Chapter 7 Temptation
Cade
When Cade returned the first aid kit to the medicine cabinet, he stood frozen for a moment, hands braced on the sink, trying to clear his head of his tangled emotions.
What the fuck had just happened back there?
Keeping Tristan safe was his responsibility, but he had lost it over a minor injury, and he had no clue why.
The only thing he was sure of was that the last couple of days left him feeling off-balance, and this flustered state he lived in whenever Tristan was near was getting old fast.
He needed to get a grip.
Tristan was a job, nothing more. It didn't matter that Cade somewhat enjoyed his company, that he was marginally funny, that Cade didn't hate the sound of his voice.
That he wanted to fuck him.
Because Tristan was dangerous. He asked too many questions, poked at demons Cade didn't want to rouse, looked at him with big, amber eyes that pleaded for … something. Everything.
Fucking hell.
Tristan was only a temporary distraction, Cade reminded himself. Soon, Annabeth would crack the encryption, and they would find these piece-of-shit traffickers and get his sister back. Then Tristan would go home and resume his life.
But damn, when Cade had seen him this morning, starfished on the bed, half-naked like a fucking buffet laid out just for him, it had been too much for even his strong will to handle.
After that, he had to channel that energy and frustration in some way because the alternative — taking what he wanted — was unacceptable. So he chopped wood till his muscles ached and he could hardly lift the ax anymore.
It had done the job for a while, but when he and Tristan had locked eyes, the other man's desire had been unmistakable, and he had almost caved.
By some miracle, he had gathered the strength to turn his back, but those indecent thoughts were enticing him again, and Cade wouldn't last in this tiny house for much longer.
He was a strong man, a disciplined man. But he was only a man.
Even if he gave in to these obscene urges and made a move, he would likely scare Tristan away with his sexual tastes. Tristan was smart and decent and beautiful, and Cade couldn't imagine him wanting the things his hookups got when they connected with him on an app.
But son of a bitch, the temptation was nearly irresistible.
Cade shook his head as if the physical act could ward off his unwelcome thoughts. He straightened his spine and reminded himself he had endured much worse trials. He took a deep breath as he headed back to the kitchen.
He found Tristan at the stove again and shooed him off. The other man allowed him to take over, and when Cade served them both, Tristan mumbled his thanks. They ate in silence until Cade commented, "You have sauce on your lip."
"Oh?" Tristan stuck his tongue out and, with exceptional thoroughness, licked all around his lips, making sure his tongue cleaned every centimeter.
Cade froze.
"Did I get it all?" Tristan asked with a sparkle of mischief in his eye and something other than innocence in his tone.
Jesus Christ, he wanted that tongue on him. He could picture it lapping at his dick, or sticking out waiting for him to paint it with cum. He wanted those lips on him too, preferably stretched thin around his cock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hanging his head, Cade mumbled a "Yeah," scowled into his bowl, and mentally bludgeoned the dirty thoughts that popped up like some absurd game of whack-a-mole.
When they finished their meal, he sent Tristan away from the kitchen so he could wash dishes and get some much-needed distance from the other man.
Later, Cade found the redhead on the sofa, picking at the blanket with his uninjured hand. The sun had set, and darkness swallowed the space outside the cabin. Dim light shone from the cabin lamps, casting a warm, yellowish glow over the small space.
Tristan's mood had shifted, and for some reason, he seemed smaller, more vulnerable in this light. It made Cade want to do something crazy, like hold him.
Cade had run across a fair number of victims in his work, and he had always felt sympathy for their situation and a strong desire to make things right for them, to avenge their losses. But he had never had this level of close contact with them, and he had never wanted to hug a victim before.
And he had definitely never wanted to fuck one.
But Tristan was different. He was brave, smart and dedicated to helping the investigation.
He didn't act like most victims, didn't give in to tears and helplessness, but instead got more pissed and determined.
He was obviously a strong person, but even strong people had their limits, and as Cade sat down next to him, he felt a strange compulsion to protect him, not only physically, but emotionally as well.
When his brain caught up with these bizarre feelings, he decided it had finally happened; after twelve years in this job, he had finally cracked. He was having a god-damned nervous breakdown.
