"Sorry." Turning to limp across the kitchen toward the stove, she grabbed the wooden spoon she'd abandoned five minutes before, and dipped it into the pot bubbling on a burner.
"You worried?" he asked, watching her stir the gumbo. The delicious scents coming from the stove made him salivate. Aside from the salad he'd found in her fridge after returning from the penthouse the night before, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.
"I don't like having my eyes dilated." The furrow between her brows deepened.
"You'll be fine," he said, picking up the two little bottles sitting in front of him and turning them over. Truth be told, the contents worried him, too. Taking her into Teplo blind didn't appeal to him, but he didn't know how else to keep her flying under the radar.
She turned to face him, spoon in hand and worry in her eyes. "What if-"
"Beautiful," he sighed, rising from the kitchen table to go to her. He drew to a stop in front of her, tilting her chin up with his index finger. "We'll test it before I take you in there, and if you aren't comfortable, we'll find another way, okay?" He had no idea what that other way might be yet, but he'd think of something. Forcing her to use the drops if they truly frightened her wasn't an option.
Lillian nodded as sauce dripped off the spoon onto the back of her hand, unnoticed. "I just don't understand why I have to be dilated. I went in there before and no one noticed I didn't fit in."
"I noticed as soon as I saw you," he disagreed, removing the spoon from her hand before sauce dripped all over the floor. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. "We can't guarantee that someone else won't see the same things I did, sweetheart. And even if we could, the Vetrov family has already put a camera on the door. If they suspect I'm DEA and aren't just paranoid bastards, things will be easier for you if you look as drugged as anyone else in the club."
Chances were, Anton Vetrov wouldn't believe her innocence no matter what Tristan did to help her blend in, but some things, she didn't need to know. He'd come up with something to keep her safe if it came right down to it, and he'd have a hell of a lot better a shot of bluffing her way to safety with her eyes dilated than with her looking stone cold sober.
"But what if-" she started.
"I'll keep you safe, sweetheart," he murmured, and reached for the hand with sauce running down her knuckles onto her wrist. He lifted it slowly to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. "Trust me?"
Worry melted from her warm brown eyes, and some of the tension slowly drained from her face. Her slight nod sent a thrill racing through him. He knew she didn't trust him entirely, but she trusted him with her safety at least. That was a start.
He licked the sauce from the back of her hand, his eyes still locked on hers. The sauce tasted delicious, her skin beneath even better. Humming his appreciation, he licked a leisurely trail down to her wrist and then back up, trailing his lips over each delectable inch in an effort to distract her from her fears.
When he lifted his head, her eyes were wide and her mouth slightly parted.
"Mmm. Perfect." He dropped her hand before reaching for the spoon. With another small step, their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. His cock didn't just jump this time, his entire body did, muscles coiling tight for a brief instant and then loosening with a shudder.
Goosebumps rose all over her silky skin.
"I-" Lillian's lips parted, her eyes clouding with lust and desire.
"Shh, baby. I've got you," he whispered and reached around her to dip the spoon into the sauce. He stirred clockwise, his arm skimming across her breast with each turn of his wrist. That little bit of contact made him want to groan as relief at touching her for the first time all day deepened to something more. Something visceral and needy.
He held her gaze as he stirred, bright blue capturing warm brown. Lillian's breath rate increased, her breasts rising and falling with each quick inhalation as her gaze tangled with his. Certain she no longer thought about the Vetrov family, Teplo, dilating drops, or anything beyond his body aligned with hers and his eyes locked on hers, he tilted his head down and swept his lips feather-light across her cheek, unable to resist.
Even that innocent press of his lips to her skin sent a jolt shooting through him.
Lillian responded with one of those soft sighs that made blood pump through his veins hard and fast.
"Tristan," she whispered on an exhale, her body relaxing into his.
He smiled, his chest doing that curious ache thing when she looked up at him with those lovely brown eyes full of desire. Those eyes – he could get fucking lost in them and not care. Hell, he wanted to get lost in them and stay there.
Clearing his throat, he stepped away, unnerved by the thought.
Christ. What was she doing to him?
Once again, Tristan left Lillian unable to think straight while he walked away, calm, cool, and far too freaking collected. She knew what he'd been doing even while he'd been doing it, but she'd been helpless to protest. Hadn't really wanted to stop him anyway.
The thought of going into Teplo unable to see clearly terrified her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to marshal her thoughts as Tristan poked through cabinets in search of bowls. And then she drew another breath and another, his scent lingering in the air around her.
The man intoxicated her, his mere touch unraveling her composure little by little until all she could think about was him and the way he made her feel... and the things he made her want. And she did want them. Desperately.
That truth didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have.
"Do you own bowls?" he asked, pulling her out of her thoughts and plunking her right back down into tingling reality.
"What?" She opened her eyes, quickly turning to the stove when her stomach fluttered at the sight of him raking a hand through his messy hair, irritation stamped across his face.
"Bowls. Do you own them?" he snapped.
He huffed when she didn't answer right away.
