Tempting Tristan Read online

  “Aw, baby,” he says in a heated voice, and goes up on his knees, opening his legs wider and giving me better access to the places I crave.

  Lust thrums through my body as I bring my mouth to his balls. His hips push back, and I circle his hole with my finger until he’s rocking with need, trying to guide me where he wants me. Only then do I push my finger in deep, inciting another greedy moan. The man drives me crazy, his taste, his touch, his sexy noises. I flip him onto his back and claim him in a passionate kiss.

  “T,” I pant out. “God, T. I want to be inside you, but I want to watch you.”

  I roll onto my back and his eyes go nearly black. “Sit up,” he says roughly.

  I push myself up to a sitting position. “You’re the only man I’d let command me to do anything.” Seeing him take control is a whole new high. He straddles my hips and guides his cock into my mouth.

  “That’s it, baby. Suck me.” He palms the back of my head, cupping my jaw with his other hand as I take him to the back of my throat. I love the feel of his hands on my face. They’re strong but gentle, and the combination is nothing short of erotic.

  I cup his balls and his chin falls to his chest with a curse. His eyes close, and his jaw clenches. His abs are tight and his thigh muscles are pure power as he pumps his hips and fucks my mouth.

  “I need you, Alex.” He withdraws from my mouth and reaches for the lube.

  I grab it from his hands and get us both ready; then I lay down on my back and guide his hips as he sinks down onto my cock. The feeling is out of this world. He braces himself on my chest and rides me slowly at first. He’s the epitome of male perfection, and for the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to have my breath swept away by something other than force. I’m ridiculously caught up in him, and I have no desire to fight it.

  When he reaches behind him and fingers my hole, my hips buck hard.

  I utter a curse and a grin splits his lips.

  “My new favorite game,” he says with a sinful look in his eyes. He sinks down, staying perfectly, torturously still while I’m buried deep inside him, and he pushes a finger inside me. I clutch his thighs, craving his movement, gritting my teeth over the pressure mounting inside me.

  “Move, T,” I snap. “I need you to move.”

  He does, but not where I need it. He fucks me with his finger, and I swear he’s got me hovering on the verge of an iconic explosion.

  “One day, Alex, your ass is going to be mine.”

  I can’t take it another second. I yank him down in a demanding kiss, wrestle him to his back, and drive my cock into his ass. I want to bury my entire self beneath his skin. I come up for air, and when I lean down for another kiss, he stops me with a firm hand on my chest.

  “I will have you,” he says fiercely. “Your ass will be mine, Alex Wells.”

  “Shut up and kiss me or I’ll flip you over and fuck you from behind.” Since our very first time, I’ve preferred making love to him face to face.

  “One day you’ll learn that’s not a threat. I’d let you fuck me upside down if you wanted to.”

  “God, I love that filthy mouth.”

  We kiss and fuck and there’s nothing careful or gentle about it. I pound into him with all the love I feel coursing through my veins, all the greed in my heart. Every thrust drives that love deeper, so deep it begins to block out the ugly things—guilt, anger, and the ache of never having said goodbye to my grandmother—until all that’s left is goodness and the unlikely emotion that kept me alive for so many years. Hope.

  I run my hands through his thick hair, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, and that hard jaw that I love so much. I wrap my hand around his cock, stroking him as we make love. He grabs my biceps, and his shredded torso rises off the bed.

  “Kiss me, Alex. Kiss me while we come.”

  I capture his mouth, and we surrender to the unstoppable force that we’ve become. His breath becomes mine, and my heart becomes solely, effortlessly, and completely his.

  Tristan

  “WHAT IS IT about a guy in uniform that makes me want to cream in my pants?” I say to Alex as we walk up to the doors of the military pediatric clinic. He’s a formidable man, but in his army uniform, he looks even bigger, broader, and more commanding.

  Alex looks around nervously, gripping the box of mini sculptures like a shield. “Remind me never to bring you around the guys I fought with.”

