“I’m so sorry, Tristan” she began, “what about your dad? Was he…”
Tristan scoffed before she could even get the words out, “there’s one of the many reasons we no longer talk. The man lost his wife, but his son was still there, still alive, not that it made a bit of difference to him. No, the day she died, she might as well have taken him along with her; it would have probably been easier that way, knowing there was a reason he couldn’t be there for me. Instead, I lived every day with a man that wouldn’t be there for me and that conscious choice makes all the difference.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ellie said again, softly, “I’m sure it was very difficult for you both, have you tried to talk –” She tried to continue the train of conversation between them, but he cut her off, and she’d seen it coming. As she began her last sentence, she watched as Tristan appeared startled by the ease and openness with which he just responded to her; he looked as shocked as she was by his brief moment of soul-baring honesty. She wanted to ask what had happened to her, to his mother. From the way he spoke about her and her death, it sounded like she had also struggled with cancer or a similar disease.
Her window to question him began to closed quickly, his face quickly masking the enormity of the pain he had just let flow out of him, his eyes narrowing on the canvas in front of him, focusing on the distinct lines that his hand seemed to be drawing on auto-pilot.
“I want to know why you feel helpless about your past; I’m not the subject here,” he interjected sternly, the last statement more of a reminder to himself to stay focused on the task in front of him.
Ellie bit her lip, her head dropping down again as she tried to think about how to answer honestly without being completely honest.
“I…umm…had to deal with a situation after college where I felt helpless; a situation that controlled my life for a long time to the point where the fact that I’m sitting here, with you, trying to be a model, is just beyond what I ever thought myself capable of.”
Her words came out slow and hesitant, but distinctly heartfelt; they were all true – non-descript, but true, and she could see from his expression that he believed her.
“A relationship?” Tristan pried further.
Well…
“I guess you could call it that,” she replied.
She knew she was leading him to a different conclusion, but she had no choice; technically speaking she had been in a relationship with her disease.
“Abusive?” he ground out tightly. Tristan felt his jaw clenching as he barely got the word out of his mouth. He tried to stay focused on the drawing in front of him, instead of on the rage that was building inside of him at the thought of someone hurting Ellie. His hand moved furiously trying to capture the soft planes of her face that were marred by the sadness of her memories.
Funny how this type of portrait, this expression, had never bothered him before – and he’d heard some pretty sad and terrible stories come from the other side of his easel. Before, he’d empathized, of course, but secretly relished in their sadness and his ability to bring it out because it was such a beautifully expressive emotion for him to capture; he’d felt bad for feeling it but sadness made for exceptional art. Over time, even that guilt had faded, and in these moments, he usually felt like he was a therapist, bringing out the most painful memories of his subjects in order to observe and capture their response.
This time though, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. The blade paused its torture, waiting for her to answer his question, waiting for the bomb to drop; her hesitation already told him what he knew the answer to be, what he feared, and yet he clung to the shred of hope that he was mistaken. Secretly begging to be wrong so that he wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that the beautiful, smart, strong woman sitting in front of him had been taken advantage of and mistreated.
If she had been in a relationship with cancer, it certainly hurt her physically, broke her down mentally and emotionally, and taken almost everything from her; if that wasn’t the definition of abusive, she didn’t know what was.
“Yes…” she admitted softly, her eyes focusing on the clenched fists in her lap, unable to meet his gaze knowing that what she said was true, but yet still a lie.
Snap!
Ellie jumped at the sound of the piece of charcoal snapping in Tristan’s hand. Her gaze flew to him, only to find his eyes boring into hers, with an intense possessiveness that no one would mistake. When her eyes finally blinked, she felt the warm splatter of the tears that had been collecting in her eyes drop onto her hands. Before she could stop it, the cool crawl of a tear began to make its way cautiously down her cheek; she hadn’t even realized she was so close to crying.
She could see the severe mix of emotions battling within him – possessiveness, rage, concern. He hadn’t even flinched when the piece of charcoal snapped, his eyes remaining locked on her. He still held half of the charcoal inside of his fist, knuckles white with the force with which he was clenching.
The one tear was his undoing. The ones that had fallen into her lap had been unnoticeable, but the one that began its solitary trek down the side of her cheek, that one he saw. She watched his eyes darken as he focused in on it, his jaw clenching with restrained anger.
Tristan dropped the piece of charcoal down on the floor. He stood and cautiously made his way over to her; they were both so emotionally on edge, not only with sadness and anger, but with the intense attraction that was a constant burn between them.
Ellie watched, eyes wide, as Tristan dropped to his knees in front of her. He gazed at her with painful tenderness, his hand slowly coming up to wipe the lone tear from her face; his thumb leaving a smudge of dark dust underneath her eye.
“God, you are incredible,” he murmured, the gold in his eyes coming alive.
