Tempting Tristan

by Melissa Foster

  Tristan presses a kiss to my lips. Then another. He kisses me a third time, and I wonder if everyone will notice if we slip inside for a quickie.

  “Get that look off your face,” Tristan whispers. Then, a little louder, he says, “Our relationship should prove that to you.”

  And it does. Over and over again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tristan

  I’M NOT SURE who’s more nervous the morning of Alex’s award ceremony, him or me. He’s pacing the hotel room like a caged animal, and I’m powerless to offer any relief. Last night we watched a couple of Silver Star award ceremonies on YouTube so we would know what to expect. Even in the privacy of the hotel room, Alex sat up straighter as he watched, his breathing shallowed and his expression stoic. His hands fisted so tight his knuckles blanched, and it took him a solid twenty minutes to relax again.

  I can’t change what he feels, which I know is a mix of anger, nerves, and embarrassment—because he’s a prideful man and he’s worried that not being able to overcome what he feels will make him less of a man for me. As I watch him pacing in his dress blues—beneath which his chest bears a new tattoo that reads TANGO and ALPHA connected at the A’s—looking more handsome than any man on the planet has the right to, I do the one thing I can to try to make today a little easier for him.

  I reach for his hand, and he pauses from wearing a path in the carpet and lifts his troubled eyes.

  “Would it make things easier for you if I waited here? You don’t need the added pressure of me sitting in the audience, and I promise you I won’t be upset over it if you’d rather I did.”

  He clenches his jaw and takes both my hands firmly in his. “Do you really think I’d hurt you like that after all we’ve been through?”

  “This isn’t about me, Alex.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. I move behind him and massage his knotted muscles.

  “I’m not the same person I was when we met.” It’s an honest explanation, and he deserves to hear it. “I was hurt, and my priority was to have enough respect for myself that I’d never accept being treated poorly again. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get there.”

  I turn him to face me. His blue eyes are so full of love I feel myself falling for him all over again, and when I see a hint of the crooked smile I adore, I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. This is my path, paved with fire and ice, and I’m ready to walk it to eternity.

  “You helped me through that, Alex. You helped me become stronger and realize there are too many shades of right and wrong to try to draw lines between them. Two men can do the exact same thing for different reasons, making one wrong—and the other clearly right.”

  “T.” No words follow, but his loving expression hides nothing.

  “Staying in this room will hurt—you’re right about that—but it won’t hurt nearly as much as knowing that my presence caused you undue pressure. I have unwavering faith in us. We will overcome this. If not now, then next year, or in ten years. We’ve got nothing but time, Alex. What matters is that you stand up on that stage and accept that award as the proud, deserving man you have always been.”

  “That’s not good enough, T. Not by a long shot.” His eyes narrow and his chest rises as he inhales a deep breath. “I want you in the auditorium with me.”

  Alex

  MILITARY BASES ARE worlds unto themselves, with rules, standards, expectations, levels of authority, and clearly decorated uniforms to display them, and I swear the air changes when we drive through the gates. My body draws upward, my shoulders square, and my neurons go on high alert. This is not a reaction to my being gay in a military setting. These adjustments are merely part of being a soldier. Or rather, of having been a soldier. We’re trained to be aware of our surroundings at all times. We are positioned to be members of an elite team. I have lived up to that honor, and without Tristan I might not have realized that as fully as I do.

  I’m glad he’s with me as we walk through a sea of uniformed men and women. When we reach the auditorium, he smiles supportively, but he’s careful not to touch me. He’s respecting the boundaries I set up that day we went to the clinic, and as much as I love him for it, I am pissed at myself. Tristan is the kind of strong, selfless man who deserves to be respected, protected, and put on a fucking pedestal. I’m acutely aware of people milling about, men and women holding hands, soldiers filing into the auditorium to attend the ceremony. But I’m even more aware of how gut-wrenchingly wrong it is for Tristan to accept this distance between us.

  The woman who coordinated the event approaches in uniform. Her hair is secured in a prim bun, her face is void of makeup, and when she smiles, it’s a tight, cordial smile. A soldier’s smile. “Sir, they’re ready to go over the details of the ceremony with you.”

