A waiter comes a few moments later. He’s tall and well groomed with a white dress shirt and pants. “Will you be dining with us tonight?” he asks.
Tristan nods.
“Very well,” says the waiter, who turns and walks back to the kitchen.
“Uhh,” I say, giving Tristan a confused look.
“Call it another gimmick. The chef picks for you.”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess that’s what all women really want anyway, right?”
He narrows his eyes. “This feels like a trap.”
“It is,” I laugh.
“If I’ve learned one thing about women in my life, it’s that there is no such thing as ‘all women’. Unless you want to say, ‘all women have a frustrating habit of being uniquely different and hard to figure out.’”
“Very diplomatic,” I say with a smile. “But not wrong, either. Still, I’d say you have some kind of telepathic ability when it comes to women. At least when it comes to… Well, you know.”
“Sex?” he asks. “And no. That’s just you. Since that first night, I’ve felt like I could read your pulse.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Like I could feel where your orgasm is and exactly which buttons to press to bring it out, or which ones to avoid if I’m not ready to let you cum yet.”
I clear my throat and rub the back of my neck self-consciously. “I wish I could say I didn’t believe you.”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Where are my manners. We haven’t even had our drinks and I’m already talking about dessert.”
I make a startled, embarrassing noise deep in my throat and can’t help laughing at myself. I chew on my lip, deciding maybe Mr. Rivers shouldn’t get to be so cocky about his ‘dessert’. “I don’t know,” I say. “I was feeling pretty full already. I might pass on desert tonight.” I lift my eyes to his slowly to see how he’s taking my tease.
He matches my gaze with a fiery intensity, lips twitching with a hint of amusement. “I think I could find a way to work up your appetite.”
I’m saved from responding when a small convoy of bamboo baskets floats toward our table. Once they are closer, I see neatly folded papers in each basket that say “Mr. Rivers.”
Tristan plucks the contents from each basket, starting with the bottle of red wine and glasses. The next basket contains an assortment of bread from white to wheat and a multigrain style. There’s even a platter with a flat pad of butter dusted in thick particles of sea salt.
I regard the butter with appreciation. “Somehow the salt sprinkles make it seem so much fancier,” I say.
Tristan smiles. “I’ve always thought the same thing.” He dips his finger in the butter and licks it off without apparent thought.
“Did you just eat butter off your fingertip like some kind of barbarian?”
He laughs. “Is that barbaric of me?” He holds his finger over the butter again, daring me to challenge him on it.
“Stop!” I say, giggling. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
He takes one more swipe of butter on his finger and licks it off cockily, leaning back to watch me as he savors the bite in a way that is so confident and self-assured I can’t help swoon a little to watch it. I’ve never met a man like him, someone so sure and purposeful and deliberate. He carries himself like he knows how every detail of his day is going to play out and it’s all moving exactly how he had hoped, like he needs no fear because the future is already mapped out.
“Technically,” he says, ripping a roll of bread open with his hands and ignoring the knife. “You didn’t take me anywhere. I’m in charge here. Remember?” he asks, popping a piece of bread in his mouth.
I give him a dry look as I make a show of how to actually use silverware to open up the bread and spread the butter like a civilized human being. When I go to take a bite of the bread though, I am too focused on my little song and dance and end up smashing the buttery end of the bread into my nose.
Tristan covers his smile as I try to discreetly wipe my nose.
“What’s better,” he asks. “A purposeful barbarian, or an accidental one?”
“I’ll show you a barbarian if you keep teasing me,” I say, gripping my knife and pointing it at him.
He laughs. “That’s a butter knife. What are you going to do, butter me up?”
I lean my head back and make a pained sound. “Oh that was bad. You said you wouldn’t make a good father, but you’ve got the dad jokes down already.”
We both laugh softly, eyes meeting across the table and lingering for a little too long, long enough that it feels like my statement hangs in the air and gains meaning.
I start speaking after a few more moments just to break the silence. “Why do you think you wouldn’t be a good father, anyway?” I ask, mentally kicking myself when I realize it’s a very forward question and could likely kill the fun mood we had going so far.
He picks at his bread while his eyes seem to study the water running through the table. “Guess I worried maybe the apple might not have fallen as far from the tree as I’d like to think?” he asks.
“You know yourself though,” I say, leaning forward and wanting to reach for his hand but the small river running through the table makes it too awkward. “I mean, I think I can say I know you now, too. I don’t know your dad, but I don’t see the things you told me about him in you. I just don’t. You’re good, Tristan.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “I’ve been running from the idea of becoming him my whole life. Am I really different from him? Or am I just him, wearing a disguise I’ve spent my whole life creating?”
“Wear a disguise long enough and it’s not a disguise anymore,” I say. “Fake it till you make it. You know?”
He clenches his fist and I see something solidify behind his eyes, like he’s making a kind of resolution to himself. “I’ll never be like him,” he says quietly. “And what about you?” he asks. “I’ve basically told you my life story and all I know about you is that you’re a social worker and you want to adopt my little brother.”