"Yes, I own bowls." She rolled her eyes. He was the one who'd trapped her against the stove and worked sexual voodoo over her body. His bad mood was his own fault. "You're just looking in the wrong spot. They're by the sink. And who doesn't own bowls?"
"How should I know?" he muttered. A cabinet creaked open. "Fucking finally."
Lillian bit her lip to hide a smile at his curse and flipped the burner off before turning to face him. "Do you always have a problem with organization or does it only piss you off when you're sexually frustrated?"
"I'm highly organized," he retorted, lifting two bowls from the cabinet, then setting them down on the countertop.
"And sexually frustrated."
He resumed his search through her cabinets, muttering curses under his breath.
"Utensils are in the second drawer to the left," she offered sweetly, biting back a laugh.
He scowled, jerking the drawer open to retrieve two spoons. "I'm not the only one sexually frustrated, sweetheart. Besides, you know how to solve that dilemma for both of us."
"Ha!" Lillian laughed, her skin tingling all over at the raised eyebrow and suggestive smirk he shot in her direction. "So not going there, Tristan."
He shrugged. "You will sooner or later. You know it. I know it. Might as well accept it."
"Mm."
She grabbed a ladle from the drawer closest to the stove before holding out her hand for the bowls. He handed them over, and surprisingly, didn't try to touch her in the process. She jumped anyway.
He smirked again, lifting that damned brow as if to say See? I told you so.
Lillian filled their bowls while he rummaged in the fridge, refusing to respond to that cocky grin.
Gorgeous bastard.
"Do you have beer?"
"No. There's a bottle of Riesling in there, though."
He pushed things around until he located the bottle in question, not speaking. Lifting the bottle toward the light, he scrutinized the label befor
e nodding his approval and shoving the fridge closed with the toe of his running shoe.
"Mm what?" he asked then, locating the wineglasses and corkscrew without assistance. He deposited them on the table before returning to carry their bowls to the table. "Do ballerinas not drink beer?"
"Mm, you're awfully cocky," she said, trailing behind him with a box of saltines in her hands. "And ballerinas drink beer occasionally. I just don't like it." She didn't bother to add that she wasn't a ballerina any longer either.
"Saltines and wine and gumbo? I thought ballerinas ate healthy." He shook his head, seemingly bemused. "And it's not cockiness when it's true. You'll beg for it, beautiful. We both know you will. And how can you not like beer?"
"Not unless you beg first," she said, blushing at the confident hue to his tone, as if he didn't doubt for a minute that she'd beg him to make love to her. No, not love. Something else. Something primal and predatory and explosive. Something not about love or closeness, but about an overwhelming, driving urge to consume one another until neither could think straight.
"I think I'd really like to see you beg first. And ballerinas do eat healthy, but that doesn't mean we starve or deprive ourselves. Ballet takes strength and energy, stamina. It's hard to dance or take care of your body properly when you're starving. And beer tastes like yeast. It's disgusting."
Tristan eyed her sideways. She expected him to laugh at her almost calm statement tacked onto the end of her explanation, but he didn't. He didn't discount her desire to see him beg either. He just lifted his wine glass in a mock toast, his expression far too serious for the half playful, half frustrated bent to their conversation.
"To begging then," he murmured, holding her gaze. "May it happen soon."
Heat crept back into her cheeks at the sudden intensity radiating from his blue eyes, but she lifted her own glass and took a sip anyway.
He shot her another doubtful look when she opened the saltines, but accepted them anyway when she handed them over to let him try it for himself. He ended up with his own sleeve of crackers.
"Beer does not taste like yeast," he finally said, not looking up from his bowl. "Not good beer."
"If you say so." She shrugged and kept eating.
"Remind me to find you a decent beer."
"Mmhmm."
They didn't say much else through the rest of dinner, choosing instead to attack their bowls in hungry silence. The almost companionable quiet unnerved her, even if she wouldn't admit it to him. She felt his eyes on her while she ate. Every time she looked up, he'd open his mouth to say something, only to snap it closed again with a frown.
She didn't know what to make of that so she said nothing, choosing instead to keep her eyes on her bowl. Even so, she found herself sneaking furtive glances at him from beneath her lashes. Each time, he had his eyes on her, that same thoughtful frown on his face. And every time she saw it, her heart beat a little faster.
She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the dishes after they finished eating. Tristan worked around her, wiping down cabinets. His body grazed hers occasionally. Her skin hummed like a Gregorian chorus every time.
"Movie?" he asked when she placed the last of their dishes back into the cabinet.
She hesitated, torn between agreeing and fleeing to the safety of her bedroom. Spending any more time with him would be madness. But… she wasn't tired and didn't relish the thought of hiding out in her room like she had last night.
"I'm going to change first," she said before she could change her mind.
Tristan eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering on her skirt. "Good plan," he said, clearing his throat.
She blushed and fled in search of something more comfortable.
Twenty minutes later, she found Tristan standing beside the television, examining the pictures hanging on the wall. Snapshots of her in practice and photographs of her on stage spread across the wall in a big collage alongside newspaper clippings, quotes, and more artful shots she'd taken in cities around the world.
