He laughs. “Probably a good thing. You can’t handle a guy like me anyway.” He drapes an arm over my shoulder and walks with me toward the door, fidgeting with my shirt and smoothing my pants like a doting aunt.
“Be safe, little one,” he teases in a high-pitched voice. “Remember, honey, you shouldn’t kiss boys on the second date, but if you decide to get down and dirty, use a condom.”
“Idiot,” I say as I pull the door open.
“That’s ‘sexy idiot’ to you,” he calls after me.
Ten minutes later I drive down the road leading to Alex’s house. The nearest neighbors are pretty far down the beach, which was one of the reasons I visited Arty so often. She was adamant about retaining her independence, and I worried that if she fell or became ill no one would find her for days. I’m glad I was wrong about that. I push away the sadness that follows the thought and park behind Alex’s motorcycle and truck.
I follow the sound of music around to the open kitchen door on the side of the house. Alex is inside leaning over a workbench. He’s shirtless, pushing his right hand along the length of the wood he found yesterday on the beach. The scratchy swish of sandpaper is barely audible over the music. My eyes are drawn to the scars and dimpled skin marring the contours of his thickly muscled torso, trailing down his left flank and disappearing beneath the waist of his low-slung jeans.
I take a step back, feeling the impact of the pain he must have experienced and remembering how upset he was when I’d touched his scars last night. I freeze in a moment of indecision, desperately wanting to walk through the door and let him know the scars don’t affect me in the way I’m sure he worries they will and equally as anxious to duck out of sight and give him a heads-up to my arrival. I know he would prefer to reveal his scars when he’s ready, and I back off the patio, promptly stumbling over a bush.
Alex spins around, and his mouth curves up in a way that tells me he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him, and just as quickly that happiness fades and he reaches for his shirt.
“Please don’t,” I say as I find my footing and walk inside. I gently take the shirt from his hand.
“T, please.” His eyes plead stronger than his words, and it just about kills me to toss his shirt aside, but I need him to know this isn’t something that should stand between us.
I tug off my shirt, holding his gaze. “Level playing field,” I say with a smile, and as I’d hoped, his crooked smile slides across his unshaven cheeks. The reserved expression I saw last night comes down like a mask, and I pretend I don’t notice. I’m determined to keep his internal grief at bay.
“I missed you today.” I put one hand around his waist and kiss his neck.
“T.” It’s still a plea, but with a different cadence.
I sense that he doesn’t want to be alone in his anguish, and I know he’s too manly to say so. I step closer, holding our bodies together. Feeling uncertainty in his rigid stance, I tighten my grip around him. Somewhere in my mind I acknowledge that this is where I belong. This is where I’m at my best. Opening my heart, helping others through their anguish. That’s always been where I shine, and in relationships, that’s always led to me being taken for granted. I wait for the impact of the feeling of weakness that usually comes on the heels of this acknowledgment, and for the first time in my life, it doesn’t come.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, letting me in instead of pushing me away. I know this is at least as tumultuous for him as telling me about how he got the scars was last night, and I’m determined to distract him enough that he has no choice but to accept that these scars don’t have to own him.
He opens dark and troubled eyes. I can practically see the movie of his past playing in his head. I’m with him on the battlefield, surrounded by rapid fire, taking each hit as he does. I know he wants to push me away, and I’m up for the challenge.
“My badass alpha has a tender spot for me, and I want to own it.”
“Tristan, it’s not that easy.”
“Nothing in life is easy.” I touch his cheek, and he leans into my hand. “I know you need to bridge this gap to move forward, and I’m well aware that we’re new. That I could be left in the dust—”
“That’s not it.”
“Let me finish. I’m not stupid, Alex. I know what I’m risking, that I’m putting myself right back where I swore I never would. But this is a risk I’m willing to take. You’ve made it clear, no promises. And I wouldn’t ask for any. Promises are usually broken. But this is the only way I know how to be. If we have a chance together, we need to get through this.”
He softens his tone. “You could get a guy who isn’t quite so broken.”