  “Thank you.” I wait for her to give us some privacy, but she stands by like a dutiful soldier. Instinct brings my hand to Tristan’s back. “I guess I need to go, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  A silent Do you realize you’re touching me? passes between us. I press my hand more firmly to his back in response.

  “You’ll do great, Alpha,” he says with an appreciative, loving smile that I’m sure anyone watching can read as nothing less than what it is.

  “See you in there, Tango.”

  I have the urge to make sure he gets settled in his seat before I walk away, which is ridiculously overprotective of my six-two lover. But that’s what love is, worrying about the person you care most about at all times, whether they can handle battles alone or not. I want to be there for him. I want to be his anchor as he’s been mine.

  I force myself to follow the woman to the room behind the auditorium. My heart thumps so hard against my chest you’d think I was heading out to the field to fight instead of facing one of the biggest honors I’ll ever receive.

  The commander explains that they are presenting two Silver Stars today, one to me and one to the man standing beside me. He looks about my age and wears the tough and eager mask of a proud soldier. I saw him kissing his wife earlier.

  My mind tumbles back to Tristan. When we first met, I told him about the nightmares of war, and he graciously accepted that some nightmares continue well past the tour of duty. I’d imagine this man’s wife did the same thing. We’re no different, this man and I. Two men who fought alongside hundreds of others. But we’re the chosen ones. The men who have been hand selected as going above and beyond the call of duty. On the battlefield, I still don’t believe there’s an above and beyond. We were there to save lives. We were doing what we were supposed to do. But on the home front, there’s definitely a difference between those who go through the motions and those who go above and beyond the call of duty. Tristan is a supreme example of the latter.

  When the commander mentions there will be time at the end to bring our significant others up onstage for photographs, my initial reaction is to bite my tongue and let the opportunity go.

  Tristan’s voice whispers through my mind. I think the part that you lost left you a stronger man, but until you feel that way, those ghosts you’re wrestling with will never leave. We were talking about my injured leg, but I now realize my injury isn’t what made me feel like less of a man. Not standing up for who I really am was what made me feel like I’d lost a piece of myself in that war.

  I’m done biting my tongue.

  I SEE TRISTAN sitting a few rows back beside an elderly gentleman. Every time our eyes meet, he smiles, and even when I have to shift my attention to the general as he presents my Silver Star, I feel Tristan’s supportive and proud gaze. The ceremony is short and meaningful. The general reiterates what we’ve done to earn the award. He talks about the war and pays homage to those we’ve lost. He speaks of the importance of soldiers like us and the meaning of valor. I catch sight of the other soldier’s wife wiping tears from her eyes, and I know my grandmother would have been proud to sit in this auditorium beside Tristan. She’d probably have held his hands and shed tears
, too.

  We’re each given a chance to say a few words. The other recipient speaks first, and he says all the appropriate things—thanking his team, the military, the country, and of course, his wife, which causes fresh tears to fall down her cheeks.

  The crowd applauds as he takes his seat and I step up to the podium. My rehearsed speech feels contrived. I look out at the expectant faces, seeking the only man I want to see, and I swear the space between us nearly ignites. I’m surprised there isn’t a thread of smoke setting off the fire detectors. I was trained to protect, to put team members first, and never to accept defeat. Tristan is my team member, and I will never accept defeat where he’s concerned.

  I draw in a breath and blow it out slowly to steady my nerves, and I don’t recite my speech. I say what comes to mind.

  “It’s an honor to be the recipient of this distinguished award, and it was an honor to fight among so many brave men for so long. Every soldier is a hero, and the families of those who are at war are fighting the good fight right alongside them.” I pause, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. “They may not be on the battlefield, but they’re enduring their own struggles holding down the home front. When their significant other returns home, they fight a different type of battle. Rebuilding lives that are forever changed, dealing with PTSD, missing or injured limbs, head injuries, or a multitude of other conflicts and difficulties. I was lucky I made it out alive. I know and appreciate that. I would not be standing here today if it were not for talented medics, helicopter pilots, doctors, nurses, physical therapists, and I’m sure a hundred other people in various positions. I will be forever indebted to all those who helped save my life and my leg. But I wouldn’t be standing here in this auditorium if it weren’t for one very special man.”

