He's the One

by Cat Johnson

  Tristan slid a hand up under my tank top, and I didn’t stop him. I don’t know why. I just didn’t. I groaned inside.

  He pushed my bra up, cupped my breast, chafing the nipple with the side of his thumb, and kissed me once more.

  I am not a loose woman, but you’d never have known it by the way I responded to Tristan’s kisses and the way he caressed my breast. I was wet between the legs, and I could already feel myself opening to take him inside, even though I had no intention of letting him get into my jeans.

  He unsnapped them, pushed the zipper down, then tugged my tank top down to bare my breast. When he took my nipple into his mouth, I cried out, buried my hands in his hair, and held him close.

  I felt his chuckle of triumph reverberate through my breast, but I still didn’t stop him. Just a minute more, I remember thinking. Just a minute more, and then I’ll push him away and slap his face for him.

  “Oh, God,” I said instead.

  He hooked a thumb in the waistband of my jeans and panties and pulled them down, in one move. Without releasing my breast, he hoisted me onto the pool table, eased me back onto the felt top, and reached inside to find my sweet spot.

  I gasped his name.

  He pushed up my top, and my bra, took his time enjoying my breasts.

  My vision blurred. Just a minute more . . . “Remember how it was with us?” Tristan asked throatily, kissing my belly now. My jeans and panties were around my ankles by then. “Remember?”

  I’d tried to shut the memory out of my mind for ten years, but I remembered, all right. At a cellular level.

  Tristan stopped long enough to pull off my shoes and toss my pants aside. Then he was nibbling at my navel again, and I felt his fingers glide inside me.

  I wish I could blame him, but I was the one who lifted my heels to the edge of the pool table and parted my legs.

  I held my breath, waiting. There was a debate going on inside my head.

  Tell him to stop.

  Just a minute more . . .

  The debate was nothing, compared to the riot in my senses. The weather was mild, but my skin burned as the passion grew.

  Tristan parted me, took me into his mouth.

  I moaned.

  He teased me with the tip of his tongue. Made me beg.

  He sucked again, then went back to flicking at me.

  I bucked on that old pool table, and when he knew I was ready to come, he slipped both hands under my buttocks, raised me high, and ate me until I exploded. I had one orgasm, then another, deeper and harder. I lost count before he finally eased me down onto the felt again, and even though I was dazed with satisfaction, I knew it wasn’t over.

  I sensed that he was unbuttoning his jeans, unwrapping a condom, putting it on.

  He moved sleekly into me, and that was when I caught fire again. He’d worked me over so well that I wouldn’t have thought I had another orgasm in me, but I did.

  Tristan put his hands behind my shoulders and lifted me up, so I was sitting on him. I wrapped my bare legs around his hips and held on tight. I knew from experience that this ride would be wilder than anything the rodeo had to offer.

  “God, you feel good,” Tristan rasped, kissing me again. “So good.”

  He raised me, then lowered me slowly along his shaft. I gave a sob, tilted my head back, and closed my eyes.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I was under a spell by then, rummy with need. I did as he asked.

  I had three more orgasms before Tristan laid me down again, on the pool table, and thrust hard, one, twice, a third time. We came together, me sobbing and clinging, drenched in perspiration, Tristan with his head flung back like a stallion taking a mare. He gave a muffled shout, and stiffened against me, driving deeper than ever.

  When it was over, he braced both hands against the side of the table, on either side of my hips, breathing heavily.

  “Is it like that with Bob?” he asked.

  That was when I slapped him, hard.

  He stepped back, grinning, but the look in his eyes was hard. He handed me my jeans and panties and stepped back, after pulling me to my feet. I scrambled into my clothes, jammed on my shoes. I wanted to slap him again, but a part of me was ashamed of doing it once, let alone a second time. I’m not a violent person, and I don’t believe in hitting people.

  “You bastard,” I said. Then I fled, across the tavern, through the apartment, out into the backyard, letting the screen door slam hard behind me. The lake was right there, shimmering with azure blue beauty, and I wanted to drown myself in it.

