Note to self: learn how to set automatic timer on coffeemaker.
What wasn’t so great was that Tristan wasn’t in the bed with me.
I closed my eyes again to relive what was a splendid night that started with all kinds of surprises and craziness and ended with hot sex. How the heck did all that happen in just one night?
When I heard Tristan walk into the bedroom, I opened my eyes and dropped my mouth. He was wearing black boxers that let me see up close what a phenomenal body he had. Funny how we had sex last night, but I didn’t get to appreciate him as a whole since our bodies were so intertwined.
“Hot damn,” I said.
“The coffee?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d love some,” I said. “Thanks. But I was talking about how cut you are. What the hell do you do—work out for five hours a day?”
He laughed. “I barely squeeze an hour in. What about you? With your fine body, you must do something to keep yourself looking so good. Let me guess—long legs—running?”
“Ugh, no. This body is the result of bad eating habits and sloth,” I said.
“Ha. I don’t believe that for a second. In fact, you look even more beautiful now with your hair all tousled and no makeup. Very fuckable.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, but thank you anyway.”
Tristan fixed my coffee with plenty of cream and sugar, the way I liked it, and then he made us a couple of omelets stuffed with spinach, tomatoes and feta cheese.
“I only have one chair at my table. So how about breakfast in bed?” he asked.
The solitary chair at the table made me feel so much for him that I wanted to just pull him to my breast and care for him.
“Breakfast in bed sounds scrumptious,” I said.
“Much like you,” he grinned.
We propped ourselves up with pillows and brought our omelet and coffee to bed. Tristan opened the shades to a splendid view of the Atlantic.
“This is incredible,” I said.
“The omelet or the view?”
“Both.”
While we ate, I found myself distracted by both the magnificent view of the ocean from someone’s bed and the magnificent man whose bed I spent the night in.
“Tristan, did you ever come to Vamps before you bought it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember seeing you. And I’m sure I would’ve noticed someone as hot as you.”
“I never stayed long, considering my, uh, condition. It was too draining.”
I tilted my head as I appraised him. “I’m surprised you even came at all then.”
“I’m so used to being alone, but sometimes even I need to get out and be among people.”
Once again I wanted to cradle him in my arms and pull him against my chest. Instead, I put my hand on his shoulder.
“I can understand that,” I said. “You’re not alone now. I’m here.”
“Are you?” His dark eyes implored. “I’m not too much for you?”
“I should be asking you that question,” I said with a coquettish smile. “I’m not too much for you?”
“Too much?” he said, and then he pulled me close, planting a kiss on my lips. “I can barely stay focused on this omelet as I just want to get more of you.”
I put my plate on the end table, and then put his down on his end. “I’m suddenly hungry for something else.”
Tristan flipped me onto my back and I squealed with laughter. “What are you doing?”
“You know exactly what I’m doing.”
Then he kissed me right where I liked it on my neck. As his kisses trailed down over my breasts and over my belly, I sighed in contentment.
“Want me to stop?” he asked.
“God, no.”
He teased me, kissing down one hip and along my thigh, from one inner thigh to the other, while I writhed beneath him in anticipation. And then finally, finally, I felt his tongue on me, masterfully taking control of my entire body.
I almost forgot how good this feels. And with Tristan, it felt better than I ever remembered.
He alternated bringing me right to the edge, and then slowing down and backing off, until I was ready to scream out, “Now! Don’t tease anymore!” But words failed me at this point. As if sensing my need, he increased the pressure and became relentless, driving me to a point of no return. The world exploded around me in the most intense, world-shattering orgasm.
When I came back to Earth, I muttered, “That. Was. Phenomenal.”
“I’m not done yet.”
He grabbed a condom from the end table and within seconds had it on and was inside me. I caught the pace with his rhythm, wrapping my legs around his waist. He lifted my ass off the bed and I met him with each thrust. His cock rubbed me in just the right spot at this angle. My need for him intensified and I took control of the pace from underneath him. Then I squeezed my legs tighter around him as I reached a peak again.
“Oh God, Maya,” he said and he thrust harder. And then I felt him pumping inside me.
We crumbled back onto the bed, out of breath and satiated.
I wasn’t sure how exactly to ask the question on my mind without blurting it out bluntly and killing the afterglow. “Can I ask you something personal?”
He rolled up onto one elbow. “What?”
“You’ve clearly been with other women before. You’re far too skilled not to have practiced.”
“Thanks, babe. You’re pretty damned impressive yourself.”
“What I’m wondering—is how you managed to be with other women considering your uh, condition, as you call it.”
When he chuckled, I exhaled in relief. So I didn’t offend him.
“Very short-term relationships,” he said. “And keeping the lights off.”
After we refilled our coffee cups and came back to bed, Tristan asked, “Do you have any plans today?”
I shrugged. “I just planned on doing laundry, errands, the typical things you take care of on your day off.”