“You’re not broken. You’re scarred. You carry your scars on your body. I carry mine on the inside. We’re no different, Alex. Can’t you see that?” There’s only one way to distract him to the point of allowing us to move forward. I press my lips to his warm pecs, run my hand down his bare chest, and feel him go hard against me.
“As I recall, I owe you a blow job.”
I reach for the button on his jeans, and he grabs my wrist. I twist from his grip and push his hand to the side.
“We can do this one of two ways,” I say sternly, knowing exactly what he needs. “You can give in to me, or I can make you.”
When he doesn’t respond, I turn his rigid body to face the workbench, and he reluctantly follows my lead.
“I only care about your scars because they make you the man you are.” I kick the inside of his right foot, spreading his legs, and pin him with my hips against his ass. He’s breathing hard, but I can feel the difference between anger and fear. The adrenaline pumping through him has nothing to do with anger toward me, of that I’m certain. I curl his hands around the far side of the workbench, and he glares at me over his shoulder with a mix of heat and threat.
“Tristan.”
I press my hand between his shoulder blades, holding him against his efforts to rise. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be begging, not warning.”
I touch my lips to the top of his spine. His muscles bunch against the imprisonment, but as I kiss my way down each of his vertebra, I feel his body reluctantly surrendering.
“Relax, Alex. I see you.” White lines stretch like gnarled fingers from his sides toward his spine, leading to thicker, jagged scars along his left side. I trace them with my tongue and his body stiffens again.
“You’re perfect,” I say, moving my hands down his sides. “Take a deep breath, Alex.”
He follows my command, and his head drops between his shoulders. I kiss my way over the jumping muscles near his waist on his right side. He breathes hard, struggling to accept my touch. I wrap my arms around him and press a kiss to his back, feeling his heart thundering wildly.
“Relax, Alex. I’ve got you.”
“T.” A quieter warning.
“Shh. Be with me. I can tell you hate not being in control, but you’ve been in control your whole life, and you need this.”
His hand comes off the workbench, and I know he can overpower me. I widen my stance, strengthen my position, and his hand grips mine.
“That’s it, baby,” I coax. “Trust me.”
My free hand plays over his abs, along his scarred ribs, to his peaked nipples, lingering there, letting him know he’s still every bit as attractive as when he’s in control. His hand tightens around mine, and he presses back against my cock. I’ve never wanted to be the one in control, but I know he needs this, and I want to be what Alex needs. Our movements are intense and tentative at once. I withdraw from his grasp and run my hands along his neck, over his cheeks, to his luscious lips. He opens his mouth and sucks my fingers, inciting a greedy moan from me. My other hand moves south, and I palm his rigid cock through his jeans.
“Mine,” I say, squeezing enough to feel the full girth of his heat, and bite down on his shoulder. His body jerks beneath me, and I continue stroking him, kissing my way down his body. I have n
ever been the one to claim. I’ve always been claimed. I’ve changed over these past few weeks, but I know that’s not what’s causing my internal switch to be flipped. Yes, I’ve gotten stronger, but here I am, putting my heart at risk and doing things I haven’t done before. I have no doubt this surge of confidence, this change in me, is caused by Alex. Or more specifically, by the gravity between us.
His back is exquisite, despite the scars, and as I kiss and stroke, the scars fade away, and all I see is the man slowly giving in to the pleasure. I tug open his jeans, and he tries again to rise. I force him back down with my body.
“You will not win, Alex. I’m not going to fuck you, but I’m going to get your cock in my mouth one way or another, and you know you want me to.” I slick my tongue around the shell of his ear, then delve inside. “Did you jerk off thinking of me last night?”
He makes a sound deep in his throat, and I push my hand inside his jeans, fisting his cock. “How about this morning? Did you think about me while you came? Was it my cock in your mouth or in your ass?”
“It was my cock in your ass,” he growls.
“Even better,” I say, and slide my thumb over the slickness at the tip of his erection. I push my other hand into the back of his jeans, massaging his firm cheek.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rocking from fist to palm.
