Tempting Tristan Read online

  “You’re going inside. Your punishment awaits.” He reaches around me, settling his teeth over my neck and sucking as he unlocks the door.

  “Fuck, Alex. That feels good.”

  He grinds harder, and his hand comes around my waist. “Want to call me a sissy again?”

  “More than ever.”

  He pushes the door open and kisses me as we stumble inside. Keeping me prisoner with one hand, he reaches behind him and locks the door. “Eight hours is a long time to be away from you.”

  We’re on each other like depraved animals, kissing and groping as we stumble through the space. He guides me around a wall, through a doorway, and we’re thrown into pitch-darkness. My back hits a piece of furniture, and he cages me in with his arms. My body thrums at the promise the privacy holds.

  “Oh, look,” he says with a lusty voice. “A table.”

  He pushes a hand between my legs and masterfully drives me out of my mind. He claims my mouth again, plundering and taking as he works the button on my jeans free and shoves his hand down the front.

  “Aren’t we…?” I suck in a sharp breath as his fingers wrap around my cock. “Supposed to be…?” He kisses my neck, and my thoughts spin away.

  He fists his other hand in my hair, tugging to the point of scintillating pain, and continues stroking me into a panting, rocking, pleading mess.

  “I fucking love your body,” he says against my mouth.

  I’ll never get enough of his mouth—on mine, on my dick, on my ass, everywhere. “Show me how much.”

  The corner of his lips lift, and heat flares in his eyes. Without a word, he yanks down my jeans and takes me in his mouth. My eyes roll back in my head as the sheer pleasure of his hot, talented mouth pulls me under its spell. He takes me to the back of his throat, then withdraws, slicking his tongue over the head, sending tides of heat through my veins. I can’t resist guiding him, clutching his head and pumping into his heavenly mouth faster, harder, and he takes every second of the invasion, moaning like he can’t get enough of me—and I know I can’t get enough of him.

  He releases my cock and grips the root with his rough hand. His lips are red and swollen, and his eyes are fierce.

  “I need to fuck you.” His rough voice sends another thrill down my spine.

  He rises to his feet and drops his pants. His heavy cock springs free, and my mouth waters. I reach for him, and he spins me around, pushes my hands to the edge of the table, and kicks my legs apart. His rough hands press against my sides as he sinks lower, and his tongue slides down my crack. My head falls between my shoulders.

  “I have a serious infatuation with your mouth.”

  He spreads my ass with strong hands, and then his mouth is on me, his tongue is in me, and I feel like I’m going to explode. I hear the familiar click of the top of a tube of lube.

  “Where—”

  “Pocket,” he says, and slicks lubed-up fingers into me. “But don’t you worry, babe. I’ll keep a stock here, just like at home.”

  I suck in a sharp breath with the invasion. He works me loose, sliding a third finger in as his other hand strokes my cock.

  “I wanted you to come in my mouth,” he says, and presses a kiss to my back.

  Lust shoots through me. “Fuck me; then I’ll come in your mouth.”

  His fingers leave my body, and for a split second I mourn our broken connection, and then his cock is nestled against my entrance. He hugs me tightly around my middle as he pushes into my body, stretching me with his formidable girth, moving painfully slowly, until he’s buried to the root.

  “Christ, Alex.”

  He fists my cock and begins to move. Pleasure spreads through me like wildfire, searing, claiming, branding me as his. My eyes won’t stay open, my thighs burn, and my body trembles with need. I reach down and still his hand.

  “Don’t, or I’ll come.” I want to come in his mouth. I want to give him everything he desires. I want to claim him from the inside out, and I want it more with every hour we spend together.

  He clutches my hips and pumps harder, faster, until every nerve is buzzing, we’re both sweating, and my head is spinning. I cling to the edge of the table with one hand, squeezing the base of my cock with the other, trying desperately to stave off my release. I feel him swell impossibly thicker, and his next thrust brings a roar from my man as he shatters inside me. I feel every throb, every pulse.

