“This feels like where secret agents hide after they fake their deaths,” I murmur.
Tristan chuckles behind me, tossing his keys on a glass console table that might as well have a museum placard readingModern Minimalist No. 4.
I let him remove my coat and walk in slowly, taking in the rest: a sad little bar cart with a couple of unopened bottles of whiskey, a ficus plant in the corner that’s definitely fake. Even the throw pillows look like they’re ripped from the back of office chairs.
“Cozy.”
“Liar,” he says. “Yourhouse is cozy. This is—”
“Temporary,” I fill in for him.
“I was going to say convenient.”
He’s unbuttoning his shirt. Casually, as if he’s unaware that watching him work those buttons loose one by one is hypnotic. The shirt parts slightly with each flick, revealing the deep lines of hischest, his abs, that tiny mole near his sternum I’d like to lick and suck like I did when we made love.
“You want something to drink?” he asks as if stripping in front of a drooling woman is a regular occurrence.
“Sparkling water, if you’ve got it,” I manage, my voice half an octave higher than usual.
He nods and disappears into the kitchen, which is a small, sleek space with stainless steel appliances so shiny they practically reflect my impure thoughts. I duck into the bathroom to wash my hands and take a breath.
Even in here, the vibe is “executive short-term stay.” Unflattering lighting, rolled towels in a wicker basket, soap that smells like nothing. There’s even a wall-mounted hair dryer. I splash cool water on my face and sigh at my reflection. The dress is holding up better than my makeup. My lips are raw from our kiss and mascara has smudged down my cheeks.
Brain:Slow down. You were swept away by passion, but it’s logic that will—
Body:Oh, shut the fuck up. Get me out of this bathroom so I can ride my baby daddy.
I find Tristan setting up a snack on the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. Almond butter on crackers, blueberries, and protein bars on display.
“Figured you’d be hungry. You’re eating for three, after all.”
“Thank you.” I snack for a minute and am pleasantly surprised to find his protein bars do not taste like a shoebox.
He guides me to the couch and lifts my feet onto his lap so I’m stretched out. With utmost care, Tristan unbuckles the last heeled sandals I’ll be wearing for a while. The straps unwind from around my ankles, yielding to his warm, confident touch. After sliding them off, Tristan peppers my ankle with the gentlest brush of his lips, holding my foot like it’s fragile. He begins massaging my feet.I moan loudly at the pressure of his thumb along my arch. He glances up, one brow arched.
“That good, huh?”
“So good.”
He grins while rubbing the knotted muscles into submission. My head tips back against the couch. My whole body goes liquid. After a few minutes, I’m more aware of his hands than my feet. They are large and calloused and so damn skilled. I’d like those skills applied to other parts of my body.
“Come here,” I rasp.
Tristan inches closer till our faces nearly touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters reverently.
My nipples ache and my skin is feverish. I lift my chin to invite his kiss.
“Tristan Thorne, is that an ultrasound wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“I’m so fucking turned on right now.”
He’s not the only one. I kiss the corner of his mouth and whisper, “Take me to bed.”
Swiftly and with zero effort, Tristan carries me in his arms like I’m a bride. We enter his bedroom where he gently places me on a bed. It’s a room as generic as the rest of the condo. It’s redeeming feature is the king-size bed. My least favorite part is the corner lamp, which is unflatteringly bright.
My body has changed in the last few months.