  Behind me, the door hinges squeaked.

  “Gayle.” Tristan’s voice. I knew without looking that he was in the doorway.

  I wasn’t planning to turn around, but I did. Hadn’t planned on letting an old boyfriend screw me on a pool table, either. Did that, too.

  Tristan was leaning against the door jamb, just as I’d imagined, rumple-haired and too damned attractive, even then. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I stared at him. I’d expected something else, I don’t know what. Mockery, maybe. More seduction. But certainly not an apology.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned your boyfriend.”

  I almost defended Bob, before I remembered he was a vibrator. “You proved you could still make me lose control. Let’s leave it at that, okay.”

  “Is he going to be mad?”

  I suddenly saw the humor in the situation, even though I knew there were fresh tears on my face. “There’ll be a buzz,” I said.

  Tristan looked confused, which was fine by me. “You’re planning to tell him?”

  I nodded. I was on a roll. “He’ll be rigid about it.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that he might not be the right man for you, if it was that easy to get hot with me?”

  So much for nonviolence. I would have slapped him again if he hadn’t been well out of reach. “Maybe it’s not a great relationship,” I said, “but at least Bob doesn’t cheat on me.”

  Tristan shoved a hand through his hair, and his jawline hardened. But, then, he wasn’t in on the joke. “No, but you cheat on him. Some things never change.”

  I tightened my fists. “No,” I snapped. “Some things never do.”

  With that, I headed for the rocky beach that runs along the edge of the lake. I was both relieved and disappointed that Tristan didn’t follow.

  The motel was a half-mile hike, but I was so distracted that I hardly noticed. Fortunately, the Fun Family had left the swimming area, so I didn’t have to worry about anybody seeing me with my hair messed up and my eyes puffy from crying furious tears.

  I pulled my key from the hip pocket of my jeans, let myself into the room, and immediately took another shower.

  I wanted to hibernate, but the Big Mac had worn off, and I knew the Lakeside didn’t offer room service. I dressed carefully in the only other set of clothes I had, besides the prim business suit I planned to wear to the meeting with the other owners of the Bronco and the new buyers, a cotton sundress. I’d briefly scanned the papers, and knew the gathering was scheduled for ten the next morning; I would worry about the where part later.

  Determined to restore some semblance of dignity, I put on makeup, styled my hair, and left the motel again.

  There was still only one restaurant in Parable, a hole-in-the-wall diner on Main Street, across from the library. I had to pause on the sidewalk out front and brace myself to go in.

  I was the girl who had done Tristan McCullough wrong, and I knew the locals remembered. By now, some of them might even know that I’d just done a pool-table mambo with the golden boy, though I didn’t think Tristan would stoop so low as to screw and tell. Just the same, I’d be lucky if they didn’t throw me out bodily.

  I was starved, and the only other place I could get food was the supermarket. That would mean going back to the motel for my rental car, shopping for cold cuts and chips, and huddling in my room to eat.

  No way I had the strength to do all th
at.

  I needed protein. Immediately.

  So I forced myself to go in.

  The diner hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been there. Red vinyl booths, a long counter, a revolving pie case. There was no hostess, and all the tables were full.

  I took a stool at the counter and reached for a menu. I could feel people staring at me, but I pretended I had the restaurant to myself. Oh, I was a cool one, all right. Unless you counted a tendency to boink Tristan McCullough on a pool table with little or no provocation.

  “Help you, honey?”

  I looked up from the menu and met the kindly eyes of an aging waitress. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn’t recognize her name, even when I read it off the little tag on her uniform.

  Florence.

  “I’ll take the meat loaf special,” I said, looking neither to the left nor right. “And a diet cola. Large.”

  “Comin’ right up,” Florence assured me, and smiled again.

  I relaxed a little. At least there was one person in Parable who didn’t think I ought to be tarred, feathered, and run out of town on a rail. Make that two—Nancy Beeks, over at the Lakeside, had been friendly enough.

