Tempting Tristan Read online

  “Alex, I can’t last. Fuck, you’re good at this.”

  Heat rushes through me at the desperation in his voice. His hands trace over my jaw as I quicken my pace. His fingers ghost over the corners of my mouth, and I feel his cock grow impossibly thicker. I hollow out my cheeks, then take him deeper, anticipating his release, craving it. His hands cup my jaw tightly, his thumbs stroke over my cheeks in the same rhythmic pulse of my mouth taking him in, and I’m gone. Lost again in the pleasures of Tristan. His touch is mesmerizing. His erotic, greedy sounds slip into the night, and when the first hot jet hits the back of my throat, I take him deeper, to near choking. Despite his thick shaft clogging my throat, despite his release pulsing inside me, for the first time in forever, I feel like I can breathe.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tristan

  I LEAN DOWN and kiss Alex, not bothering to tuck myself back into my pants. I need to be closer to him. As our mouths come together, he scales my body like a mountain, pushing me down to the hard earth again. The scratches on my back from earlier in the day when he crashed me against the concrete kitchen wall sting, and his shirt is rough against my chest. I tug it up, and he slows the kiss to suck-the-brain-cells-out-of-my-head speed. My hands splay on his back, dipping and sliding over grooves in his skin. I don’t mean to, but my hands still as I try to assemble the pieces of what I’m touching in my mind.

  Alex shoves my hand away and rears up to his knees. I rise to a seated position before he can exhale and grab his arm.

  “Don’t,” I warn against the angry gleam in his eyes. “I get that you’ve gone through something traumatic, but if you think for a second you can blow me and then storm off because of whatever it was, then you’re proving just how bad my judgment is.”

  “Tristan,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “What, Alex? You think a few scars are going to make me think any less of you? You think I’ll treat you differently?”

  He looks away, his jaw working overtime. “It’s more than a few scars.”

  “Obviously.” I pull myself up to my knees in front of him, but he refuses to look at me. Pain billows off of him, and I can tell it’s not the kind of pain that I can take away with a few carefully chosen words, maybe not even with hours of assurances.

  “You may not be ready for a guy like me after all,” I say honestly. “I see you’re in pain, and I want to help you through it. That’s who I am, and that’s not going to change. But I’m not going to force you to let me in. I’ve gone that route and—”

  “It never ends well. Yeah, I got it,” he says coldly. He scrubs a hand down his face and curses.

  When he slides a hand to my jaw, my instinct is to lean into the touch I’ve already grown accustomed to, but I fight it, tightening against it, resisting even as he pulls me closer. He has no choice but to come to me. His forehead touches mine and he breathes deeply.

  “My turn to ask,” he says roughly. “Who are you?”

  I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes as I say, “I’m the guy you deserve.”

  “Tristan.” His hand tightens around the back of my neck. “Goddamn it, Tristan.”

  “How bad?” I ask, knowing I’m skating a line he doesn’t want to cross.

  “Bad.” He draws back and sits on his heels, watching me hike up my pants and fasten them.

  I sit on my heels, mimicking his posture. A little unsure of how to respond, I try for humor. “I’m not a taker. I didn’t want to leave you blue balled after that earth-shattering blow job you gave me.” That earns a crooked smile, a fissure in his armor.

  “Earth-shattering, huh?”

  “You’re seriously talented, and I’m a lucky bastard.”

  We both laugh, but the seriousness of what I’ve just discovered hangs heavily between us.

  “The way I see it, we’ve got a few choices. I can leave now, and you can show up next Tuesday night at Wyatt’s place for a get-together we’re having and we can try to figure out where to go from there. Or we can grab a beer and talk it out.”

  His brows furrow. “What about the more obvious option?”

  “I’m not following…” Although I am, very closely.

  “You can end things with the fucked-up war vet.”

  “Obviously that’s not an option, or I would have suggested it.”

  A shy look washes over him, conflicting with his powerful presence.

  “Tristan,” he says, and shakes his head.

  “Maybe I have a thing for your talented mouth,” I tease. “I told you I’m a horrible judge of character, and the men I’ve fallen for have proven that to be true over and over again. But in the friends department I actually kick ass.”

  “So, you want to put me in the friend zone?”

  “Oh, hell no.” I can’t stifle my grin. “With a mouth like yours, I’m definitely keeping you in the fuckable zone. But right now you need a friend more than you need a lover, so get your sorry ass up, grab us a few beers, and let’s hammer some of this out.”

  He stands and reaches for my hand, tugging me up to my feet, and I pull on my shirt.

  “Hey,” he says solemnly. “Thanks for not wigging out on me.”

  “So far you’ve been nothing but honest with me. That’s more than I can say for most of the guys I’ve been with.”

  Alex

  “I’M NOT A vain person, or at least I’ve never thought of myself as being vain,” I explain to Tristan as we nurse our beers on the couch. “It’s not the scars that I care about. It’s what they stand for, the memories they evoke. What they stole from me.”

  “I assume it happened when you were overseas?”