“That’s all you know?” I ask. I try to put a playful note in my voice, but I know I’m just stalling for time. Feeling the conversation shift toward me and my personal life makes my heart feel like it’s about to start beating out of my chest.
“Not all of it,” he says. “But I want to know more.”
I push a hair behind my ear, wanting to duck under the table more than I want to talk about myself. “There’s not much to know,” I say.
“Start with why you want to adopt so bad. You never told me. You’re young. It’s not exactly normal for a young woman who isn’t in a relationship to want to adopt a kid.”
“I’m not in a relationship?” I ask.
He grins. “You wanted to adopt before things between us got complicated. Didn’t you?”
“I see,” I say, leaning back and making a pouty face. “So I’m not in a relationship. I’m just in something complicated with you?”
“You can call this whatever you want, Stephanie. All I know is I’m not ready for it to be over. Not yet.”
“When, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not until you make it over,” he says.
“And if I never do that?”
“Like you’re never planning to answer my original question?” he asks.
I sigh. “I just don’t think my reason makes a lot of sense when I say it out loud.”
“Try me.”
I look down, tugging at my fingernail as I search for the right way to explain everything. I don’t want his sympathy. I really don’t. I just want to find a way to explain it all where he doesn’t think less of me.
“My little brother and I were really close,” I say after a long pause. “His name was Brian. He was six years younger than me and he always looked up to me. My parents were split up for as long as I could remember and my mom wasn’t in the picture. And my dad’s idea of parenting was making sure there was bread in the pantry and milk in the fridge. So it always felt
more like I was Brian’s parent than his sister. I tried to take care of him as much as I could, but my dad… he wasn’t good to us.
“I was older, and I guess since I was a girl my dad always went easier on me. With me it was just getting shit for bad grades or he’d occasionally give me the belt because I talked back or sometimes he’d just make up the reasons. The thing that I remember most is how I’d always worry during the worst of it, I’d worry that he was just going to completely lose it one day, that he’d drop the belt and grab something worse, or that he’d just…”
I shudder, shaking my head and smiling uncomfortably. “It’s stupid, I—”
“It’s not stupid,” says Tristan. His eyes are so intense that I have to look away, like he isn’t just listening to me but he’s reliving his own version of what I’m saying. “Go on. Please.”
“I thought one day he’d end up killing me. But then afterwards I’d just have bruises and I’d convince myself it wasn’t really that bad. It was normal, even. I didn’t talk about it with other kids because I thought it was embarrassing. I thought I was too old to get hit by my dad. Then there was my little brother. My mom and dad split up shortly after she had him, and I think my dad always blamed Brian for it, even though he was just a baby at the time.
“When he’d beat Brian, it was always just a little worse, like he held back some of his strength with me but let it all go on Brian. With me, it felt like he was disappointed. With Brian, it was like he was getting revenge. I’d try to pull my dad off him or I’d try to talk to him about it, but it always just got me a beating of my own. I loved Brian so much, and at the time I always felt like I was doing everything I could. But one morning, when Brian was twelve, I found him dead in his room.”
The table blurs in front of me and a sharp stab of pain shoots through my hand as I accidentally dig too deep under my fingernail. I force my hands into my lap, shuddering as the vivid image of him hanging there flashes in my mind. “It was like the world crashed in around me. One decision and everything changed. My little brother,” I say, voice breaking.
Tristan steps over the divider where the water runs between tables to sit beside me, putting his arm around me and pulling me close. “You don’t have to tell me the rest, treasure,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“No,” I say, calming myself down with an effort. “It’s okay. You told me about your dad and your past. I can handle it.”
He nods, kissing my temple and giving me another squeeze.
“He killed himself. He didn’t leave a note or even tell me what he was planning.” My face tightens as I think back on it and can’t help squeezing my fingers into my knees until it hurts. “I didn’t do enough to help him. So adopting a kid… a kid who needs my help… it’s my way of saying sorry to Brian. I’ve haunted myself by thinking of all the things I could’ve done differently before it was too late with Brian, and the only way I can imagine starting to forgive myself is if I can find someone who needs me just as much as he did and help them.”
Tristan looks troubled. “I’m not going to say it wasn’t your fault. You’ve probably heard that. Hell, you’re a social worker. You know the lines people are supposed to recite, don’t you? Here’s what I’ll tell you. People are shit at figuring out what they need to heal. Know what I thought I needed? Money. Power. Influence. I thought if I stacked up enough evidence that the world thought I was something important, I could look back on all the times my dad made me feel like less than nothing and I’d somehow be over it. None of that helped. Not really. It was just a distraction. Only one thing has actually helped.”
“What was it?” I ask.
“You,” he says. “I can’t stop coming back to you because every time we’re together it feels right. I feel right.”
“I feel it too,” I say. “But I know I want to adopt. People may be bad at figuring out what they need. I know I want that though. This isn’t something that will pass with time.”