  “Let me correct my statement.” I pull open the clinic door and say, “What is it about you in uniform that rattles me to my core?”

  “Better.” A gratified grin lifts his lips. “Maybe it was the good fucking you got a few hours ago.” He winks and walks inside the clinic, immediately stepping to the side of the doors to allow a family to pass behind us.

  The color drains from his face. “I’m not sure what to say to the kids.”

  “I’m going to start with hi,” I say, trying to ease his nerves. I touch his arm, and he bristles.

  He leans out of my reach. “You can’t do that here.” His eyes dart around the waiting room, which is filled with military families, men and women in and out of uniform, children playing, and babies asleep in their parents’ arms.

  My gut knots up. “Can’t…?”

  “They allow, but they don’t accept,” he says harshly. “I told you that.”

  Knowing this is a tough time for him, I try to let the dismissal roll off my back, but it sticks like sap, making my skin feel too tight and unearthing my painful past, which no longer feels very far away. Alex’s eyes move over the room, and I realize just how uncomfortable this visit is for him—and now for me.

  The clinic is smaller than most hospitals, but the setup is the same. A large desk sits across from the entrance. Parents hold their children, the shadows of worry in their eyes masked by feigned smiles for the benefit of their offspring. Or, possibly, for themselves.

  Alex’s eyes shoot to me, and I see a battle ensuing behind them.

  I shove my hurt and anger down a notch, telling myself this visit isn’t about me. “Are you okay? If this is too much, we can go. Maybe it’s too soon.”

  The muscles in his cleanly shaven jaw jump and he shakes his head. “No. I’m good. And I’m sorry, but I don’t need to garner the wrong type of attention.”

  “Whatever,” I say too harshly, but it fucking stings. For a guy who says he’s sick of hiding, he sure slipped back into his straight jacket pretty easily.

  His eyes shift over the waiting area again, and more specifically, to a little boy who looks to be around four years old sitting on his mother’s lap with tears streaming down his cheeks. Alex doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t reach for me, but his body keels closer, and I realize this line he’s drawn is not one he wants, but one that’s been ingrained in his mind over eight long years. My ego took a slap, but his took a beating.

  “Do you want kids, T?” he asks with a serious tone.

  The question takes me completely off guard. “Um, yeah. Sure. I’d like a dog first, but sure, someday.” I would like to one day have a family of my own, but given my history with men, I haven’t put much hope in the idea.

  He nods, eyes narrow as he watches the tearful boy. “Me, too. Let’s do this.”

  He takes a confident step forward, and I see him as the soldier he once was: the leader, pushing past his dislike of hiding his sexuality, pushing past his fear and taking steps to help others. I didn’t anticipate the slap on the wrist about my attempted minor PDA, but that’s nothing compared to the emotional tumult Alex is dealing with.

  I’ve already made arrangements with the staff, and they greet Alex with all the respect and excitement that a war hero deserves. We’re brought into a large room in the back of the clinic that is set up like an enormous living room. Three young children are sitting on a carpet around a pile of building blocks, each constructing their own tower. One of the boys has a prosthetic lower leg. Another has burns along the right side of his face and arm. He has only t
hree fingers and a thumb on his right hand. On the couch, two young boys who appear to be about eight or nine are playing with Game Boys. One of them has a cast from hip to toe. Another pair of boys is sitting on the floor in front of a television set playing Xbox. Three little blond girls with their hair in pigtails and wearing cute matching dresses are playing with a dollhouse in the corner. The youngest one sits on the floor. Her right leg is amputated just above her knee.

  “The parents know you are here to meet the children and bring them gifts,” the woman who brought us back tells Alex. “When you’re ready, I can introduce you, or—”

  “It’s okay,” Alex says confidently. “I don’t need to be introduced. May I go talk with the children, or should I speak with the parents first?”

  I’m so proud of him right now it’s a struggle not to touch him or whisper something supportive.

  “You may do either, Mr. Wells,” she says kindly. “Whatever you feel most comfortable with. We appreciate you taking the time to reach out.”

