by Nikki Castle
It further confuses my post-sex brain.
I should've known he's not as affected by our two nights as I am. Sleeping with women is Tristan's thing, the game that he's best at. Of course he's not walking around reliving a brief twenty minute affair. I'm an idiot for thinking he'd be pining for more.
I make my millionth vow to sign off of Tristan and move on from whatever these past few days have been. We need to just go back to normal and forget anything ever happened. I turn back to my heavy bag with renewed vigor.
The two hours of training easily puts me on my ass—which is exactly what I needed it to do. I'm finally tired enough that my brain has stopped freaking out about anything Tristan-related. By the time I get back to the house I'm only spending every other minute wondering if Tristan regretted sleeping with me—instead of every thirty seconds.
He's nowhere to be found when I walk in the house. I see his bedroom door is closed when I go upstairs to shower, which probably means he's already asleep. I exhale the tightness in my shoulders when I think about having a little freedom in the house. Maybe I'll actually be able to take over the living room for a little while.
But when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I realize Tristan is in the kitchen, reaching in the fridge for a beer. I pause when he notices me and almost rush back upstairs when I see the look on his face. He turns his attention to me fully, his gaze locked on me as I take the last few steps toward the couch. In typical Tristan fashion, I have no way of knowing what he’s feeling or what he’s thinking when he looks at me. The one thing that’s clear is that his intense gaze is trained completely on me.
I look nervously between him and the TV. "I'm starting to think you stay up later than I think you do," I mumble, wringing my hands.
With everything that's happened the past few days, I've discovered that I am now completely clueless about how to act around him. Before last week, I'd just order him around and not care about what he wanted or what he thought of me, but that seems like a rude approach to take once someone's dick has been in your mouth. At the very least, I just have no idea where we stand and feel nervous being anywhere near him.
He takes a swig from the beer as he rounds the island and throws himself on the couch. "Were you going to watch something?" he asks me, his voice devoid of the usual biting tone.
"I was going to watch the Best Fights of the Year series on FightPass," I answer wistfully. "I randomly came across it today when I was on the app and wanted to rewatch some of the fights." I hesitate, unsure if he likes me enough now to sit and watch TV with me. "But I can watch them upstairs if you were going to watch something else."
He chuckles and takes another drink. "Just shut up and grab a beer. I'll find the fights."
I nod and walk over to the fridge. I decide to grab a sour IPA, one of the few things that Tristan and I can agree on. As much as Jax hates IPA's, I know Tristan always keeps the house stocked with some good sours.
Walking back to the couch, I hesitate again. It feels insanely weird to be willingly hanging out with just Tristan, and suddenly I'm debating if this might be a terrible idea.
"Just sit. I promise I don't bite." A sinful smile slides across his face as he looks at me. "Unless you want me to. I guess we haven't really explored that yet."
My stomach clenches at his words, but I scowl and plop down on the opposite end of the couch. I feel my face burning so I quickly guzzle some of my beer.
He scrolls to the section of the FightPass app where we can see the list of fights. "Any preference which one we start with?" he asks me.
I shake my head as I pull my legs up and curl further into the couch. "Nope. I don't care, they're all good."
He selects one and hits play. As the fighter introductions start, I sneak a glance sideways. He's lounging comfortably but his attention is laser-focused on the screen. Watching fights is like reading playbooks for him.
Curious, I ask him, "What were you going to watch?"
His attention slides to me. "I was going to rewatch the last few fights of one of the local guys."
"Because you think you'll fight him?" I ask.
He nods. "We've been running in the same circuit for years. He's been winning lately, and I keep hearing whispers of him getting called to the UFC, so I wouldn't be surprised if they matched us up soon to see which one of us should make the cut."
I tilt my head, studying him thoughtfully. I've seen and talked to plenty of fighters, but never anyone of Tristan's caliber. I've always been interested in what goes on in the brain of high-level pro fighters.
"Is it nerve-wracking for each fight to be higher profile than the last?" I ask. "I mean, every fight is the biggest fight of your career right now. Does that add more or less pressure for you?"
He shrugs, turning his attention back to the fight starting on the TV. "Pressure is pressure," he answers simply. "You never get used to the nerves. You just get better at dealing with them."
I want to ask more but I have a feeling he's uncomfortable talking about himself. Which seems really weird, since his usual personality is arrogant and obnoxious. But I take the hint and turn toward the TV.
We watch the first fight in silence. Well, not silence, since I'm incapable of watching a good fight without commentating and occasionally yelling, but I manage to keep my outbursts to a minimum and my attention away from Tristan.
But the IPA is starting to loosen my tongue and I can't stop myself from asking another question.
"What made you want to start fighting?" I blurt suddenly.
Tristan raises an eyebrow at me as he clicks on the next fight. "So inquisitive tonight, Remy baby," he drawls. I glare at him for his use of my hated nickname but wait pointedly for his answer. He sighs. "I didn't start training with the intention of fighting but once I got into the sport it seemed like a logical step. I just wanted to see how I would do in a real fight. Then once I started, I got addicted to the feeling."