“I’m not saying it is. I’m just saying you can fucking forgive yourself, Stephanie. You don’t need to prove it to the world or to Brian. You bet your ass he forgives you. You were just kids. Parents have an entire lifetime to manipulate their way into seeming invincible and unstoppable. No one could blame you for how you handled it. So let yourself off the hook. Adopt Cole because it makes you feel happy to, not because you think you have to do it for your brother. If I was him, I’d be pissed that you thought I expected that.”
I laugh. It’s a sad, sniffling and pathetic kind of laugh, but I feel a real glimmer of happiness in it. Even though his words haven’t magically cracked through the anger and guilt I’ve spent so many years building up, I feel like they formed the first cracks in the shell, like some great, ugly building is showing its first signs of weakness and that in time, it might even come crashing down.
After we’ve finished our dinner, Tristan takes me into a private room and closes the door.
“How much do you trust me?” he asks. The look on his face doesn’t do much to comfort me because I can clearly see he’s planning something.
“Why?” I ask.
He grins. “See, asking why is already undermining your trust. Do you trust me or not?”
“I do,” I say. It comes as a slight shock that I really do. Everything Tristan has ever done has been right for me. Even when he’s pushing my limits to the edge and past where I thought my comfort zone was, he’s always right. He gives me what I didn’t even know I wanted and I’ve never felt like he was doing any of it for himself. He just wants me to feel good.
“Good. Then put this mask on.”
He hands me a white plastic mask that covers my eyes and nose but with a thin white screen over the eyes so I can still see. I give him a curious look, but do as he says.
“Good,” he says. I hear in the tone of his voice that he has already begun the subtle shift from the casual, more lenient Tristan and the exacting, demanding Tristan I’ve started to think of as my Dom.
I never put much thought into what a BDSM relationship would be like before this, but I think if I had, I would’ve thought it would be overwhelming. I’d have thought the dom would always be demanding perfection and ordering his submissive around. I don’t know if they normally are, but with Tristan, he leaves that part of his personality behind when we’re not in the right setting, and I’m glad for it.
I realize I just thought of myself as a submissive, too, which also comes as a shock. I guess it shouldn’t though. I’ve been thinking of Tristan as my Dom, and I guess that makes me his submissive by default, doesn’t it?
He takes me outside the private room and leads me through the crowded lobby to a hallway lined with doors. He chooses a set of double doors that take us inside a cozy room that is just as bathed in white and light as the others but where the smoky mist is thicker than everywhere else. Men and women sit gathered around a stage where a single piece of equipment sits—a large wooden structure in the shape of an “X.” Straps and restraints are positioned all over the structure and leather pads back it, which lets me immediately figure out what it’s meant for.
It looks like someone can be strapped to the structure, which would force their legs open and their arms to be spread over their head. I even see hinges near the point where the bars cross each other, which makes me imagine the whole thing can be bent in half, which would force whoever was strapped to it to bend over if they were facing the right way.
Based on the way the crowd in the room is situated, it looks like there’s going to be some kind of show. I try to figure out how I feel about watching somebody use this thing as Tristan leads me closer and closer to the front of the crowd. I’m not crazy about the idea of half-naked or even naked women being paraded in front of Tristan, I realize. He hasn’t done anything to even remotely indicate he’s interested in looking at any woman but myself, though, so I’m somehow able to stomach the idea more than I would’ve expected. Everything he does seems to be entirely focused around my p
leasure, so I can actually believe if he brought me to watch some kind of crazy sex show, it wouldn’t be because he was going to enjoy watching a woman getting off. It would be that he thought it would turn me on, and he’d enjoy watching me get turned on.
But all my mental preparations for what I might see are in vein, because I start to notice the way people in the room are watching us get closer and closer to the stage. I also notice no one else is wearing a mask like mine. It doesn’t take long to put two and two together.
“Tristan, you’re not taking me up there, are you?”
“Just trust me,” he says.
My stomach turns to a tight ball of ice and feels like it might drop to the floor. “I don’t know,” I say quickly, tugging at his arm.
“You’re anonymous, treasure,” he says. “No one here knows who you are or will ever recognize you.”
“Why though? Why like this?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“That’s the part where you have to trust me,” he says, giving my hand a little squeeze as he guides me up the steps and onto the stage.
White mist swirls around my feet, cloud-like and ethereal. I can’t tell where it comes from, but it carries the slightest chill with it, just like real mist on a cold morning. When I look out over the crowd, the mist makes them seem dream-like and vague, little more than illuminated shapes in the swirl of churning white mist. It all has the effect of making Tristan seem impossibly clear and distinct from where he stands right beside me. I can see every perfect feature of his face, down to the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the thickness of his eyelashes.
He undresses me reverently, like he’s performing a kind of sacred ritual. He starts with my dress, which he unzips slowly and then slides over my shoulders, rolling it down my body inch by inch. My nipples immediately harden against the cold and the scrutiny of the crowd. I expected to feel embarrassed and exposed, but I feel the most electric sense of life buzzing through every atom in my body. Tristan is displaying me like a prized possession, and instead of making me feel objectified and cheap, it makes me feel precious. Loved, even.
Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 47