“Maybe I can encourage you to spend the day with me. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
Surprised, I asked, “Who?”
“My mother.”
After my mouth dropped to the floor, I asked, “Your mother? Don’t you think that’s taking things a little fast considering we just spent our first night together?”
“The first of many, I hope.” He flashed a smile that would make any woman agree to do anything he asked in an instant. “I told her about your light.” He put his hands out to the sides. “And I don’t know what to say. She asked to meet you.”
“O-kay then,” I said. “So this whole light thing—she gets what you’re talking about? Because I sure don’t.”
“Will you please come?” he asked. “It would mean a lot to me.”
How could I resist that imploring look in his dark eyes? I think I might do anything to alleviate that pain.
Tristan drove me home.
“Want me to wait while you get ready? What do you need, say twenty minutes?”
I tilted my head to indicate the unlikelihood of that happening. Twenty minutes? “Please.”
“Thirty?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Forty-five? An hour? How long does it take for you to get ready?”
“I’d say an hour. But give me an hour and a half, just in case. I wasn’t planning on meeting any parents today. I need to dress accordingly.”
“You don’t have to worry too much about my parents. They’re not exactly—conventional.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant, but it could wait. “You’ll tell me more on the drive there, right?”
“I will. See you soon.”
As I climbed out of his black Mustang, he slapped me playfully on the ass. “I’ll miss that.”
Chapter Five
When I entered my apartment, everything changed. I frantically threw aside one rejected outfit after another. What the heck was I supposed to wear
to meet the parents of a guy I hardly knew? A guy whom I just spent the night with?
I started pacing and biting my nails.
Music. I needed music. What I needed now was some sort of confident I-am-woman-hear-me-roar music. I looked through my record collection, but didn’t know what I wanted. So I played my iPod, pressing Next as I shuffled through songs to find something to fit the mood. When Gogol Bordello’s Pale Tute came on, I settled for fun upbeat gypsy music to get me on the go at least, rather than filled with uncertainty about the day ahead.
I wish these guys were in my extended family. What a fun, happy band. Maybe I’d even join the band as some sort of extra. I could dance around singing backup vocals, maybe bang a tambourine. That couldn’t be that hard to play, right? You just hit it with your hands, maybe on your hips. All you need is to match the rhythm of the band and not go off on some random beat of your own. We would have fun singing and dancing like Gypsies! Then partying ’til the wee hours of the morning.
Focus, Maya. Why does your mind wander to the ridiculous completely unrealistic fantasies in times of stress? You’re not running off to join a Gypsy punk band. Stop looking for the escape just because you’re nervous. You’re a firefighter and you like your job. And you’re meeting some guy’s parents this afternoon. Some guy who you are way too into way too soon. But it’s too late to worry about such things. So get dressed!
Why did I agree to meet them anyway? What kind of family were they if seeing me in a light was something they wanted to explore in more depth?
Did I really want to be dissected under a microscope?
I picked up my phone to call Tristan and tell him I changed my mind.
No, I couldn’t do that to him. He said it meant a lot to him. I couldn’t bear being the cause of any more sadness in those deep, dark eyes.
Forget it, I’ll pick my outfit after. I hopped in the shower and thought some more.
Meeting parents already? This is too much, too soon. What was I getting myself into? A relationship? Did I even want one?
This was all going too fast. Progressing from a mega-crush to a hot night to meeting the guy’s parents within twenty-four hours was just too crazy. I can’t do it.
After getting out of the shower, I found a flowing black skirt that was both feminine and conservative—perfect for such an occasion. I found a button-down white short-sleeve blouse that fit the bill and set off the blackness of my hair. I can’t do it.
I looked in the mirror and tried to trick myself. “I can do this.”
When I looked away, I knew I couldn’t. Checking the time, I realized Tristan would be here soon. I may as well wait and tell him in person.
I brushed my hair and put on some light makeup.
Ten minutes later, Tristan rang the bell. I walked over to the front door to let him in, bracing myself before I broke the news.
When I opened the door, he smiled so brightly that I forgot what I was going to say.
“Ready, gorgeous?”
All my reservations slipped away. I knew I could do it now. Just take his hand and everything will be just fine.
“Yes.”
*
He opened the door for me like a true gentleman and we settled in for the drive to Salem. He played his iPod.
“What is this song? I heard it in that Mr. and Mrs. Smith movie. When Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are all over each other when they first meet.”
“Mondo Bongo.”
“That’s what it’s called? They don’t even say those words.”
He shrugged. “Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros. You know—the singer from The Clash?”
“Oh yeah. No wonder his voice sounds familiar.”
I was well-aware that we were both procrastinating the big heavy talk. Where all the questions and mysteries from last night were supposed to be explained. After a couple more songs and I asked more questions about them, which I really didn’t have to know the answers to at that moment, I said, “Okay, I’m ready to hear more.”
“Music?”
“No. You know what I mean. Last night you wanted to tell me things about you. About how you’re different.”