  The crowd turns to see who I’m focusing on, and a sea of emotions cross Tristan’s face. Even from this distance, I know his eyes are damp. My throat thickens with emotion—but there is no fear. That’s how I know I’m ready to go above and beyond my call of duty.

  Tristan

  DON’T FUCKING CRY. The man beside me must see how hard it is to hold back, because he shoves a tissue into my hand and nods curtly. I can’t thank him. I can’t take my eyes off of Alex standing proudly at the podium and saying things I never thought he’d be able to say.

  “My boyfriend, Tristan Brewer, has shown me what a true hero looks like. Thank you, T. I love you.”

  Damn it. Tears escape down my cheeks, and when the audience applauds, heads turning to take us both in, I give up trying to hide my emotions. Tears flow like a river, and I feel like my heart is going to explode out of my chest.

  The ceremony comes to an emotional end, and the man beside me leans in and says, “You must be very proud of him.”

  “Yes, sir. Very proud,” is all I can manage, but really, what’s left to say? Alex Wells has blown me away.

  The audience rises for a final round of applause, and as the other soldier leaves the stage and returns with his wife for the photos, Alex descends the stairs, those piercing baby blues set on me. When he reaches the row I’m sitting in, he holds out a hand.

  “You have to get your picture taken,” I say quietly.

  He grips my hand tightly. “We have to get our picture taken.”

  I can’t even form a response as he leads me toward the stage.

  We stand side by side, his arm circling my back, and as the photographer gets ready to snap the picture, Alex says, “I told you I’m the man you deserve.”

  In that moment I’m certain of two things. Alex Wells is more of a man than I ever dreamed, and when we see these photographs, I’m going to be smiling like a lovesick fool in every single one of them.

  EPILOGUE

  Alex

  I CAN HARDLY believe how many people show up for the grand opening of Artsea Designs. Tristan did an incredible job of spreading the word, and Brandon produced such an awesome website, we had orders piling up before the doors even opened.

  “I have to show you something.” Tristan takes my hand and weaves through the crowd, pointing out customers marveling at the furniture and accessories I’ve made. “You did this,” he says. “Everyone loves your work. Arty would be so proud of you. I’m proud of you.”

  “We did it, T. Both of us.” Nothing compares to working with and living with Tristan. I wake up with the man I adore and spend hours building our future together. Granted, many days we get more make-out time in than actual work done, but hey, what more could a man ask for?

  As we walk to the back of the store, my mother comes into view. She’s gazing up at her new boyfriend, Craig Miller, the artist from Colorado she met the week of my award ceremony. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Craig leans down and kisses her.

  Tristan licks the shell of my ear, which he knows drives me insane, and whispers, “She’s been with him longer than a month. Think he might be around for Christmas in June?”

  Now I’m thinking about Tristan’s tongue, of course, but I’m also touched that he remembered that story about my mother’s strange Christmas tree habits, and I manage, “I sure hope so.”

  It’s crazy how the right person can change your whole world. When I walked into the Taproom that very first night, hoping to meet Tristan, I never imagined falling madly, deeply in love with him. And now I can’t imagine my life without him.

  We walk out the back doors to the slate patio, and the sight of the elaborate rock garden Tristan designed and we created together still thrills me. Tristan’s rock gardens far outshine mine. The one he made at the house is the most incredible garden I’ve ever seen, and I know, like his mother, he’ll spend years making them even more interesting. I can’t wait until we have years together and I can look back and say, Remember when? to the man I love.

  I’m looking forward to spending our first Thanksgiving and Christmas together and starting our own family traditions, which is something I’ve never had.

  Tristan squeezes my hand and nods at Charley, sitting with Brandon and Brooke on the bench I made. Brandon stretches and puts an arm around both of the girls, pulling them against him. He says something and both Brooke and Charley slap him in the chest and get up laughing.

  Some things never change.