She knew he wondered, knew that he was bound to ask – ‘who was he?’ or ‘what did he do to you?’ She didn’t have any answers for him and she didn’t want to lie to him anymore. His proximity made her brain struggle to function; all she could think about was his hot, hard body kneeling in front of her, just inches and an invitation away from making her – making them both forget about everything that had just happened.
She wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.
“Tristan,” she whispered his name, shivering as the syllables swirled over her skin, “kiss me.”
It was a plea; it was a demand; it was a supplication.
It was all it took.
Golden fireworks blazed in his eyes as his fingers firmly gripped her chin, holding her face steady for one last moment before his lips took hers.
Chapter 15
There were so many things he wanted to know, but nothing could stop him from answering her kiss. He knew that for her, each kiss was a question, a question of whether he wanted her, whether he desired her, whether she was enough, and those questions, those kisses, were something that he would be happy to spend his whole life answering.
The first touch of his lips to hers sent blood pumping vigorously through his body, much of it pooling in his lower regions. He couldn’t go slowly – he was too angry. He was angry at whomever had abused Ellie; he was angry at her for falling right into his plans and opening herself up to him so easily, he was angry at her for being her father’s daughter, but mostly he was angry at himself – not just for caring so much about her and what had happened to her, but at the fact that if he stuck to his plan, he would use and abuse her in just as horrible a way. The thought fueled a battle inside of him that he’d never experienced before – wanting to protect and destroy her at the same time. The battle tore him up inside and the only thing that seemed to stop it was being able to touch her, to kiss her.
Being with her made him forget everything; it gave him peace.
And for some reason, he felt that it did the exact same thing for her. Whatever her battles were, she wanted to escape them just as much as he did.
Consequently, their kiss quickly ignited between them. The
ir mouths melded, drinking deeply from one another, removing the pain and sadness and anxiety from their past and their present; there was nothing except the two of them and their kiss.
Soon enough, Ellie’s arms were wrapped around Tristan’s neck, both of his hands securing her face so that he could explore every inch of her sweet mouth, tasting away every remnant of the salty sweet tears that had contaminated it.
Ellie moaned against him, shifting so that her leg that had been bent up on the couch to now relax down over the edge, placing Tristan directly between her thighs; breathing became an afterthought, chests brushing with their frantic, stifled breaths. Tristan groaned as he felt the hard peaks of her nipples tortuously crashing against his chest as she gasped in air.
His hands dropped down from her face, locking onto her hips yanking her to the edge of the couch to bring her completely flush up against him. She was on fire. It was like he’d pulled himself up against a burning flame, the white-hot center of which was less than an inch of clothing away from his raging erection. With her firmly pressed against him, his hands greedily continued their course, sliding up underneath her shirt, over the flat, silken planes of her stomach until he reached her breasts. He wanted to get her bra off, to feel the supple skin underneath his fingertips but as soon as his hands covered the engorged mounds, they had to pause.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest as he palmed her breasts through the thinly padded fabric of her bra, massaging the aching flesh, relishing as she arched her chest into his touch, craving more.
And he was happy to oblige.
In a flash, his hands skated up to dislodge the straps of her bra from her shoulders, yanking the offending garment down underneath the generous swells of her breasts, propping them up for him do with as he pleased. Ellie gasped, her mouth pulling back from his, needing more air as he gently ran the back of his knuckles over her sensitively erect nipples.
Tristan smiled, watching the sensation of exquisite torture pass over her face as he toyed firm peaks, rubbing circles over them, gently tugging them between his knuckles. He watched as Ellie bit her lip, her head slightly tipped back as she tried to control the desire that was rocketing through her. His eyes widened as he eyed the openly pristine expanse of her neck now within his reach. His mouth dropped to the tender skin that was vibrating wildly with her pulse, letting his tongue feel the frantic pumping of blood trying to satisfy every stimulated cell.
His cock hardened and strained even further against pants that he’d always considered as pretty forgiving. Everything about her was exquisite. Every expression was as if he’d awakened something in her that she’d never experienced before and that turned him on like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
The thought of having her to himself all day, every day, was enough to drive him insane. All he wanted to do was watch her face as he pleasured her, as he made her feel things that she’d never felt before, that no one had made her feel before.
As much as he wanted fulfillment, the power and gratification of watching her was even more satisfying.
For now.
He shuddered, unable to even imagine just how incredible being inside of her was going to be.
But that’s not today.
No, now he was showing her just how much she wanted him, needed him…and hoping that he didn’t lose complete control in the process.
Tristan sucked hard on her neck as he pulled on the hard buds of her nipples. Ellie’s moans became a rhythmic beat that he found his hips swaying to; pressing his erection into the soft center of her core, wishing that there was no barrier between them as he ached to feel her wet center against his engorged penis.
Fuck, he needed more.
His hands precipitously dropped her tender breasts, roughly grabbing the fabric of her shirt and lifting it over her chest to expose her to his ravenous gaze. Tristan felt his mouth salivate as his eyes finally beheld the engorged baby pink tips of her breasts just begging to be tasted. The supple mounds pushed up from her bra, full and firm, aching to be feasted on.