  I know if I don’t respond or if I change the subject he’s not going to push me to elaborate, and that makes me want to let him in even more. He was right about not being able to change. With Tristan, what you see is what you get—unlike with me and most of the soldiers who have spent years as chameleons, our lives hinging on our stealth abilities. It’s such a contrast to what I’m used to that I want to strive to be more like him in that way. He deserves that—hell, I deserve that.

  I nod and set my beer on the coffee table, pressing my hands to my thighs, staving off the urge to evade the question.

  “You know when you wake up from a nightmare, and it takes you a minute to realize you’re out of it? That it wasn’t real?” I don’t wait for him to respond. “On a combat operation, there’s no escaping the nightmare. As a soldier, you stand and you sleep ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemy. There’s only hoping it stays at bay for longer spans of time. When you close your eyes, you replay the locations of your enemies, the strategies you’ve worked out in case of attack. You’re on edge twenty-four seven, because you have to be ready to fight for your life and the lives of the other men. We were under attack by what they estimate was two-hundred-plus enemy fighters occupying high ground just before dawn. We were surrounded on all four sides of our post.” I dig my fingers into my thigh muscles, remembering the roar of adrenaline, the fleeting panic that quickly turned to rage.

  “Antiaircraft machine guns, mortars, rocket-propelled grenades—you name it, they had them. I held the forward battle position, running through a gauntlet of enemy fire to resupply ammunition and defend our position.” My chest constricts, and I pause, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. Tristan places his hand over mine, giving me the strength to continue.

  “There was no break in the fire, no pause button, no time to think or plan or pray. All I had was my rifle. I took aim and did my part to beat them back, protecting our position. We fought for hours, battling unrelenting enemy fire. Whenever I saw one of our guys go down, I ran out and carried him to safety. I don’t remember breathing, I don’t remember being shot, and I sure as hell don’t remember the impact that nearly left me dead. They tell me I ran through rocket-propelled grenades and machine-gun fire several times, recovered our squad’s radio, enabling someone to coordinate our evacuation. I remember a soldier pinned down and expo
sed to the enemy, and I remember going after him. I have a vague memory of going down and thinking no fucking way would the guy I was carrying die because I couldn’t get up. They tell me I carried him seventy meters through enemy fire and fought to return to my post.”

  Memories fire off in my head. My instinct is to pace it off, but I don’t. I can’t. As if guided by something stronger than myself, I turn my hand over and link my fingers with Tristan’s.

  “I woke up a couple days later in the hospital. The next day I learned that my grandmother had passed away hours before I’d woken up. And what’s really effed up is that I saw her. I know it couldn’t have been real, but I swear to you, T, before I woke up in that hospital, I saw her. She took my hand just like this.”

  I lift our joined hands and place my other hand over the top of his.

  “She said it was time to come home.” I’ve been thinking about that moment for months, replaying it in my mind, trying to figure out if it was real or if I’d somehow dreamed it up. I never told my mother when she came to visit me. I never mentioned it to a soul until now. I let out a long breath, feeling like a weight has lifted from my shoulders.

  “And she meant here?” Tristan asks.

  I nod. “She’d been asking me to settle in Harborside after my tour was up. The last letter I received from her included a list of the galleries and stores carrying her sculptures. She suggested that they might be interested in carrying my furniture when I’m ready. She told me who to contact about buying a truck, which I did when I first arrived so I could move my stuff from storage when I’m ready. And of course she’d been telling me about you for months.”

  “That’s why you missed the funeral.”

  “Yeah. I would have done anything to be there, but I was really messed up.”

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to share that with me.” Tristan stretches an arm over my shoulder and takes my other hand in his.

  He doesn’t ask any more questions, though I’m sure he’s wondering about the extent of my injuries, and he doesn’t make a big deal about the lives I saved. I’m most grateful for that, because I have never understood how one soldier is considered more heroic than the next. We were all fighting the same war, all giving everything we had and more to keep each other alive.

  I don’t know how long we sit there with the sounds of the sea and my admission swirling around us, but by the time I take Tristan home the bond between us is stronger and the foundation of trust now goes both ways. I owe him more of an explanation, but tonight I opened a door that I never saw myself opening, and it’s all I can do to make it back to my own bed.

  For the first time in months, when my head hits the pillow I no longer feel like I’m standing alone in the middle of a battlefield.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tristan

  FRIDAY AFTERNOONS ARE always the busiest at the Taproom. College kids flash fake IDs like library cards, and tourists come in droves. Livi and Charley want all the details on Alex. They’re used to me sharing information about the guys I date, but I find myself hesitating. I tell them we went to the Spot and about how smoothly he handled Ditzy Dinah, but I don’t share any of the details about Alex’s past. I know how hard it was for him to share them with me, and I feel protective of him because of that.

  I’m clocking out when Wyatt comes through the back door. “Tristan, I’m glad I caught you.” He pulls me into Cassidy’s office. In addition to working part-time with Brooke, Cassidy handles the books for the Taproom. She looks up when we walk in.

  “Hey, guys.” Her eyes move curiously between us as Wyatt closes the door.

  “Hey, babe. Sorry to barge in,” Wyatt says. “I wanted to talk to Tristan in private.”

  “Want me to leave?” Cassidy stands, and Wyatt shakes his head.