  “Tristan. Tristan,” he grunts out. When the last aftershock ravages through him, he rests his cheek on my back and whispers. “God, Tristan. I love you.”

  My mind is spinning from the mind-blowing sex, and he turns me in his arms and whispers, “I love you, T.”

  He presses his hand to my face, his thumb brushes over my jaw, and I’m aware of everything: the scent of our lovemaking in the air, the feel of our bodies trembling, the slick sweat slipping down my chest, and the adoration in my lover’s eyes. He touches his lips to mine, then sinks down to his knees and takes me in his mouth, and—holy fuck that feels incredible—obliterates every other thought. I grab his head, guiding him to the speed I need. His voice whispers through my mind like a mantra—God, Tristan. I love you—ramping up my pleasure to explosive levels. He loves me. This incredible, sexy, talented, kind, honest, virile man loves me. I force my eyes open, fighting the urge to give in to the soul-searing need to come, and he lifts his gorgeous blue eyes. My breathing quickens at the sight of him loving me with his mouth.

  Heat tears down my spine, and my emotions pour from my lungs like liquid fire. “I love you, Alex.”

  My orgasm consumes me, as erratic as a winter squall. I force my eyes to stay open, watching as he takes every thrust of the hot torrent spilling down his throat. His eyes never leave mine, and when the last of my release pulses through me, he takes me in his arms. His breath carries my scent, his lips are slick and swollen, and his eyes tell me what I already know. When he says, “Tell me again,” I don’t hesitate.

  “I love you, Alex.”

  He touches his cheek to mine and breathes us in. “God, T. Hearing you say it is a million times better than hoping for it.”

  I fight with all my might to resist the unfair words vying for release, but years of going out with dickheads has wrecked me the same way the military has wrecked Alex, and they’re irrepressible. “Just try not to deny my existence again.”

  He grips my face, and his eyes turn feral. “Never again, baby. Never again.”

  His emotions are raw, his intentions pure. I believe that with every ounce of my soul. But the award ceremony looms like a viper ready to strike, and as we kiss, I reluctantly admit to myself that some demons may never be slayed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alex

  TRISTAN AND I spend Friday afternoon painting the store. The floor is covered in tarps and the walls are almost done. I’m still buzzing on cloud nine like a goddamn girl because my man said he loves me, and he is taking far too much pleasure in teasing me about it, which means I’m grinning like a lovesick pussy. We’ve been painting for hours when Tristan heads out to pick up pizza, and Brandon stops by to go over tweaks for the website and marketing materials. He’s explaining the changes, but my mind is stuck on Tristan, what it will be like to work together here at the store, and how much our lives have come together over the past few weeks.

  “Alex?”

  Brandon is shaking his head, and I wonder if I’ve missed something important while I was zoned out.

  “Are you sure you and Tristan have dicks? What is wrong with you? So the guy loves you. Who cares? How does it change anything? Focus, dude.”

  I’m stunned that Brandon knows Tristan has told me that he loves me. “He told you?”

  “Tristan’s like a girl. He spilled his guts like blood from an open vein.”

  Why does that make me fall even harder for him? “Careful saying my man is like a girl.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Brandon’s hand cruises through his hair, lifting his bangs out of his eyes. For a
flash I get a peek at them. They’re the eyes of a tortured artist. A look I know all too well.

  His hair flops right back into place, the perfect camouflage.

  “I get that you two belong together,” Brandon says. “I mean, anybody can see that. But I don’t get why anyone thinks monogamy is a good thing. There are so many fish waiting to be caught and released.”

  “Why is that better?”

  He shrugs. “I’m just sayin’. I don’t get it. Why settle when you can have your pick?”

  “What’s to get? It feels good to have the connection Tristan and I have. To love someone and be loved back.”

  “And what happens in a month, or a year, or ten years, when whatever it is that turns you on changes? What about when Tristan loses his hair or gets fat? Or he can’t get it up anymore?”