I’m thankful his jeans are loose, as they give to the force of my hand moving between his cheeks to his hole. It clenches against the invasion.
“Mine,” I say again roughly, enjoying the empowerment of taking control.
“I top,” he says just as harshly, and as I force my finger into his ass, he curses.
“We’ll see about that.” I tease and stroke, and when I withdraw from his ass and his cock at the same time, he lets out a hiss.
I grab the waist of his jeans and tug them down his hips. He spins with the force of a tornado, grabbing my wrists so tight I have no doubt he can break them. His face is flushed. His eyes are dark and hotter than sin, and his jeans are stuck around his thighs.
My eyes drop to the tattoo on his chest, to the gnarled and puckered skin on his hip, and finally, to his mammoth cock bobbing between us, and I lick my lips in anticipation. The warning in his eyes is clear: I’m stepping close to the fire. But I want his fire. I want his rain. I want whatever he has to give.
“Let me touch you,” I whisper, and press my lips to his, kissing him tenderly. As I reach for him, he tightens his grip on my wrists.
“You can touch me.” His tone is angry, but I know it’s vulnerability I hear, not anger at me for wanting him. “Do not lower my pants, got it?”
“I promise,” I assure him. “Now let go of my arms, or I’m going to make you.”
Despite his frustration, the beginnings of a smile curve the edges of his luscious lips.
“Now,” I demand.
His grip loosens, and I guide them to the edge of the workbench, curling his fingers under. “Hold tight, baby, because if you even try to move my hands again, I swear I’ll turn you around and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week.”
Alex
“I DON’T BOTTOM.” I scoff at Tristan’s threat, but my cock twitches at how enticing it is.
He strokes his hand over my cheek and roughly clutches my face, his eyes darkening seductively. “I don’t usually top, but mark my words. I’m going to.”
I grit my teeth, unwilling to fight a battle I’m not sure I want to win. He kisses me again, so softly it’s surprising, given the atomic vibes thrumming through the room. He bites down on my lower lip and gives it a tug, sending a bolt of heat through my core. His hands move over my scars, but his eyes never leave mine. I clench my teeth, preparing for the questions I know he must have, for the pity I’m sure he feels. But his eyes are dark pools of desire, and as his hand glides down my side to my mangled hip, he presses his palm flat against my scars.
“I see you, Alex,” he says, void of pity or uncertainty. “I feel you.”
His hand slides to the front of my thigh, and I widen my stance, trapping my jeans midthigh. His brows slant, and as understanding dawns, he brings his other hand to the back of my neck and pulls my lips to within an inch of his.
“It’s so easy to get lost in you,” he says. “I already forgot.”
This time he kisses me hard. His hand moves to my throbbing cock, and my thoughts unravel with every stroke, every plundering thrust of his tongue. The primal sounds spilling from his lungs make me want to slam him against the bench and fuck him until he comes so hard he can’t breathe.
“Love your mouth,” he says, then slicks his tongue over my upper lip, sending rivers of heat straight to my balls.
He steps back and pulls a chair over, then shoves me into it. I land with a thud. He unzips his pants and holds his hand in front of my face.
“Lick,” he commands, and like a dog to his master, I wet his palm.
He fists his cock with a dirty-as-sin grin, and drops to his knees between mine. Watching Tristan stroke himself as he takes me in his hand and swirls his tongue over the head of my cock nearly makes me come. I did jerk off to the image of him sucking me off last night, and again this morning, but this is a thousand times hotter. As he lowers his mouth and takes me to the back of his throat, I can’t control the hungry sound that escapes my lungs, or keep my hips from bucking off the chair. I grip the sides of the seat, watching as his cheeks hollow out, fill with me, over and over again.
“Tris, fuuuck.” I fist my hands in his thick hair, not guiding—he’s perfect just the way he’s moving, but I want to touch him. I want to feel him trembling as he takes us both up, up, up to the verge of release.