  “No. I just didn’t want everyone else to hear.” He turns to me. “Are you sure you want to volunteer to work part-time this winter?” Wyatt asks. “I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, but you’re my priority. You’ve worked here for years, and my father wouldn’t want you leaving. We don’t want you to leave.”

  “I appreciate your asking, but I’m cool with it. It’s only for a few months.” I dig my keys from my pocket to keep him from seeing my face. The Taproom has been such a big part of my life for so long, I know it’ll be hard when I’m not here full-time. I’ll miss everyone, but it’s the right thing to do.

  “All right. Then let me be a real asshole and ask you what I’ve been stressing over ever since you offered to take the hit.” Wyatt puts his hands on his hips, and it’s a stance I remember his father doing anytime he was uncomfortable with a conversation.

  “Wy,” Cassidy warns, and shakes her head.

  “I know it makes me a prick,” he says to Cassidy.

  “But you’ll do it anyway.” She sighs and turns her attention back to her computer.

  Totally lost, I ask, “What makes you a prick?”

  “That I don’t want you to find something part-time that leads to full-time and we lose you altogether.”

  I can’t suppress my smile, because while Wyatt’s been working hard to fill his father’s very large shoes and handle the business in a professional manner, his heart is every bit as big as mine.

  I pat him on the shoulder and reassure him as much as myself. “It would take an act of God to keep me from coming back.”

  He lets out a long breath.

  “Told you!” Cassidy comes around the desk and takes Wyatt’s hand. “He’s been stressing over this so much. I told him you wouldn’t leave for good.” Then she takes my hand and adds, “But I also told him that if or when you do, that’s your prerogative, and he needs to man up and realize that one day you might find something different that holds your interest.”

  “I love my job, Cass. I love working for Wyatt and Dee, and with everyone here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But one day you might want to do something more, and Wyatt needs to accept that. That’s part of being a friend and an employer.”

  “The sucky part,” Wyatt says as we walk out of Cassidy’s office.

  “I’m not going anywhere. Full-time or part-time, you’re stuck with me.”

  On the way home I mull over my decision. If Jesse and Brent’s restaurant were open, helping them get off the ground would be a no-brainer, but it’s nowhere near completion, and none of the others in the area are appealing to me. I don’t just love what I do for a living. I like knowing I’m helping Wyatt and Delilah keep their family’s business afloat. Nothing about this change is easy, but nothing worth doing ever is.

  After showering, I find Brandon leaning against the kitchen counter scrolling through his phone. His straight black hair hangs in his eyes. I’ve been suggesting he get it cut now that he’s working out and looks less like a starving artist, but so far he has no interest.

  “How was your date with alpha boy?” he asks without looking up.

  “Wyatt told you?” I grab my keys from the table and lean on the counter across from him. I told Alex I’d swing by after work, and I’m anxious to see him.

  He lifts his eyes. “I saw you two sucking face on Shab Row. It was hot.”

  “Eyes and hands off,” I warn him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He shakes his head, and his hair dances around his eyes. He pushes from the counter and stretches his arms over his head, then shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the counter again. Brandon’s a night owl, and chances are he’s just woken up. He works as a graphic artist, taking on just enough work to keep money in his pocket, and he plays in a band with Brent Steele and a few other guys. I got in at two in the morning after my date with Alex, and Brandon was sitting out on the deck playing his guitar with some chick I’d never met. When I got up for my run at six thirty, he and the girl were heading into his bedroom, which is across from mine on the first floor.

  “I was with Delilah and Ash, walking into the Sandbar to meet friends for a drink, and I know you’ve been har
d up lately, so I wasn’t about to cock block you. Especially not with that fine piece of ass.” Brandon grins. “So, how was he?”

  Brandon’s filter is set to skirt every line there is, but he’s a good guy, so I tend to give him shit right back or ignore the comments I don’t like. He’s had a rough time with his family, and the brash exterior is full-on rebellion, just like his head-to-toe black attire. I choose to ignore his question.

  “Who was the girl you were with this morning? Is she still here?”

  “Tawny, and no way. She got me off and I sent her on her way.” His phone buzzes, and he picks it up off the counter and reads the text. “You bringing your man candy Tuesday?” Brandon’s band is playing at the house tomorrow night, and we’ve invited a few friends over.

  “His name is Alex,” I clarify. “I am, and he’s a good guy, Brandon. Don’t pull any shit.”

  “I take it your self-imposed break is officially over?”

  “Looks like it.”

  As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm, and his tone turns serious. “Tristan, you sure he’s a good guy?”

  “Am I sure?” I know my track record for being a good judge of character when it comes to boyfriends sucks, and the truth is a hard pill to swallow, but today seems to be the day for dealing with hard shit. “Yes, papa bear, I’m fairly certain he’s a good guy. In my gut I feel like he is, and that’s all I’ve got to go on.”

  He nods curtly. “Fair enough.” I catch a glimpse of mischief in his eyes. “We both know you’ve been through hell. If all you need is release, you know I’m here for you.” He does a pelvic thrust.

  “There’s the no-boundaries Brandon I know and love.” I shake my arm from his grasp. “Not happening. Ever.”