  I wonder where these questions are coming from. Especially since he’s not nearly as close to me as he is to Tristan and his other friends. And then I realize this might not be the type of conversation he wants to have with someone who knows him that well, and that endears him to me even more.

  “That’s the thing, Brandon. What I feel for Tristan goes deeper than looks or sex. I mean, he’s hot as sin, but he could gain a hundred pounds.” I think about my leg. “Anything could happen, but it won’t change who he is. I love him for his ability to accept and push, for his strengths and his weaknesses. I love him for being able to look past my deficits and see who I really am.” I realize how true each of these statements are, and I also realize I’m telling them to the wrong person. I need to let Tristan know how I really feel about him, and I mentally begin trying to figure out how.

  “You mean like your leg?”

  A sharp pang slices through my chest at the thought of Tristan telling his friends about my injury.

  Brandon must read my discomfort, because he says, “Tristan didn’t say anything. You limp, dude. You don’t wear shorts. Sometimes when you’re sitting at the table your pants leg gets caught, and…” His gaze softens.

  These are all things I know, and I wonder why I thought I could fool anyone into thinking anything other than the truth. I have sustained a massive injury. It’s a cold, hard fact, and as I sit beside Brandon, with the topic hanging between us like a live grenade, I begin to wonder why I’ve let it rule me for so long.

  “Not because of my leg. Not only because of my leg,” I correct myself. “I’ve got a lot of baggage.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.” I wonder what he’s really getting at. “Why don’t you want those things? A special guy or girl to share your life with?”

  Brandon smirks. “Because I don’t want to give up either—guys or girls.”

  “Then we’re kind of on the same page. You don’t want to give up what makes you happy, and neither do I.

  “Brandon, I want to do something special for Tristan, but I need your help.” I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I wasn’t sure the best way to go about it, until now.

  “Anything for my boy Tristan.”

  We discuss the surprise, and then we work through the details of the brochures and a short while later Tristan and Charley come through the front door. He’s carrying a pizza box above his head and Charley’s carrying a six-pack of sodas and laughing. Her hair is pinned up in a ponytail, swinging as she grabs for the pizza box, which Tristan lifts out of reach.

  “Look who I found wandering around Main Street.” Tristan sets the pizza box on the table.

  “Finally.” She rips open the box and grabs a slice of pizza with two hands, then makes a big show of taking a bite. “Mm. I wasn’t wandering around. I was deciding where to eat.”

  Brandon leans toward me and says, “Wifey’s home.”

  Tristan smacks him upside his head.

  “Loser,” Brandon says.

  “That’s ‘sexy loser’ to you,” Tristan corrects him.

  Brandon grabs a piece of pizza. “Charley, I thought you were out this week on some shark thing with Dane.”

  “Dane Braden owns the Brave Foundation, where Charley works part-time. He’s one of the leading shark experts,” Tristan explains.

  “He was going to take me shark tagging, but he had to head back to Florida. There was some kind of emergency at the foundation headquarters.” Charley takes another bite of her pizza.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re going to be here,” Tristan says, and leans against the table beside me. “My brother Brody’s coming into town Tuesday. I told him we’d meet for lunch at the Taproom. I know he’ll want to see Wyatt and Delilah, and anyone else who can make it. Is that cool with you?”

  “Absolutely. I look forward to it.” Tristan’s told me about Brody, who he says is a little like my mother—restless, jumps from job to job, works his schedule around surfing, and has no real interest in settling down.

  “Brody’s a blast.” Brandon snags another piece of pizza and takes a bite.

  Tristan leans closer and lowers his voice. “Would you mind having dinner with my parents, too?”

  “Serious stuff, going home to meet Mom and Dad,” Brandon says.

  “Serious is good in my book. Sure, whatever you want, T.”

  Charley finishes her pizza and reaches for Brandon’s can of soda.

  “Hey, there are five more right there.” Brandon points to the soda cans.

  She takes a sip of his and says, “Other people’s drinks taste better. And Brody’s coming? Hm…”

  “No,” Tristan says adamantly.