“It’s been too long,” I say, my hips rising off the chair, wanting to bury myself to the root. I feel his throat relax, and he swallows me deeper. Holy fuck, I’m going to explode.
“I can’t hold back,” I warn, giving him time to release me if he doesn’t want to swallow, but he strokes me faster with his hand and works me into a blithering frenzy.
Lightning sears down my spine, through my balls, and I lose it, coming so hard a stream of indiscernible noises flies from my lungs. Somewhere in my head I know I’m pulling his hair too hard, but my eyes are slammed shut and the pleasure is too intense to break free. I come until I feel drained to my very soul, and he takes every last drop. When the last shudder rolls through my sated body, he rises to his feet, bringing his cock within an inch of my chest. I’m fucking salivating as his hot, sticky come drenches my chest and he grunts out my name.
My senses fill with the scent of his arousal. He leans down and ravages my mouth. I can’t think, can’t see. I’m consumed with Tristan. I taste myself on him, and when he straddles my lap, deepening the kiss, our chests a sticky, slippery mess, I have no memory of him stripping off his pants. All I know, all I care about, is that he’s here, holding me, kissing me, making me feel like I didn’t lose a piece of myself in that war—instead, I found a door leading to him.
CHAPTER NINE
Tristan
I FEEL LIKE I’ve been wrung dry as I reluctantly rise from Alex’s lap and reach for his hand. We’re both moving slow, in that drunken, post-orgasmic place, trying to pull the pieces of our brains back together. He grabs his jeans as he rises to his feet and secures them around his waist.
I glance at our sticky chests and lean in for another kiss. “You’re a little addicting, so if you’re going to be a prick, can you do it soon?”
He laughs.
“I’m only half kidding,” I say more seriously. “It’ll hurt less now than later.”
He frames my face with his hands and kisses me. “I’m not Ian, so stop waiting for me to turn into a prick.” His jaw clenches, and he adds, “Besides, you’re testing me at every turn, so you’re getting a pretty good dose of my attitude.”
“If that’s all you’ve got, I can deal with it. Come on, let’s shower.” I take his hand and step toward the living room, but he doesn’t budge. I l
ook over my shoulder, and his face is a mask of darkness.
“No, T.”
“No…?”
“I’m not showering with you.” He releases my hand, and both of his curl into fists, but his gaze softens. “I’m sorry. Not yet.”
I step toward him, kicking myself for forgetting it’s not just the scars on his hips and back he’s worried about. I wonder what’s going on below his knees, but I don’t push it.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted to be with you.” I try to lighten the mood and lead him toward the bathroom. “Come on. You can watch me shower, and I’ll come back out here and fantasize about you in all your naked glory until you’re ready for more.”
We laugh and joke while I shower, and afterward, I give him the privacy he needs and step outside the bathroom. A few minutes later, when I can wrangle my thoughts away from the fact that he’s naked one room away, I take a brief walk outside to clear my head. When I return to the living room, I push open the door to Arty’s studio, looking over the unfinished furniture I remember from my visits and her unfinished sculptures on her worktables. Alex’s arms circle my waist from behind, and I smile.
He presses his lips to my cheek and says, “I’m sorry about those scratches on your back. They’re from the kitchen wall, aren’t they?”
He must have seen them when I was in the shower. “Yeah, no biggie.”
He whispers “sorry” again, then bites my earlobe.
“Hey.” I turn in his arms. “What was that for?”
He looks hot in a pair of fatigues, a black shirt, and boots, and he smells as fresh as the breeze whisking in through the open windows.
“Because you opened the studio door when I told you I’m not ready to face it.”
I search his face and see he’s not nearly as uptight as he was when I suggested we shower together. “I know,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”
“T, if you want to see me be a prick, then keep pushing.”
Despite his warning, I take a step away from the open studio door, giving him a clear view inside. “I don’t want to piss you off, but I knew her, Alex, and she adored you. I don’t think she’d want to stand between you and your ability to move forward.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “You said you saw her before you came to at the hospital. Don’t you think that means something?”
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