For a moment he looks at me, as if assessing something. I shift nervously under his intense gaze, but he just continues talking. "People always say fighting is barbaric. And it is, but not for the reasons they think. It's not that it's too violent, because it's not—you’ve seen it, there's never been a death or serious injury in the history of the UFC. It's barbaric because it's primal and raw and there's no hiding anything once that cage door locks. It's honest. The most honest thing a human can experience. When that bell rings there's no trash talk, no social media, no one that can help you. It's just you and your raw physical abilities, trying to survive. You see people for who they truly are when they fight." He pauses and takes another swig of his beer. "With how fake everything and everyone is nowadays, I started to like the feeling of being that honest. And of exposing the frauds."
I stare at Tristan, wide-eyed, as I think about his answer. But before I can stop myself, I ask, "So if you hate fake people so much, why are all the chicks you date plastic as fuck?"
He chuckles. "I don't date in the classical sense of the word. I don't have to like someone to fuck them, Remy." He laughs again, shaking his head as he stands to get another beer. "Aren't you and I proof of that? You hate me, yet you still let me inside you. Twice."
"I don't—I don't hate—" I blurt out but think better of my startled confession and stop myself from finishing it. I look down at my hands, desperately racking my brain for when I stopped hating Tristan without realizing it.
"You don't hate me?" he purrs in my ear. I yelp—I hadn't noticed him leaving the kitchen to stand behind the couch. "Good to know. Sounds like my plan to fuck you into liking me is working right on schedule."
I scowl and shove him away from me. "Fuck you," I mutter. "Just because I don't plot your death anymore doesn't mean I like you." He laughs and takes his seat again.
I notice the beer in his hands and narrow my eyes. "You got yourself another but didn't think to ask if I wanted one, too?"
"Nope," he chirps happily, and cracks the can.
My eyes widen in shock
before once again narrowing. "I lied," I growl. "I do still hate you. Guess your dick isn't that good, after all."
He grins. "That's too bad, I thought we were making some progress. Guess I'll just have to try harder. Should we try again right here, or would you rather I take you in a bed upstairs?"
I glare at him but turn away, feeling the blush light up my cheeks. "Jesus, can't you keep it in your pants for one night?" I grumble.
He chuckles and turns back to the TV, the second fight already halfway done. Part of me forgot what we were even watching.
I fume by myself and watch the screen for a little longer, giving him the space he clearly wants from my questioning. But once again, it doesn't last long.
"So, what's the plan for when your career ultimately ends? What's the secondary career?"
This time Tristan growls as he turns to me. "You're starting to push my limits, Remy. I'm getting very close to busying your mouth with something else."
My eyes widen again, and I shake my head to clear the memory of Tristan fucking my mouth. The last thing I need right now is to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much that thought turns me on. Instead, I glare at him and growl, "Just answer the goddamn question, Tristan."
He sighs and turns back to the TV, clicking on another fight. I’m surprised to realize that means we’ve been sitting here for almost an hour already. And I haven’t wanted to run away once.
"I'll most likely go back to my degree when I'm done fighting," he answers. "As tough as it was training, working, and going to school at the same time, I went to college for a reason. Some kind of career in business was always the backup plan. Or second career, since Jax's dad loves to tell us that there's room for—"
"—three careers in a lifetime," I finish for him. "Yeah, I've heard the speech too. He's not wrong. People don't usually stay in the same industry their whole life. Nor should they, I don’t think." I take a sip of my beer, returning my attention to the new fight starting on the screen. "I'm surprised you have a backup plan after fighting. Most guys seem like they're offended when they're asked about another career. As if even thinking about doing anything else means they're not taking fighting 100% seriously."
"Most guys are idiots," he grunts. "If they think they'll be able to coach or open a gym and live comfortably for the rest of their lives, they're in for a rude awakening. Gyms don't often make a lot of money. It's common sense to have something else ready for when their career is over in their early thirties. Or mid/late thirties if they're lucky."
I nod, agreeing with his analysis. I come from a family of life planners, so I've never once been in a position where I didn't have potential next steps plotted in my life and career. The fact that people live by the seat of their pants like that has always been baffling to me.
I sneak a sideways glance at Tristan. I knew he went to college and had some kind of a life outside of fighting, but I never thought of him as necessarily smart or accomplished. Not because I have a preconceived notion that fighters are dumb—they’re not—but more so because he's so wrapped up in fighting right now that he rarely talks about anything else. Although now that I think about it, I remember Jax mentioning that Tristan had graduated from the Business School of Temple University. And that program is one of the highest rated in the country, so I should've known that he's not exactly a dunce.
I'm starting to realize I know very little about Tristan West.
We watch the third fight in comfortable silence. At some point I grab a second beer, nestling back into the couch cushions in my pleasantly buzzed state. I don't realize I've moved closer to Tristan until he reacts to my next question.
"What do your parents think about your fighting?" I blurt out.
This time, along with a deep growl, Tristan reaches out to grab my hair. He pulls, hard, until I drop my head back with a cry.
"You've officially progressed to questions that cross the line," he snaps. "When did I give you the impression that I would answer personal questions?"