  Her last words fall on deaf ears, as Alex is already crossing the room toward the kids sitting around the building blocks.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alex

  I LOWER MYSELF to the floor beside the little boy who has burns along the right side of his face and arm. He can’t be more than five or six years old, and everything inside me twists into knots. He’s a baby, an innocent child, and even though I have no idea how he got the scars, or why he’s missing two fingers, I know whatever he went through probably hurt like a son of a bitch.

  He blinks up at me with big blue eyes and long dark lashes that sweep over his cheeks. I set the box of sculptures beside me and give him my full attention. I feel myself trying not to look at his scars, and focus on his friendly, curious eyes.

  “Hi,” he says in a chirpy voice. “Are you a soldier?”

  “I was. I got hurt, and I can’t fight anymore.”

  “I got burns.” The blue-eyed boy lifts his arm. “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember it, but my mom said I cried a lot.”

  “I cried a lot, too, when I got hurt.” I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to these kids all morning, and now I don’t even have to think. The answers come easily.

  “Soldiers don’t cry,” the other little boy says.

  “Can I see your boo-boo?” a little girl sitting on the other side of the blue-eyed boy asks.

  A chill runs down my spine. The little girl has scarring around her right ear, which is deformed. These children can’t hide their scars with a pair of jeans and a standoffish demeanor. Pushing past the discomfort that’s been with me since the attack is like trying to swim through sludge.

  “Can we see it?” the blue-eyed boy asks.

  The boys who were sitting on the couch notice our conversation has turned to show-and-tell and join us on the floor. My heart beats erratically and I search for Tristan. I don’t have to search far. He’s standing a few feet away, smiling down at me. He is my strength. He is my answer.

  “If you tell me your names, I’ll show you,” I offer to the kids.

  “I’m Bobby Evers,” the blue-eyed boy says.

  And all at once the other kids start shouting their names—Jenny, Michael, Peter, Chrissy. Within minutes the children have formed a circle around me, with curious eyes and eager smiles, like I’m Santa Claus and it’s Christmas morning. Their parents watch from the perimeter, and fear comes trickling in again.

  “Well, Bobby, Jenny, Michael, Peter, Chrissy—” I rattle off every single name they’ve shared, until they’re giggling. “I’m Alex.”

  “My uncle’s name is Alex,” Bobby says. “He’s a soldier, but he didn’t get hurt. Maybe he’s a better soldier than you are.”

  I can’t suppress the laugh that brings. “Maybe he is.” I lift my eyes to Tristan, whose arms are crossed, but the smile on his lips and his slight nod are exactly the support I need to push on.

  “Mr. Alex?” Mary, a pretty little blond girl with an amputated leg, asks.

  “Yes, Mary?”

  She lifts the skirt of her dress and points to her leg. There’s no sadness in her face, no flush of embarrassment rising on her cheeks. She’s simply pointing to her leg. “I got a boo-boo, but the doctors made it all better.” Behind her, a woman who I assume is her mother covers her heart with a shaky hand and her eyes go damp.

  My throat thickens so badly I have to clear it. “Thank goodness for great doctors,” I manage. “My doctors fixed me up, too.”

  I reach for my pants leg, and a little boy with a cast on his leg asks, “Did you get shot?”

  “I did,” I say with a modicum of unexpected pride. I’m aware of every eye in the room watching me as I pull up my pants leg, and I distinctly feel Tristan’s gaze not on my leg, but on my face. Whatever pride I felt a moment ago has sunk to the pit of my gut, replaced with remorse for having to put space between us while we’re here.

  “Take your socks and boot off,” Bobby demands as he goes up on his knees to get a closer look.

  I do as he asks, and Bobby’s little eyebrows pull together. “Wow. You’re missing part of your leg like I’m missing my fingers.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yes, I am.”

  “I was in a car accident,” Bobby says. “Were you in a tank? Did it blow up? Or were you in a hole in the ground? Or—”

  “Bobby, that’s enough,” a conservative-looking man who I assume is Bobby’s father says.