She might not ever dance again, but she would never stop working toward it. The collage reminded her of what she fought for every day, and why she fought for it. It motivated her when all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry, and those days came often.
When Tristan noticed her lurking behind him, he didn't comment on those preserved glimpses into her past or ask her for an explanation. She almost wished he would. Standing there with four graphic inches of her scar visible beneath the hem of her shorts and those damn memories hanging there for comparison made her feel awkward and graceless as hell suddenly.
To add insult to injury, she wasn't sure how to get herself seated comfortably without making a fool of herself. Her leg ached, and the chaise sat too low to the ground to allow her to get onto it with anything resembling grace or ease.
Why hadn't she thought of that before agreeing to a movie?
She didn't want Tristan watching her humiliating attempt to wriggle her way onto the chaise.
"Um…."
He held his hand out to her, smiling.
"I-" She hesitated beside the couch, looking at him. Hell, she wanted to send him out of the room until she got herself situated, but couldn't think of a single excuse to make that happen. She took a shaky breath.
He searched her face, his smile falling at what he found there. "What's wrong, beautiful?"
"Nothing," she mumbled, averting her gaze. She felt ridiculous. He'd had his hands all over her scar on more than one occasion, for God's sake.
"Beautiful," he said, his voice full of gentle rebuke.
"It's nothing." Lillian tried to smile, but it wobbled on her face.
He scrutinized her expression, his gaze softening.
"Come here," he said, holding his hand out to her again.
She took it this time, watching the play of emotion through those gorgeous blue eyes.
He drew her nearer, not stopping until she stood right in front of him. "Hi," he whispered then, squeezing her fingers.
"Hi," she whispered back, that one word trembling on her lips.
He flicked his gaze down her body and back up to her face. "Those shorts are going to be the death of me, Lillian."
She blushed, grateful for the teasing compliment as much as for the way his acceptance calmed her nerves. He didn't think less of her for the scar. Unlike so many she'd known before her accident, he wasn't the kind of person who thought less of someone because of physical limitations. He didn't judge her value as a person on whether or not she could dance.
"If I ask you to sit with me, will you?" he asked, her hand still clasped in his as they stood inches apart from one another, enveloped in warmth, heat, and soft, almost uncertain glances.
How did he manage to make her ache one minute, and feel like a teenager the next?
She glanced up at him through her lashes. "I…."
He seemed to take that breathless murmur for agreement and drew her around the couch to the chaise before seating himself. Then he guided her backward until her calves hit the edge of the low seat. He eased her down, her leg stretching without issue as he held her weight.
With sure hands, he scooted her backward until she rested between his legs. Her entire body melted into him at once, accepting the warmth and support he offered as if it were natural to do so. And God… he felt so good, all hard muscle and smooth skin.
Sweeping her hair off the side of her neck, he placed a kiss to the pulse thrumming there.
The scalding bubble of desire surrounding them tightened.
"I've wanted to do that all day," he murmured, settling back. He pulled her with him until her upper body draped across his. Her ass settled against a telling bulge in his pants.
An unwelcome protest fired somewhere in her mind, suspicion causing her to stiffen in his arms. She didn't want to retreat back into that uncomfortable haze of desire they danced around constantly. She liked this quiet peace between them.
"Shh," he said, trailing his fing
ertips down her arm, melting resistance and muscle into relaxation as quickly as her protest had made her tense. "Just sit with me, okay?"
She tilted her head to look at him, uncertain at his soft tone. He stared down at her, that same vulnerable, yearning look on his face – the one that had nothing to do with begging or games, and everything to do with something else. Something deeper, more intense, and somehow more honest. That look made her stomach flutter and her heart twist even though she didn't understand it.
What did he want from her?
She didn't know. But she allowed herself to relax anyway, watching that lost look wash from expression.
When it vanished, her heart felt a little lighter.
Convincing Lillian to sit with him, Tristan decided as the movie started, just might have been his best idea ever. The expression on her face when she'd entered the room, like it shamed her to stand there in front of him, was so close to that haunted, humiliated look in her eyes when he'd met her at Teplo, his chest physically ached. He'd just wanted to get rid of it, bring back the feisty temptress who made his thoughts run in exhausted circles. But the way her body molded to his?
He liked it more than he probably should.
And not just because he wanted her, but because being that close to her calmed and excited him at once. Frustration vanished when his skin touched hers, leaving an abiding silence. The sense of peace that inner quiet sent rushing through him was worth every bit of sexual frustration.
For every ache she sent soaring within him, being around her soothed two more into oblivion. He'd felt it in the kitchen, something relaxing or shifting when he touched her. And as soon as he moved away, he'd felt stretched thin, like a junkie coming down. He'd also felt… something else tonight. Something soft and gentle, as if she'd woken some part of him he'd thought lost long ago. The part that wasn't soiled by the shadows of his life. The part that still laughed freely.
The same easy feeling kept cropping up. He felt lighter around her, less burdened. And even though he knew he should run from that feeling, get as far away as he possibly could, he didn't. He liked the person he got to be around her.
Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) Page 16