Cade searched for words to break the silence and lighten Tristan's mood. Luckily for him, a text from Annabeth distracted him from his troubling thoughts.
"What does it say?" Tristan asked hopefully.
"It says, 'This fucking encryption is pissing me off. I'm close, but not quite there."
"Oh," Tristan said as he nodded quietly. His face drooped, and Cade offered a quiet, "I'm sorry."
He had expected questions for Annabeth, insistence that they do something else, or some anger or frustration, but Tristan remained quiet and contemplative. They sat there without speaking until the redhead looked up with his big, honey eyes and said, "I was an asshole as a teenager."
Cade frowned, wondering where that random statement came from. "Most people are."
"Some of us still are," Tristan quipped, smirking at him.
"You're hysterical," Cade snarked.
Tristan's weak smile faded, then he continued, "To Nat, I mean. And my mom, too, a little anyway. I didn't pay them much attention. I worked part-time to help my mom, went to school, and hung out with my friends, but I didn't spend too much time with them, you know?"
Cade had no experience with family dynamics, but he agreed based on what he heard from others and what he had seen on TV. "Sounds pretty normal for a teenager."
"I took them for granted," Tristan admitted as if confessing a great sin. "Until it was too late."
Tristan peeked up at him as if to gauge his reaction, but Cade had no words of wisdom and could only nod encouragingly.
"She didn't tell us she was sick until after I graduated from college. She didn't want me to worry, to get off track. By the time she told us about her diagnosis, she had been sick for several months. She had been going to treatments alone, protecting us from the truth.
"When I found out, I tried to take care of her and Natalie.
Nat was thirteen, going through puberty and middle school, and she really needed Mom.
But Mom got really sick pretty quickly, and soon I was trying to hold the family together, trying to help Nat when I realized I really didn't know her that well anymore. "
"That sucks," Cade offered, hoping Tristan would finish the story.
"Yeah. I did the best I could, but it never seemed enough. And now, with Mom gone and Natalie missing, I feel so guilty, like I wasted precious time. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, it does."
"If I get her back, I won't be that stupid again."
"We'll find her."
Tristan nodded and forced a smile, but the guilt clearly weighed on him.
Again, Cade felt foreign, uncomfortable emotions surge.
Tristan looked simultaneously wounded and stunning.
His wide amber eyes revealed his sadness but reflected beautiful gold hues.
His lips formed a frown but begged to be kissed.
It was maddening.
Cade wanted to hug him and comfort him.
But he also wanted to devour and defile him.
It was so fucking confusing.
"What should we do?" Tristan asked innocently, his demeanor in direct opposition to Cade's lewd thoughts.
Cade cleared his throat, thinking that his indecent daydreams would certainly have sent him to hell if he weren't on the fast track already. "Another baseball game?"
"Sure."
Once the game was streaming, Tristan situated himself so close to Cade that their hips touched, then pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his lower half with the sherpa blanket.
He leaned his forearms on his knees as he peered at the screen.
He asked questions about players' positions, batting averages and experience.
He grilled Cade about the Yankees, how their statistics compared to other teams, and if they would make the playoffs.
Every so often, he shifted or squirmed, causing their legs or arms to skim against each other.
Usually, baseball proved a useful distraction for Cade, drawing his focus away from his life and problems. A game was normally meditative for him, allowing him to watch without anxiety, but this time, he was slowly going mad.
Tristan's nearness had his senses on high alert, attuned to every small movement, every small adjustment that brushed parts of their bodies against each other.
Fighting to focus on the game rather than Tristan's proximity, Cade answered Tristan's questions, providing as much detail as he could muster with his fractured attention, describing the strengths of various batters, how the left-handed pitcher affected the hitters, and how the standings this late in the season stood.
He explained some of the history between the two teams, giving added context to the rivalry.
At one point, Tristan quirked a smile at him. "You talk a lot more about baseball than anything else."
Cade felt his face flush at being called out like that. He kept his eyes locked on the screen but could sense Tristan watching him. Eventually, to his relief, the other man turned back to the game.