  “That’s okay,” I reassure him, and go on to explain, in the most child-friendly terms I can, what happened to me.

  Two hours later, I’ve given out all of the sculptures and each of the children has shared their personal stories of what led them to the clinic. Their parents filled in the gaps, explaining about congenital birth defects that led to the amputation of Mary’s leg and Michael’s premature birth, which caused a stroke, resulting in a weakened leg. They were told he’d never walk, and with the help of a WalkAide, which leverages functional electrical stimulation, he’s proven them wrong. I’ve learned more about confidence and resilience from these children than I ever did in the military.

  As Tristan and I walk toward his car at the far end of the parking lot, out of sight from the entrance, I reach for his hand. Despite the fact that I’ve hurt him, he allows me to take it. He is resilience personified, and I hate myself for expecting him to be so damn resilient.

  “T.” The endearment hangs heavily between us. The guarded look in his eyes slays me, and I know there’s nothing I can say that will make my behavior seem acceptable.

  Because it isn’t. Not by a long shot.

  Tristan

  “LET’S GET OUT of here.” I pull open the car door, and Alex squeezes my hand, but I’m too conflicted to play nice. I climb into the driver’s seat, and when he leans on the doorframe, my gut instinct is to tell him it’s okay, but I fight it, digging deep to retrieve the balls I was so proud of finding the other night. “Get in.”

  “Tristan,” he says, and it’s all I can do to shake my head.

  He stalks to the passenger’s side and settles in as I start the car, trying to formulate what I want to say. My mind is a combat zone of feeling proud of Alex for following through with something I know was difficult and wanting to beat the shit out of him for dismissing our relationship the way he did.

  We drive back to Harborside in silence. Alex keeps looking at me, but I can’t meet his gaze. It would be too easy to let him off the hook, which part of me thinks he deserves, because I saw how hard that visit was for him. But the hurt in me runs deep, and even if it’s forced deeper by past experiences, I can’t ignore it.

  When we pass under the arch over the road that reads HARBORSIDE, WHERE HEAVEN MEETS EARTH, Alex reaches across the seat and takes my hand.

  “I’m sorry, T.”

  I glance over, and my resolve softens at the remorse swimming in his eyes.

  “Goddamn it, Alex.” I swerve over to the shoulder and t
hrow the car into park. Too frustrated to sit in a confined space, I push my door open, but he’s out of the car before me, and meets me on my side.

  “Tristan, I know that was shitty of me.”

  “Shitty? Do you think you could have warned me? Given me the chance to tell you to fuck off before we got there?” I wasn’t even thinking about telling him to fuck off, but now that it’s out there, I realize how deeply this cut me. I pace beside the car, and can’t stop years of anger from tumbling out. “I have never hidden who I am, and I refuse to be shoved to the side because you need to be more of a man.”

  Alex grabs my arm and spins me around. “Is that what you think that was about? My need to feel like more of a man? How’d you come to that conclusion, Tristan?” He walks forward with every sentence, knocking his chest against mine and forcing me back. “By the way I kiss you? The way I turn into fucking putty around you? The way words like ‘baby’ fly off my tongue after being ripped out of my heart?”

  Every word hits me with the impact of a bullet, driving the hurt, anger, and confusion deeper. “So it’s okay for you to fuck me here in Harborside, but the minute we pass under that sign, I’m supposed to act like you’re my buddy?” I shove him backward, and he stumbles. As if there’s an unbreakable connection between us, I reach a hand out to steady him and curse under my breath at my weakness.

  He grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the sign. We’re both panting in anger, and I want to beat the hell out of someone—only it’s not Alex. I can see this is killing him as much as it’s killing me.

  I want to tear apart the military—all of them. For making him feel like he had to hide, for taking parts of him he can never get back, and for leaving broken soldiers for those who love them to put back together. And I can’t decide if knowing I’d do it all over again for him and that I’d fight for him to do the right thing for himself as much as for us makes me weak or strong.