Tristan tapped the steering wheel a few times before answering. “It’s not just me. My family—we’re all different.”
I adjusted in my seat. “Different how?”
“We,” he began, but then he stopped. “We’re not like everybody else.”
I wanted to ask what he meant again, but then changed my mind and decided to let him tell me in his own way. I know—progress for a motormouth like me.
“We’ve been here for hundreds of years. My family was one of the original settlers in Salem.”
“Oh,” I said. What was so weird about that?
“Some of the women, my ancestors, were accused of witchcraft.”
Now I was paying attention. “What happened to them?”
“They were burned,” Tristan said and he gritted his teeth. “Or drowned.” On the last word, he clenched his teeth.
“That’s terrible.” I reached up to put an arm on one of his broad shoulders. “What a tragic family history. So many innocent people died.”
He looked me in the eyes and said, “Innocent of what? They were witches.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“They were innocent of wrongdoing, or any of the fabricated charges against them. But yes, they were witches. I come from a family of witches. It doesn’t mean we’re evil. Just misunderstood. They didn’t deserve to die.”
I removed my hand. “Whoa. What are you saying? You’re a witch? Or a wizard or something? Wait, you mean like those high school kids who parade around wearing pentagrams saying they’re Wiccan? Or those people who go on talk shows to say they’re vampires because they feel the need to drink blood?”
“Never mind all that nonsense,” he said, waving his hand, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m telling you that we’re not like regular people. We can do things. We have ancient magic, a spirituality, running through us.”
I cocked my head. “What kind of things can you do?”
He clenched the steering wheel before he replied. “Me? I can’t do anything of importance. I’ve been cursed.”
After recovering from his statement, I said, “Surely that’s not true? Why would you be cursed?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’ve experienced what I have—it’s haunted me for so long. I just wish to be rid of it.”
“Do you think there’s a way?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for years.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Are you the only ones who are, you know, like you?”
“What do you mean, Maya? Are there other witches?”
I nodded. Witches seemed an odd word to use, especially for the hot guy next to me.
“Yes, there are others. Not as many as there once were, but we’re still around. In fact—”
He stopped and didn’t continue so I prodded. “In fact what?”
“Never mind.”
Now when people say things like never mind, it just makes me all the more curious. Don’t start a sentence unless you’re going to finish it, I say.
“No, please continue,” I said politely, even though I was itching to know the truth and wanted to just shout Tell me now! “You were going to tell me something.”
He hesitated before he spoke again. “I was just going to say how I thought you might be like us. Maybe your family or something. Because I can definitely sense something different about you. Why else would I see you in a light?”
“Sorry, Tristan. I’m not a witch.”
We drove past the touristy witch attractions and on along the Atlantic, and then took a left onto a quiet residential street. We drove for a few more minutes until we reached a Tudor house with a historical marker on it. Even though it was a modest New England size, not ostentatiously large, it still emanated class and old-world charm.
He held m
y hand as he led me up the stone walkway and into the foyer. I looked around to see large oil paintings on the walls and small statues on pedestals. Statues? Nobody I knew had statues in their houses, especially the firefighters.
“Tristan, dear,” a woman with a striking gray-white bob said, wrapping him in a warm embrace. She turned to me. “You must be Maya,” and she surprised me by hugging me as well.
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone.”
“Please, call me Isabella,” she said, and then pulled back to look at me as if trying to understand something.
How much had Tristan told her about me?
Isabella said, “Come, let’s sit in the courtyard. It’s not often we can take advantage of that in November, but the weather has been mild this year.” She led us through a dining room with more paintings and a very old and expensive-looking table. She opened French doors into a lush garden filled with gorgeous red foliage on dwarf Japanese maples and brilliant red bushes.
We sat down at a black wrought-iron table set. No sooner than I had pulled my chair in than a middle-aged woman approached carrying a tray with a teapot and fancy china teacups and some cookies.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” Isabella said.
Charlotte smiled. “Anything else, Mrs. Stone?”
“No thank you. This is lovely.”
Charlotte disappeared. I was more of a coffee drinker myself, but this fancy setting reminded me of one of those posh restaurants serving high tea or a scene from Alice in Wonderland.
What the heck is high tea anyway?
Getting back to the here and now, I added two spoonfuls of sugar and tons of cream to my tea. Just as we had all poured and prepared the tea to our liking, a man approached. He bore such a resemblance to Tristan that I did a double-take.
My surprise was clearly registered on my face as Isabella said, “Tristan takes after his father as you can see.”
My mouth had dropped, I realized, but I quickly recovered and replaced my surprised look with a pleasant smile.
He’s Tristan’s father, for crissake, get a hold of yourself. Make a good first impression.
He had the same tall frame with broad shoulders, but his appeared to have softened with age. His face was so similar to Tristan’s that I thought I was viewing Tristan in twenty-five years with gray around the temples.
Fiery Nights Page 6