  The little bell over the door tinkled as someone entered, and the diner chatter died an instant death. I knew without turning around that Tristan had just walked in, because every nerve in my body leaped to instinctual attention.

  Damn him. He wasn’t going to leave me alone. He’d gotten past my well-maintained defenses without breaking a sweat. He’d made love to me in an empty tavern. What more did he have to prove?

  He took the stool next to mine, reached casually for a menu. He’d showered, too, I saw out of the corner of my eye, and put on fresh clothes—Levi’s and a blue chambray shirt. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, without looking my way.

  “Like it’s a surprise,” I retorted.

  Florence set my diet cola down, along with clean silverware. “That special will be ready in a minute, sweetie,” she told me, before turning her attention to Tristan. “Hey, there, handsome. You stepping out on me, all slicked up like that?” she teased.

  To my satisfaction, color pulsed in Tristan’s neck. “Would I do that to you, Flo?”

  She laughed. “Probably,” she said. “Who’s the lucky gal?”

  “You wouldn’t know her,” he replied, smooth as could be. “The meat loaf sounds good. I’ll have that, and a chocolate milk shake.”

  Flo glanced at me, then looked at Tristan again. Somehow, she’d connected the dots. She smiled broadly and went off to give the order to the fry cook.

  “How long are you going to be in town?” Tristan still wasn’t looking at me, but I figured he wasn’t asking the customer on the other side of him. The man had the look of a longtime resident.

  “As long as it takes to finalize the sale of the Bronco,” I answered, because I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone until I did. Tristan was a hard man to ignore. The reference to the tavern made me squirm, though, because I couldn’t help remembering how many orgasms I’d had, and how fiercely intense they’d been. I hadn’t exactly kept them to myself.

  “Shouldn’t be long,” he said, still staring straight ahead, as if he’d taken a deep interest in the milk shake machine, already churning up his order. “The other owners are eager to sell, and the buyer is ready to make out a check.”

  “Good,” I replied, and took a sip of my diet cola. At the moment, I wished it would turn into a double martini. I could have used the anesthetic effect.

  He turned his stool ever so slightly in my direction, but there was still no eye contact. Like everybody in the diner didn’t know we were talking. “I suppose you’ve talked to Bob by now,” he said.

  Bob was in my dresser drawer, under four pairs of panties. “Of course,” I said lightly. “Bob and I are honest with each other.”

  “Right. By now, he’s probably on his way here to punch me in the mouth.”

  “Bob isn’t that sort of man.” Bob, of course, wasn’t any sort of man.

  “I’d do it, if I were him.”

  I smiled to myself, though I was shaken, and there was that peculiar tightening in the pit of my stomach again. “He’s not the violent type,” I said.

  Flo set my plate of meat loaf down in front of me. Hunger had driven me to that diner, but now I had no appetite at all. Because I knew Tristan and everybody else in the place would make something of it if I paid my bill and left without taking a bite, I picked up my fork.

  “And I am?” Tristan asked tersely.

  “You said it yourself,” I replied, with a lightness I didn’t feel. I put a piece of meat loaf into my mouth, chewed and swallowed, before going on. “If you were in Bob’s place, you’d punch him in the mouth.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “I told you,” I answered smoothly. “He’s in electronics. Mostly, though, he just concentrates on keeping me happy.”

  “I’ll just bet he does.”

  I wanted to laugh. I ate more meat loaf instead.

  Tristan looked annoyed. His voice was an edgy whisper. “What kind of man doesn’t mind when somebody else boinks his woman?”

  “Bob gets a charge out of things like that,” I said. It wasn’t the complete truth. I didn’t have to plug him into the wall like I did my cell phone. He ran on Duracells.

  “I can’t believe you’d settle for a man like that,” Tristan snarled. He glowered at Flo when she brought his milk shake and silverware, and she retreated quickly, though she was grinning a little. “Don’t you have any pride?”