With one arm behind her back, Tristan arched her back against the settee, putting her breasts directly in his gaze. His free hand moved to cup one of the precious mounds, his thumb rolling over her nipple, torturing her and himself for another minute longer.
“Tristan,” she moaned, imploring his touch.
He drank in one last image of her – a mental snapshot that he would put to paper later, when this moment would replay over and over in his memory. The vision of her etched into his mind just as she thrust her hips against his in frenzied and impatient desire, his vision turning a searing red with lust. He didn’t need to see though, he just needed to feel her. His head bent to her unattended breast, immediately drawing her nipple into his mouth, pulling the silken bud strongly into his mouth, barely registering her deep moan of satisfaction or her hands as they thread through his hair.
Fuck, he couldn’t get enough.
Again and again he sucked on her while his hand teased and tweaked her other nipple. Ellie writhed uncontrollably underneath him as he gently bit and kissed her tender skin; each time she jerked against him, against his swollen erection, Tristan saw stars.
This was about to be the second time in his entire life where he got off on dry humping if he didn’t switch things up soon.
He reluctantly let her nipple escape from the prison of his mouth. His head raised to look down at Ellie again. Another jolt of lust searing through him when he saw how his mouth had turned her soft pink peak into a vibrant red bud. Tristan groaned, aching and eager to turn those same attentions to her other breast. Holding the mound up with his hand, his head dove again to take her other breast firmly between his lips. This time, though, before he caused any more torture to his engorged flesh, his hand left her breast dropping straight to the apex of her thighs.
The heat of her core burned straight through the jeans she was wearing and he knew that she would be soaking wet underneath.
Not yet.
Focusing on the sweet skin in his mouth, he ground the palm of his hand into her center as he sucked on her, savoring the feel of her, not only in his mouth, but the thrusting of her hips against his palm, begging for release.
With his hand holding her hips steady, Ellie’s shirt began to ride down back over her breasts.
Why hadn’t he taken this fucking thing off yet?
Growling in frustration, he released her breast, both of his hands coming up over her beautifully red and aroused chest, to grab ahold of the edge of her shirt, attempting to tug the offending material off over her head.
For a second, Ellie went along with the movement, aroused to the point of distraction, she adjusted to make the process easier.
“Raise your arms,” Tristan instructed harshly, fighting the urge to just rip the damn thing off of her.
His words brought her back into the reality of the moment, her eyes shooting open.
He couldn’t take off her shirt; he would see the scars from all of the needles.
Her arms immediately dropped, her hands coming down to grab an open edge of her shirt, trying to tug it down.
“Please, no, leave it on,” she begged, frantically tugging it down. His hands immediately stopped, releasing her shirt. His brow furrowed in confusion as he stared at her, seeing the concern and fear in her eyes.
What the fuck just happened?
Tristan was in shock and he knew that shock was written all over his face.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Their heads immediately swiveled towards the loud banging coming from Tristan’s front door.
What in the actual fuck was happening right now?
“Tristan! We need to talk. Open the door!” Sloane yelled from the other side.
Ah, Christ.
“Who is that? What’s going on?” Ellie asked breathlessly, the moment between them completely shattered.
When he looked back to her, she’d already begun rearranging her clothes; her beautiful breasts alr
eady covered by her bra. She inadvertently arched against him and his still painfully erect cock, as she tried to readjusted her shirt back down. Tristan bit off a moan, wincing as the mix of pain and pleasure shot through him.
“Tristan! I know you’re in there. We need to talk and I will do it through the door if I have to,” Sloane continued, his voice rising.
“God dammit,” Tristan spat, standing up from the floor, trying to arrange his painfully obvious, and obviously painful, erection as he made his was over to the door to his apartment.
He glanced over his should just as he got to the door to make sure that Ellie was completely covered, but no time to mention to her the smudges of charcoal that he’d left on her face and neck.
“What do you want, Sloane?” he asked, his voice deadly low as he yanked open the door to face his friend, his face dark with anger, frustration, and pent up desire.
Sloane might be quiet and adverse to conflict ninety-nine percent of the time, but when something bothered him, he was a force to be reckoned with. Long fuse, big bomb, some might say.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?” Sloane demanded of him, completely ignoring the look on his friend’s face and the fact that Tristan was trying to block the doorway from his entrance; Sloane pushed past him anyway, continuing his speech. “I just saw Pierce and his face. What in God’s name were you thinking punching him like that? You know he won’t let this go; I don’t know what’s going on with this girl –” his voice came to a screeching halt as he realized that there was another person in the room, one who was standing awkward and silently privy to everything that he had just said.
Tristan’s eyes were shooting daggers at his friend, for barging into his home, and carelessly revealing details about things he did not want to explain to Ellie, especially since they involved her.
The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1) Page 16