s not enough, and I’m panting as the kiss breaks, his mouth skimming along my jawline, my throat. My back arches and my hips rock into him, and we both suck in a breath at the contact.
“Fuck, Michelle,” he grits out, his teeth grazing the dip between my collarbones while I squirm, needing more and needing it now.
“Touch me, please—” I choke on whatever else I was about to say as his hand skates over my stomach, lower, until his fingers stroke me through my underwear.
“You’re so wet already.” It’s said like a prayer, like worship, and I moan again, opening my legs wider. “You need me bad, huh?” he asks, nipping at my jawline.
I nod, my renewed pleas for him turning to whimpers as he tugs my underwear to the side, dipping a finger into my wetness.
My body arches as he slides his finger over my clit, making expert circles. I gasp, digging my fingers into his shoulders as he murmurs praise into my ear.
“You want this, don’t you? You like the way I’m touching you.”
I never would have guessed that happy-go-lucky Tristan Gold would be like this in bed. If I had, I wouldn’t have waited so long to get him into mine.
“So wet for me, so responsive.” He captures my mouth again, thrusting two fingers into me at the same time, claiming the animalistic sound that comes out of me with a hot kiss. “So fucking tight.”
“Close,” I pant, bucking under him, needing more.
He circles my clit with his thumb, slowly moving his fingers in and out of my body as I climb toward my release.
When he pulls away slightly, watching me with a knowing grin as he hooks his fingers inside me, I nearly vault off the bed as my orgasm peaks.
I babble incoherently, holding on to him for dear life as he keeps massaging me.
“Look at you, coming so pretty for me.” His voice is full of pride, and I can’t blame him for it.
He tugs down the covers, and when his hand finally leaves me, I moan at the loss. Until he pulls my shirt over my head and begins sucking the tip of my breast into his mouth.
His cock pulses against my thigh, and I want to make him feel good.
A sharp intake of air sounds as I gently pull aside his briefs and wrap my fingers around him. It’s big, just like the rest of him, and my eyes widen slightly at the thought of how he’d feel inside me.
“Sweet Cheeks, I’ve wanted you for so long. I’m not going to last if you keep touching me.”
“Then don’t,” I tell him, pulling his mouth back to mine.
He’s right—it doesn’t take long at all before he’s fucking my hand, using my grip roughly for his pleasure.
“Michelle,” he groans, nearly sounding pained, and satisfaction makes me smile as his warmth splatters across my skin. “Michelle,” he repeats, the wonder in his voice making me blink in surprise.
He kisses me again, a slow, soft press of his mouth against mine.
It’s tender and playful all at once, and I force myself to pull away as my heart throbs painfully.
I can’t get attached to him.
Casual. This is supposed to be casual.
“That was—” He pauses, licking his lips, and we’re both panting slightly, watching each other. “Let me clean you up,” he says, not finishing whatever it was he was about to say.
He’s gone in a flash, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
The sound of my squeaky faucet and a stream of water starting comes from the bathroom, and I stare up at my ceiling like it holds all the answers.
Casual. I can do casual.
Tristan emerges a moment later, one of my washcloths in his hand, hot enough that steam rises from it. He starts to dab at my stomach, and I make myself take the cloth from him.
He watches me carefully.
“I can do it.” I inject enough cheerfulness in my voice that I almost sound like a cartoon character.
Fake as shit.
I’m scrambled. My brain knows this can’t be serious with him, but my heart and body didn’t seem to get the memo.
“I don’t mind. It’s my fault you’re a mess—”
“I wanted you to,” I tell him quickly.
He scrubs a hand down his face.
“Besides, this is just casual, right?” I ask, the words bumping into each other as they pour from my mouth.
He swallows, his gaze flicking away from mine. “Right.”
“So I’ll clean myself up. It’s too…if you do it, it’s—”
“I get it,” he says, and there’s a sardonic note in the words I don’t understand.
I scoot out of bed, the floor cool under my bare feet, a shock to my system after the heat of his body.
I don’t want him to clean me, I don’t want him to cuddle me, and I can’t stand the way his expression shifted when I told him that.
It shouldn’t make me feel guilty to not want to catch feelings.
This whole casual shit is even harder than I thought.
Confused and mad at myself and yet still relaxed from the first orgasm I’ve had in months, I turn on the shower and slip inside.
I don’t need to ask him what we are. I don’t need to talk about anything with him, at all. As much as I like talking to him, as much as he always seems to know how to make me laugh, it doesn’t have to be more. I don’t have to overthink this—him—the way I do everything else.
Besides, wasn’t that the whole point of his lessons with me?
This will just be sex. That’s it.
I’ll feel better after I wash him from my skin.
But as the water beats down on my back, I can help but think that no matter how much I scrub, Tristan Gold’s touch will always be imprinted on my body.