"Play a game with me," I gasp suddenly.
He cocks his head and loosens his grip on my hair—enough for me to twist my head to look at him—but he doesn't let go completely. I vaguely feel his fingers twining in my hair.
"What do you mean, a game?" he asks in a guarded tone.
I turn to face him, forcing his hands to pull out of my hair. "The question game," I answer breathlessly. "We ask each other single questions, but you can never ask the other person something that they've already asked you. And we have to answer. I promise I won't get too personal," I say in a rush, feeling oddly desperate to get him to agree to my game. "But you can ask me whatever you want."
I have no idea why I suddenly need him to answer my questions. I just know that I need to know more about him.
When he's still skeptical, I tease him lightly. "So, what? You can stick your dick in my mouth, but you can't answer a few harmless questions?"
Instead of responding with a dirty comment of his own, his eyes drop to my lips—and immediately darken when his pupils dilate. I swallow nervously, clearly seeing the thoughts in his expression.
He pauses. "Seven questions. I'm not answering any more than that."
I nod quickly. "Deal."
"And before we start, I fuck your mouth."
I gape at his brazen words. When he sees my expression, he grins. "Good girl, hold it just like that."
I blush and turn away. When I still don't respond, he takes the beer from my hands and puts it on the table next to him. I watch him closely as he stands and walks to my side of the couch. As he rounds the corner, he gently guides my head to lay down on the armrest. I look up at him now standing behind me and swallow nervously when I realize what he wants.
And I yet again wonder how he can read our chemistry so well. Does he know this position is one of my favorites? Can he tell how eager I've been to suck his dick again? I clench my thighs to tamp down on the ache growing between them.
"Say yes," he mutters as he traces my lips with his finger.
I don't hesitate again. "Yes," I breathe.
He grins. "Good girl. Let's play."
13
Tristan
As I stare down at Remy, I resist the urge to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. I continue to trace her lips with my thumb as I try to wrap my head around the fact that she's sprawled in front of me, getting more and more turned on by the prospect of sucking my dick. I didn't miss the clench of her thighs when she realized what I was suggesting. I also can't forget how wet she got the first night when she dropped to her knees before me.
I stifle my groan as I let go of her lips and palm my cock straining against my sweatpants. Her eyes widen as they trace my movement. After a breath, she wiggles further up the couch until her head hangs off the armrest.
"Fuck," I groan. "You’re so fucking sexy. Open your mouth."
She eagerly parts her lips. I push my sweatpants over my hips, freeing my cock. In a matter of seconds, I'm already rock hard. Which seems to be a common occurrence when Remy is around. I stroke my length a few times before stepping forward to touch my tip to Remy's tongue.
I practically combust when she moans and swirls her tongue around me. I watch, transfixed, as she sucks the pre-cum from my tip and licks her lips.
I gently press further into her mouth. She stretches around me, licking along my length and getting accustomed to my size. She wriggles further up the couch, trying to get more of me in her mouth.
I groan and grab the back of the couch with one hand to steady myself. I start to push in deeper.
The first time I hit the back of Remy's throat, she tenses up and gags. I pull back quickly. But before I'm able to pull out completely, she reaches behind my thighs and pulls me back into her mouth. She stretches her neck to try to take me deep again.
I pump into her mouth, and this time she doesn't gag when I go all the way in. Her hand behind my thighs coaxes me to continue fucking her.
"Fuck, I love watchi
ng you suck my dick," I groan. I can't get enough of the sight of her repeatedly taking my length into her mouth.
She moans when she hears my desperate praise. The sound vibrates against me and I groan as the feeling makes my dick swell.
She starts pulling me into her with more and more force. I oblige, fully fucking her face by this point, but I watch her expressions carefully for any sign that I need to pull back.
The moment I pick up my pace, she moans again before hurriedly pulling her tank top up over her tits. She cups them, then pinches each nipple.
"Jesus, Remy, you're gonna kill me," I gasp. "That is the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen." I lean down to tug one of her nipples with my teeth.
My dick slides out of her mouth when she gasps. I swirl my tongue around the bud and suck once, hard, before straightening back up.
"Don't stop. Open those pretty lips again." She does as I say, and I rub the tip of my cock around her lips before pushing back into her mouth. I groan when she goes right back to coaxing me to fuck her harder.
"I want you to touch yourself," I murmur. "Pull your pants down so I can watch you play with yourself."
She eagerly reaches to follow my instructions. She pulls her leggings down over her ass and immediately dips her fingers into her panties to feel the wetness between her legs.
"Thong, too, you little tease," I growl. "I want to see all of you. I want to see you make yourself come while I fuck your mouth."
She moans as a shiver runs through her body. But then she reaches down and does as I say. I watch in silent awe as she cups her breasts again, then trails one hand down her body, down her stomach, until her fingers reach their destination. She circles her clit a few times before moving further. In an instant, she's slid two fingers inside her pussy.
I grab her wrist and bring those fingers to my mouth. I suck the taste of her from her skin, just as she's sucking me now. She must have the same thought because she once again urges me to pick up the pace of my hips.