8. Tristan
TRISTAN
I’ve never brought a woman here.
It hits me as I pull onto the property and take the gravel road toward my house.
The main house is lit up behind us, looking warm and inviting, while up ahead, my house sits dark and small at the edge of the tree line.
I’ve lived here for years. No one’s been inside except Dorian, Quinn once or twice while dropping off food from Ms. Beaumont, and a plumber I watched the entire time regardless of how he started sweating under my gaze.
Now I’m bringing Stella into my world. Somewhere between the restaurant and here, my brain shifted into the mode it uses before I clear a room.
Running scenarios, cataloguing threats. This time, the threats don’t involve armed men or rigged doors.
More like a pair of kitchen scissors or a stray balloon from Lillie’s birthday that might’ve blown across the property.
I go through the list in my head while parking. There are no birds inside, certainly. No straws, because I don’t own any. Obviously, no escalators. Not a mullet in sight. No turtles.
There are scissors in the kitchen drawer, however.
“Stay here for one second,” I tell her before killing the engine.
“Why?”
“Just give me a second.” I go in ahead of her.
The house is dark and cool and smells like not much of anything because I’m never here long enough for a smell to permeate the air.
I open the kitchen drawer, grab the scissors, and put them in the cabinet above the refrigerator where she won’t see them.
Then I do a quick pass of the rest of the house. Nothing. Clean.
She’s waiting for me when I step back outside, where the wind does seem to be picking up. I wonder if I’ll have to carry her in or anything dramatic like that. “All clear,” I tell her, opening the door.
She gives me a look that tells me she knows I did something but isn’t sure what, exactly.
She takes my hand and lets me walk her inside, where I watch as she takes it all in.
The large sectional sofa facing a TV mounted on the wall.
The fact that the TV is the only thing hanging on any of the walls because I’m not exactly the type to waste time on interior decorating.
The kitchen with its empty counters. She’s measuring it all against whatever she expected.
I’m sure I’m coming up short in terms of square footage, but apparently I’ve passed inspection otherwise.
“It’s very you,” she announces with a firm nod.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, not at all!” Her eyes widen as she looks up at me. “It’s very clean. That’s what I meant. Like a monk lives here. A very large, dangerous monk.” She runs her hand along the kitchen counter before moving to the window above the sink, where the trees on the other side are starting to sway.
Then she stops. I follow her gaze and my stomach drops because sitting there, half hidden behind the curtain, is a small ceramic turtle Lillie gave me after a trip to the aquarium last month.
I’ve never thought about it. I’ve never even looked at it after placing it on the sill. It’s been collecting dust for a month.
Now Stella is staring at it like it called her a name.
She’s gone pale. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. I do the only thing I can think to do: reach past her, pick it up, open the window, and throw the damn thing into the yard.
She stares at the open window before looking up at me. The wind pushes in, and I close the window before she can register the gust. “You just threw it out the window,” she says.
“I’m sure it didn’t feel a thing.”
“But you just... threw it out before I could say a word.”
“You didn’t have to say a word.”
I don’t have a name for the expression she’s wearing. It’s not the look people usually give me. There’s no fear or wariness. It’s not careful respect that’s actually controlled panic. It’s something softer. Like I’ve done something she didn’t think people actually did.
“Nobody just gets rid of the thing that scares me,” she whispers in what sounds like wonder.
“I do.”
That’s when she grabs my shirt with both hands, stands on tiptoes, and kisses me hard enough that my back hits the counter before I catch up to the situation.
For about three seconds, I’m behind.
Then I catch up.
My hands grip her waist, and I lift her onto the counter. She gasps against my mouth—partly the cold granite, partly me stepping between her knees and pulling her to the edge so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to me. Her bare legs wrap around my hips like they were built for it.
“Tristan...” she moans against my mouth between kisses, breathing hard the way I am.
“I know.” I find the zipper on the back of her dress and lower it, and she goes with me, letting me peel the top away so I can unhook her bra. I need her. All of her. Every inch.
The sound she makes when I take her nipple between my teeth echoes off the kitchen tile. “Bedroom,” she breathes, even as she claws at the back of my neck and wraps her legs tighter around me. “I want... can we…?”
I don’t make her finish the question. Her legs are still around me when I pick her up and carry her down the hall. She weighs nothing but feels like everything.
She’s reaching for me as soon as I put her down on the bed, working the buttons on my shirt, running her palms across my chest. Her fingers trace a scar below my ribs, then one on my shoulder, then the edge of the tattoo that curls down my side. She’s reading me like a canvas, and I let her do it.
Then I hook my fingers into her waistband to pull her panties down her legs. I move slowly, watching her face the entire time. She lifts her hips to help and bites her lower lip. There’s a flush already spreading from her cheeks down her throat.
“You’re sure?” I ask, because I will always ask.
“Yes.” No hesitation. “I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”
I lower myself over her, bracing on one arm, kissing her while my free hand slides between her thighs. She’s soaked, probably making a puddle on the mattress. The groan I make against her mouth is involuntary. “Fuck. You’re ready.”
“I’ve been ready since you threw that turtle out the window,” she moans. I almost laugh, but then she rolls her hips against my hand and the laugh turns into something darker.
Once I’ve stripped off my slacks and boxer briefs, she looks down and her eyes go wide.
I can’t pretend that does nothing for my ego as I settle between her thighs and press against her entrance.
Not pushing in yet, not quite. Just letting her feel me there.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I grit out, barely holding onto the last shreds of my control.
“It won’t be,” she whispers, clawing at my back before her eyes widen. “Oh. Wait. I need to tell you something first.”
I grind my teeth harder. “What?”