  Tristan and I move off to the side to allow his parents to pass by. His mother touches each of us on the shoulder and mouths, Love you, as she and his father join another couple. It’s a great feeling to be included in a family as stable and loving as the Brewers.

  I slide my hand into Tristan’s back pocket and he comes willingly against me.

  “I’m going to say something sappy, so just go with it, okay?”

  He smirks. “You don’t do sappy. That’s my job.”

  “You’re rubbing off on me.”

  “You want me to rub you off? Here?” He rocks his hips against mine and I let out a low groan.

  “Damn, T. You freaking own me.” I hold him tighter. “As I recall, you like to have your hands on wood.”

  He laughs. “Totally not sappy, alpha boy.”

  “Right, sorry.” I give him a chaste kiss.

  “Hurry up. Brandon’s watching us like he wants to jump in the middle.”

  “In his dreams.” I shake my head at Brandon, who rolls his eyes.

  Tristan grabs my chin and draws my eyes back to his. “Focus. If I stand pressed against you any longer, I’m going to drag that fine ass of yours into the office and fuck you until you can’t remember your name.”

  I blink.

  I blink again.

  And then I take his hand and head directly for the office.

  “Alex,” he whispers loudly as we move through the crowd. “You can’t leave your own grand opening.”

  “Who’s leaving? We’ll be in the office.” I give him a nudge through the office door, closing and locking it behind us, and cage him against the wall with the force of my body as I capture his mouth—and his complaints—in a ravenous kiss.

  “God I love you,�
� he says as he gasps a breath.

  I push my hands into his hair, holding him exactly where I want him, and claim him in another punishingly hot kiss. He surrenders to my will, his leg inching up my hip, and we frantically tear each other’s pants open, wrestling for dominance. Some things never change. I grab him by the collar and slam him against the other wall, and in seconds he overpowers me—

  Or so he thinks…

  As his lips descend toward mine, I whisper, “You’ve helped me become the best man I could ever hope to be, Tristan. I adore you.”

  He draws back with a serious look in his dark, sexy eyes. “Don’t think for a second that sappy will stop me from giving you exactly what you deserve.”

  I can’t suppress my smile. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  I hope you enjoyed Tristan and Alex’s story. Ready for more Harborside Nights? Now Available…

  CATCHING CASSIDY (Wyatt & Cassidy)

  DISCOVERING DELILAH (Delilah & Ashley, F/F Romance)

  Sign up for Melissa’s NEWSLETTER to be notified of the next Harborside releases, CHASING CHARLEY and BREAKING BRANDON, as well as BAYSIDE FANTASIES, Tristan’s brother Brody’s story, which will appear in Melissa’s Bayside Summers series.

  www.MelissaFoster.com/Newsletter

  Like your men alpha and your sex naughty?

  Continue reading for sneak peeks of Melissa’s sexy new standalone romance, TRU BLUE, and the next Billionaires After Dark book, BAD BOYS AFTER DARK: DYLAN.

  TRU Blue (Standalone Romance)

  He wore the skin of a killer, and bore the heart of a lover…

  TRUMAN GRITT LOCKED the door to Whiskey Automotive and stepped into the stormy September night. Sheets of rain blurred his vision, instantly drenching his jeans and T-shirt. A slow smile crept across his face as he tipped his chin up, soaking in the shower of freedom. He made his way around the dark building and climbed the wooden stairs to the deck outside his apartment. He could have used the interior door, but after being behind bars for six long years, Truman took advantage of the small pleasures he’d missed out on, like determining his own schedule, deciding when to eat and drink, and standing in the fucking rain if he wanted to. He leaned on the rough wooden railing, ignoring the splinters of wood piercing his tattooed forearms, squinted against the wetness, and scanned the cars in the junkyard they used for parts—and he used to rid himself of frustrations. He rested his leather boot on the metal box where he kept his painting supplies. Truman didn’t have much—his old extended-cab truck, which his friend Bear Whiskey had held on to for him while he was in prison, this apartment, and a solid job, both of which were compliments of the Whiskey family. The only family he had anymore.