Chapter 13 Feelings #3
He reached down to encircle both of their lengths, and with their noses brushing and their lips so close they breathed each other's air, it didn't take long for his skillful hand to drive them both to the brink.
The tug of Tristan's fingers in his hair grounded him and reminded him this was real, even if it wouldn't last.
The words, "Don’t stop. I'm close," hummed in his ears, and he almost laughed at how absurd the notion of stopping was.
When he twisted his hand on the upstroke, Tristan tensed for a split second, then let out a low, lewd moan as he came, and Cade followed close behind, prompted by his partner's erotic noises and the cum that eased the messy slide of his hand.
Locking their mouths together to swallow Tristan's groans, Cade worked them through their orgasms, then slowed and finally stopped.
Their mouths still touched, but the kiss became slower and softer as he nipped at bruised lips, not to wound or pierce, but to tease and play.
Riding the high of the orgasm, he felt the undeniable pull of this connection that tethered them, and some impulse he couldn't understand drove him to prolong the moment, to keep them pressed together, to preserve the fragile magic for as long as possible.
Because if he let go, the spell would break, and the fairy tale would end.
After they were clean and back under the covers, Cade lay in the dark trying to untangle the snarl of emotions he'd been battling all day.
Tristan was curled up to him again, pressed tightly to his side, his arm and leg wrapped possessively around him. But instead of the expected panic, he only felt contentment and finally understood the appeal of choosing someone special to share his life with.
He never allowed himself the luxury of getting close to someone, never let himself care deeply, not anymore.
Because caring meant you got hurt.
That reality had been the one immutable truth in his life.
But he'd let himself care about Tristan, and he was barreling toward inevitable heartbreak. Like the other times before, the point would come when he'd have to let go, because what choice did he have?
When had he ever had a choice?
This time, though, the price would be steep, because when Tristan walked away, he'd take a piece of Cade with him.
A soft voice floated to him from the darkness, interrupting his fatalistic thoughts.
"Cade?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he lied.
Seconds ticked by, but he knew Tristan wasn't done talking.
"Cade?"
"Mmm?"
"Obviously, you don’t have to tell me if you don't want to, but what happened to your family?"
Staring into the darkness, he considered his response. Hamm knew all about his family, but only because he'd insisted on hearing Cade's whole story before he hired him. His other colleagues knew that Hamm had found him on the streets, but he'd never told them details of his past.
Talking about his upbringing made him feel weak, and he had spent his adolescence and adulthood ensuring he'd never be as vulnerable as he'd felt as a child. So he hid the memories away, pretending the past hadn't happened, or distancing himself so much it felt like it happened to someone else.
But this was Tristan, and maybe the dam broke, or else he gave up trying to fortify and hide behind it.
"My parents died in a car accident."
He heard a soft gasp. "I'm sorry. That's horrible. When?"
"When I was four."
There was a pause while Tristan seemed to absorb that information before asking, "Do you remember anything about them?"
Long dark hair and hugs, the smell of strawberries. Being carried on a man's shoulders and feeling tall. A red bike with training wheels at Christmas. A birthday cake with candles and chocolate frosting. A gray cat named Kitty.
"Not really. Just flashes, vague memories."
"You don't have any siblings?"
"No."
"And no relatives? Grandparents or aunts and uncles?"
"No."
Again, Tristan seemed to consider those answers, assembling pieces to the puzzle.
"So you went into foster care?"
Cade flinched. "How did you know?"
"Logical conclusion. Plus, your reaction when I said that one victim was a foster kid."
Cade didn't know how to respond, so he said nothing.
"How long were you in foster care?"
"About eleven years."
He knew he could speak up, stop this line of questioning, but he couldn't make himself say the words.
Tristan seemed to hesitate, then softly asked, "Did you get moved around a lot?"
Twelve placements after I learned how to count.
"Yeah."
"Is that why you couldn't play baseball anymore?"
Damn, he doesn't miss a thing.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
Unsure of the appropriate response to that, Cade didn't reply.
"So when were you homeless?"
Another slip he should have known Tristan wouldn't overlook.
He pursed his lips. This part was harder to talk about, the memories fresher, harsher, more poignant.
He'd had to do things he wasn't proud of: stealing, begging, and worst of all, fighting to protect himself and hurting people who didn't deserve it, people who were just trying to survive like he was.
"I ran away from foster care when I was fifteen. I was on the streets about two years before I met Hamm."
The breath whooshed from Tristan's lungs. "Oh, wow. Two years. That must have been awful."
"It was," he agreed as he forcefully shoved away some of the more horrific, persistent memories.
"How did you meet Hamm?"
He thought back to that night outside the bar, how he'd foolishly marked Hamm as drunk enough to make an easy target, and huffed softly. "I tried to pick his pocket."
"No shit! But you didn't?"
"No. He caught me."
"Then what?"
Hamm tightly gripping his wrist, interrogating him about where he lived, if he wanted the money for drugs, if he was hungry.
"He wouldn't let me go till I answered his questions. When he figured out I was a street kid, he offered me a job."
"After you tried to steal from him?"
"Yeah."
"That's crazy. So, what? You just went with him and became an assassin?"
"Well, he bought me food and explained what they do, then let me choose."
"That's wild."
"I guess."
Tristan didn't speak for several seconds, and Cade wished he knew what he was thinking.
"You've been through a lot," Tristan remarked, his voice gentle.
Cade shrugged in the darkness, not quite sure how to react to the kind words and caring tone.
"I'm sorry you went through all that. It must have been horrible."
"Don't pity me," he said more harshly than he intended.
He hated it when people treated him like some charity case, some wounded animal that had overcome insurmountable obstacles, like in those melodramatic Lifetime movies.
He was a strong, capable, even intimidating adult; he didn't want to be defined by his tragic past.
"I don't. I think you're a really strong person. A survivor."
Tristan's words weren't condescending or patronizing; they were kind and honest, and when it struck Cade again that this man truly saw him, his throat constricted, and he couldn’t have spoken even if he'd known what to say.
When a soft hand slid over the sheet and covered Cade's, he welcomed it.
As Tristan fell silent, he listened to his soft, even breaths to make sure he was asleep, but his mind was too jumbled for him to follow suit so quickly.
He had revealed so much of himself that he should have felt exposed and anxious, but he didn't, because it was Tristan, and that was unnerving in itself.
It sucked that this bubble they were trapped in was temporary, that this would all be over soon, that he would be alone. Again.
His final thought before drifting off to sleep was that he was stupid for wanting what he couldn't have.
His life had never been fair, and he held no delusions that it would ever be.