“I’m on the pill. My cycle is really irregular, and my doctor said it would help regulate things, and it also helps with cramps, which are honestly a whole separate nightmare.
I just thought you should know because protection is important, and I don’t want you to think I’m not being responsible, because I am.
I’m very responsible, actually. I refill it every month right on schedule and—”
I kiss her. Hard. She melts into it instantly; the babble dissolving on her tongue. When I pull back, she blinks up at me. “Okay,” she whispers. “That works, too.”
“I’m clean,” I tell her. “You’re covered. Can I fuck you now?”
The flush goes nuclear, all the way down to her chest. “Yes. Immediately.”
The sound she makes when I push into her slowly is something I want carved into my headstone somehow.
Low and long, nails digging into my shoulders, her back arching off the mattress.
I hold still once I’m fully inside her, letting her adjust, because she’s tight.
Impossibly tight, devastatingly tight. The effort of not moving is costing me more than any punch I’ve ever taken.
“Are you okay?” My voice comes out rough.
“Don’t you dare stop.” Her hips shift beneath me, finding the angle. “Oh god, Tristan...”
“That’s it.” I pull back and push in again, deeper, and she cries out. “You feel so fucking good. You have no idea how good you feel wrapped around me. So tight and hot and wet.”
Each stroke pulls another sound out of her, and every sound makes me want to go harder. I keep it steady, though, because this is her first time. I’m going to make sure she remembers every second of it.
“More,” she pants. “Please. I can take it.”
“I know you can.” I grip her thigh, changing the position, opening her up wider. The angle change makes her eyes roll back. “No. Look at me.”
She does. Those wide, glassy eyes lock on mine. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I whisper, moving inside her. “Do you know how tight your pussy is gripping me right now? Like it never wants me to leave. Is that true? You don’t want my cock to ever leave you?”
Her face goes a darker shade of red and her body goes tight around me. “Yes,” she whimpers, moving her hips in time with mine.
“I could die inside this pussy,” I growl, doing everything in my power to hold on for her sake when my entire body wants nothing more than to let go. “So sweet. I can’t wait to feel you come around me. Is that what you’re going to do? Are you gonna come on my cock?”
She’s getting close. I feel it, the way she’s starting to tighten around me. “Oh, yeah,” I growl, reaching between us to thumb her clit. “You’re gonna come for me. Right now. I want to feel it.”
She nods frantically, biting her lip, making tight, strained little squeals until she finally breaks apart. Her whole body locks up, her mouth open in a silent scream while she clenches around me in waves that drag me right to the edge.
I watch as long as I can before burying my face against her neck and letting go, spilling inside her with a groan that starts in my chest and ends somewhere I can’t reach.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing else.
Just her, pulsing around me with her fingers in my hair and my name whispered against my temple.
I don’t pull out right away. I stay inside her, breathing her air while our heart rates come down together. Her hand traces lazy circles on the back of my neck.
Finally, I pull back far enough to catch sight of her smile. It’s the softest, most satisfied smile I’ve ever seen on a human face. Immediately, I know my purpose in life is to put that smile on her face as much as possible. Every day. For the rest of my life, if she’ll let me.
I kiss her forehead before rolling to the side and pulling her with me. She arranges herself against my chest like she was meant to be here, fitting against me like a puzzle piece. When the wind picks up outside, neither of us flinches.
It can’t touch us. In here, it’s warm and dark. The only sound is her breathing, slow and even against my chest. The sheets are a mess, and my heart rate still hasn’t fully come down, but I can’t remember ever feeling this peaceful. This... right.
I’ve done many things in my life. Most of them were hard. None of them were gentle. I’ve never once thought of myself as someone capable of being careful with another person. But with her, careful is the only setting I have.
A gust of wind hits the side of the house, and she tenses against me. This isn’t full panic, but I feel her breathing change and her fingers tighten where they were resting on my arm. “It’s picking up,” she whispers.
“The walls are solid. We’re safe.”
“I know.” Still, she presses closer. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I just remembered. Socks is all alone in this.”
Right. The rabbit, miles away from here, alone in a building that shakes when the wind picks up. At least, that’s what I imagine. It’s not exactly well-constructed.
“I’ll send someone over,” I offer. “I can have a guy there in twenty minutes. Marco. He’s trustworthy. He’ll bring Socks back here for you.”
She lifts her head, eyebrows practically up in her hairline. “You would do that?”
“I can do better than that.” I don’t know where this is coming from. I didn’t plan it, that much I’m sure of. None of the best things I’ve done lately have been planned. “I’ll have him pack a bag while he’s there. Clothes, whatever you need. Your paints. You can stay here.”
“Stay here?”
“With me. Stay here with me.”
She’ll push back. I know she will. There’s an entire list of reasons why this is too fast, too much. Evidently, I am no longer capable of being sensible, but I’m sure she still is.
“Okay,” she decides.
I sit up, searching her face for any hint of uncertainty. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I mean, you threw a turtle out the window for me.”
“A ceramic turtle.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s basically a proposal.” Before I can react, she starts counting things off on her fingers. “Tell Marco to grab the hay, too. And the pellet bag—it’s under the sink. His cushion. He won’t sleep without his cushion.”
Once she’s finished making her list, I pick up my phone and make the call.
The wind screams outside, but the walls hold, as I knew they would.
She lies back down, still listing things Socks will need.
She’s asleep by the time I finish the call, smiling softly, nestled securely like she’s finally allowing herself to relax. Thanks to me.
If I have it my way, she’ll spend the rest of her life feeling safe.
I pull the blanket up over her shoulder, keeping watch as the wind howls on the other side of the window.