Lovely Trigger(65)

It wasn’t long before I was tensing, my thighs gripping his head hard, the torrid sensations reaching their fever pitch.

I came, crying out his name, no thought, no care to where I was or what the hell was happening to my self-control.

He was smiling when he straightened. Very smugly, I thought. “Well, what do you think? Did I sell it?”

I just shook my head with no concept of what he was talking about.

Rational thought would return.

Eventually. But not yet.

“You said I wasn’t selling it. I was asking if I changed your mind.”

I just shook my head, gone mute. It wasn’t a no, it was a ‘I have no idea what the f*ck is going on.’

He kissed me, one long drugging taste; before he pulled back. “Come by my place after work. Don’t find any panties between now and then.”

He left.

It took me a few minutes to recover, and it was only as I was straightening my clothes that I caught the full implication of what he’d said.

The bastard had made my underwear disappear.

He hadn’t given a time, but I ducked out of work early.

I’d been basically worthless for the two hours I’d stayed. Who could concentrate on anything after that? Not me. I could barely focus on the road while driving there, nearly ran myself onto the shoulder as my mind ran rampant with visions of the encounter in my office and then continued to wander to the night ahead.

I had to ring the doorbell several times before a shirtless Tristan opened the door.

He was gleaming with sweat. It would have taken inhuman willpower not to drink in every inch of his muscled, tatted up body.

And I was human. Oh Lord, was I human.

He’d clearly been working out by the no shirt, athletic shorts, and running shoes he was wearing.

He’d always been in incredible shape, but this new, disciplined version of him had taken it to a whole new level. He’d taken all of that antsy energy that he’d once used alcohol to mellow out, and applied it to a workout routine of epic, addictive proportions.

And I was addicted to the results.

His shorts hung low and his sweaty, cut to within an inch of its life, pelvic V muscle, was giving a silent but clear invitation to my tongue.

I knew what I wanted first. It was all I could do to keep from getting on my knees and going down on him on his doorstep.

I moistened my lips, then reached out a finger, running it down his slick chest. He didn’t so much as twitch.

That should have been my first clue that something was wrong.

But I was blinded by all of that gloriously bared flesh, oblivious to all but the physical.

“You’re early,” he panted.

“You changed my mind. You sold it.” I took a step closer, watching my hand trail south. I could see his erection moving, growing through his fluid shorts.

I wasn’t even going to let him shower before I wrapped my lips around his spectacular cock.

He turned abruptly, striding back into his house, leaving me to follow.

And I followed, shutting the door behind me and locking it. I toed off my shoes in the entryway, and unbuttoned my dress. I pulled it over my head and threw it behind my shoulder before I’d made it through two rooms. I unsnapped my bra, tossing it behind me somewhere between the living room and dining room.

I was completely nude by the time he stopped, his back to me, in the kitchen.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I told him huskily.

He rounded on me, took in my state, and set his jaw.

“Who were you out with this afternoon, Danika?” he asked me in a terrible voice.

I stiffened, wishing I’d kept my dress on.

I didn’t know how to answer, and the first thing out of my mouth was perhaps the most incriminating thing I could have said. “Who told you?”

His eyes clenched tightly shut.

He reached up a hand and raked it through his hair. It was trembling. Badly.

“You answer first. I want to hear it from you. Who were you with this afternoon?”

I swallowed hard, feeling sick to my stomach. Why the reaction? I asked myself. It was illogical, but even so, undeniable.

I felt bad about this.

Guilty.

Because he wasn’t angry. I’d seen Tristan angry more times than I could count, and though he was difficult when he was angry, I could manage it. Could manage him.

But this wasn’t anger; it was pain. My actions hadn’t enraged them; they had hurt him. It was so much harder to navigate than simple rage.

“I went to lunch with Andrew. He was in town, and we’re still friends. It’s not something you should be getting this worked up over.” There, it was out of my mouth and nowhere near the deal he was making it into in his head. “Now tell me how you found out, and what you heard that’s upsetting you like this. It’s clearly been blown out of proportion.” I began to inch back, intending to locate my dress and have this conversation with a bit more dignity.

He followed me, out of the kitchen, through the formal dining room. He followed until I reached my dress, menace in his every step.

The second I had the dress in my hands, it was wrenched away.

He didn’t use his hands but his body to force me back and down onto the sitting room’s sofa. He followed me, covering my body, his eyes liquid gold as they bore into mine, lit with accusations that I couldn’t bear to face.