  “T, he’s your brother.”

  He raises a brow. “Yeah, and he plays around too much for her. Charley, he’s not the right guy for you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m beginning to believe there is no ‘right guy’ for me.”

  Brandon flashes a grin. “I’d be happy to be a stand-in for an hour.”

  “You know I love you, Brandon,” she says. “But if I get that desperate, shoot me.”

  “You’ll come begging eventually,” Brandon responds. “Before I forget, some of my buddies are putting together a Battle of the Bands on the beach a week from Wednesday. Can you guys come?”

  The event is the same day as the award ceremony. Tristan flashes a supportive glance. I know how much he wants me to attend the ceremony, but staying here and going to the Battle of the Bands sounds a hell of a lot less stressful.

  When the hell did I become a no-backbone pussy?

  I straighten my spine like the man my grandfather—and I reluctantly admit to myself, the military—groomed me to be. The military has taken enough from me. I fought for our country, lost part of my leg, missed my grandmother’s funeral, and denied who I was as a man. All that aside, Tristan is right. The politics of the institution might be off-kilter, but the military serves a proud and necessary purpose, and I deserve the medal. Hell, every soldier deserves a frigging medal. But accepting the medal and accepting the mind fuck are two different things. I refuse to let that institution undermine my relationship with Tristan for another minute.

  “Tristan and I will be out of town,” I say to Brandon. “But we’ll be pulling for you.”

  Tristan

  ALEX AND I finish painting the store Saturday, and Sunday we move the furniture in from the storage unit. The late-afternoon light streams through the windows as we move chairs, coffee tables, desks, and the other furniture Alex has made into place. Working together, we create displays that we hope customers can easily envision in their own homes. We add books to the shelves and set up teacups with saucers on a delicate-looking table he’s built from narrow and winding pieces of metal and wood. We hang chandeliers he’s built from wood and various metals, situate lamps on tabletops, and carefully place candlesticks and other accessories throughout the store. We bought a few decorative throw rugs on the way over, and they give the nooks we’ve created an eclectic feel that reminds me of Arty and Metty.

  When we’re done, we walk through each area together, sitting on the chairs and be
nches, admiring the setup, adjusting angles. Alex’s smile reaches all the way up to his eyes as he takes my hand.

  “I couldn’t have done this without you.” He brings me closer, holding me against him. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?”

  “About as long as I’ve dreamed of having a relationship like ours?” We’re not perfect—no couple is. But I can’t imagine loving a man more than I love Alex. “When do you want to have the grand opening?”

  “I’m not sure. Brandon said he’ll be done with some kind of SEO something or other he’s doing in a day or two, and then we have to wait for the brochures and flyers to be ready. And there’s my boyfriend’s schedule to consider.”

  “Wyatt’s prepared to cut back my hours whenever I’m ready to do it.”

  His eyes widen. “So you’re really ready to commit? You’re going to do this with me? All the way?”

  “Aren’t we already doing this all the way? I’m no longer sure where you start and I end.”

  “That’s the way it should be.” He kisses me with a wide smile on his lips.

  “But we should look at what else is going on around town over the next month and see if we want to coordinate with any other events.”

  “I love that brain of yours.”

  I laugh. “You love a hell of a lot more than my brain.” I lean on one of the tables he’s made and cross my arms, watching him take it all in, and I wonder if he’s as proud of himself as I am of him.

  “Arty is smiling down on you right now.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. You’re here, in the town she adored, where she wanted you to build your life.” I push from the table and go to him again. I can never stay away long. “Where, according to you, she wanted you to find me.”

  He searches my eyes, and I wonder if he sees what I’m not saying. And as I’ve come to expect from Alex, who sees so much more than anyone ever has, he touches my cheeks and says, “What is it, T?”

  My throat thickens. I don’t want to say what I feel, but our relationship is built on honesty. We’ve walked over painful truths like beds of nails, and each step has made us stronger.