  The meat loaf turned to cardboard, and stuck in my throat. I took a gulp of cola to avert any necessity of the Heimlich maneuver. “Funny you should ask,” I replied quietly, “after what just happened at the Bronco.”

  At last, Tristan turned far enough to face me. He looked straight into my eyes. “You don’t love this Bob bozo,” he said bluntly. “If you did—”

  At my panicked look, he stopped. For all I knew, the people on both sides of us were listening to every word we said.

  Flo came back with his meat loaf, but he pulled some bills out of his Levi pocket and tossed them on the counter without even looking at her or the food. “Come on,” he said. Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the diner.

  I dug in my heels when we hit the sidewalk. “I wanted to finish my dinner,” I lied.

  “I’ll fix you an omelet at my place,” he said. There was a big, shiny SUV parked at the curb. He opened the passenger door and practically tossed me inside.

  “I am not going to your place,” I told him. But I didn’t try to escape, either. Not that I could have. He was blocking my way. “What we did at the Bronco was a lapse of judgment on my part. It’s over, and I’d just as soon forget it.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Why? We had sex, it was good, and now it’s history. What is there to talk about?” Was this me talking? Miss Traditional Love and Marriage, hoping for a husband, two point two children and a dog?

  Tristan stepped back, slammed the car door, stormed around to the other side, and got in. His right temple was throbbing.

  “Maybe that’s all it means to you,” he bit out, jamming the rig into gear and screeching away from the curb, “but to me, it was more than sex. Way more.”

  My mouth dropped open. We were hovering on the brink of something I’d fantasized about, with and without Bob—or were we? Maybe I was out there alone, like always, and Tristan was leading me on. It didn’t take a software wizard to work out that he wanted more sex.

  “Like what?” I said.

  He turned onto a side street, and brought the SUV to a stop in front of a two-story house I used to dream about living in, as a kid. It was white, with green shutters on the windows and a fenced, grassy yard. There were flower beds, too, all blooming.

  And the sign swinging by the gate read TRISTAN MCCULLOUGH, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

  “Never mind like what,” he snapped, while I w
as still getting over the fact that he was a lawyer. “Things didn’t end right between us, and I’m not letting this go till we talk it out!”

  I was a beat or two behind. Last I’d heard, Tristan was planning to major in Agriculture and Animal Husbandry. Instead, he’d gone on to law school.

  Sheesh. A lot can happen in ten years.

  I’d been into survival. He’d been making something of his life.

  The contrast hurt, big-time. I sat there in the passenger seat like a lump, staring at the sign.

  Tristan shut off the engine, thrust out a sigh, and turned to face me squarely. His blue eyes were narrow, and shooting little golden sparks.

  “Impressed?” he asked bitterly.

  I flinched. “What?”

  “Isn’t that why you left Parable? Because you thought I’d turn out to be a saddle bum, following the rodeo?”

  “I thought,” I said evenly, “that you would work on the ranch. Family tradition, and all that.”

  He sighed again, rubbed his chin with one hand. He’d showered and changed clothes between the Bronco and the diner, but he hadn’t shaved. An attractive stubble was beginning to gleam on the lower part of his face.

  “I keep getting this wrong,” he muttered, sounding almost despondent. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me, or to himself.

  I wanted to cry, for a variety of reasons, both simple and complicated, but I smiled instead. “It’s okay, Tristan,” I heard myself say. My voice came out sounding gentle, and a little raw. “We never did get along. Let’s just agree to disagree, as they say, and get on with our lives.”

  “As I recall, we got along just fine,” he said. I could tell he didn’t want to smile back, but he did. “Until one of us said something, anyway.”

  I laughed, but my sinuses were clogged with tears I wouldn’t shed until I was alone in Room 7, with a lake view. “Right.”

  “How’s Josie?”

  The question took me off guard. “Fine,” I said.

  “She was a kick.”

  “Still is,” I said lightly. “She’s into bikers these days.”

  Tristan brushed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I had the usual cattle-prod reaction, though I think I hid it pretty well. “Got to be better than Bob,” he said.