by Tara Leigh
Chapter 10
@BettencourtBets: Things r pretty quiet in NYC, but we hear SanFran is sizzling.
Reina
The knock on my door is hard and insistent, so very Tristan. I hit send on the email I filled with my notes, making sure to include Megan too, since she’s constantly checking up on me, and close my laptop.
It’s practically impossible not to flinch at the very sight of him.
Tristan looks too much like the man I first met. The sexy stranger whose clean-cut good looks were perfectly offset by his dirty mouth. Someone I couldn’t help falling for, without knowing a thing about him. Just two initials, his hockey position, and his favorite movie.
It was enough, though. Somehow, it had been enough.
I wish, more than anything, that we could go back to that night. Not because I wouldn’t go home with him, but because I would insist that we go back to my place. At least then I’d have one night with him. One night of steamy, no-holds-barred sex. A morning waking up beside him.
At least I’d have a memory.
“Alex said you weren’t feeling well.” He leans against the doorjamb, his eyes traveling from my face to the sliver of exposed skin framed by the lapel of my bathrobe and the loosely tied strip of terrycloth at my waist, then back again.
“It must have just been the crowd. And the room was really warm.” I clear my throat. “I’m fine now though. And I typed up my notes already, they should be in your inbox.”
“Should I wait while you change? Bring you back downstairs?”
I shake my head, too quickly. “No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay up here and get a good night’s rest. Be fresh for tomorrow.”
Tristan narrows his eyes at me, his scrutiny peeling away the layers I’ve taken such great care to cocoon myself in. An intricately woven shield made of secrets and shame, each strand as delicate as a cobweb. “Did something happen tonight?”
“No.”
There’s a long pause, his stare not letting up. Burrowing inside even the tiniest cracks in my defenses. “Did someone say something to you? Hurt you?”
“N—no. Of course not.” The concern in his eyes is nearly my undoing. When was the last time someone, anyone, checked up on me? The last time someone actually cared? “I’m fine. You can go back to the ballroom with a clear conscience, I promise.”
I’m about to break into a million tiny pieces and if you put me back together . . . you’ll know just how fragile I really am.
“A clear conscience has more to do with a bad memory than ethical integrity. And I think we both deserve a night to remember, don’t you?”
I swallow heavily, my insides clenching with want. Tristan is saying exactly what I’ve been thinking. It would be so easy to give into him right now. So easy.
I trill a false laugh. “Does anyone ever get what they deserve?”
Seeing my parents— Scratch that. Running away from my parents has me feeling cornered and exposed. Vulnerable. It’s bringing up every old hurt, every unhealed ache. Instead of unconditional love, I was abandoned and ignored. Left behind like the stale coffee cake my mother stuck her Post-it to. Smile, Beautiful! I’ll come back for you soon!
Lies.
And now Tristan is standing in front of me, the look in his eyes and the words in his mouth all saying the same thing— He wants me.
Desire, appreciation, respect . . . those are all nice.
But, is there anything more irresistible, more mouthwateringly appealing, than being wanted?
Suddenly Tristan isn’t leaning against the door anymore. He steps over the threshold and grabs me around my waist, his hips brushing against my belt and loosening its hold. My robe falls open, leaving little to Tristan’s imagination. “We’ll never find out if we don’t try,” he mutters, the tone of his voice like churned gravel. His breath fans my cheek, cool against my feverish skin.
And I want him back, just as badly. This kind of desperate, urgent desire is a new emotion for me. I don’t like it, not at all. But, right now, I don’t care.
“So if we can’t have a clear conscience, at least we’ll have a good memory?”
“Something like that.”
Hooking my finger around his bow tie, I pull his face to mine. “Make it a great one, or no deal.”
I step back, our mouths just millimeters apart, my fingertip still captive between black silk and starched white cotton. Tristan moves with me, letting the door close and gathering me into his chest. “You’re on,” he rasps, his hands leaving a trail of sparks in their wake, moving from the base of my spine up to my neck, cradling my head as his mouth finally crashes into mine.
Tiny little explosions light up inside me as I press my full length against Tristan, pulling at his tie, too many buttons, then his zipper. I crave skin-to-skin contact like a needy newborn—even a stitch of clothing between us is unacceptable.
Tristan shrugs out of his jacket, his shirt. I yank on his pants, my fingers pushing against the waistband of his boxer briefs, his shaft pulsing against my knuckles. Until Tristan’s hands wrap around my forearms, stopping me. A cry of disappointment is wrenched from my throat.
“Tell me what you want, Reina.”
It’s the same question he asked the first night we met, when were two strangers locked in an embrace on the sidewalk outside his building, bound only by sizzling chemistry and mutual attraction. So much has changed, and yet I still have trouble voicing my answer.
I take the easy way out, offering only a flirty, “Isn’t it obvious?”
A vein at Tristan’s temple throbs. Back then, he answered for me with a deluge of lustful thoughts that had me completely entranced. But not tonight. “I’m not making any assumptions. And I’d like to avoid a repeat of last time—where you run out on me and I chase after you with my dick out, not knowing what the hell went wrong.” His tone is as light as mine, but the truth behind it gives it an edge.
“I can’t exactly run out on you tonight, this is my room.”
He arches a brow. “Not good enough.”
Last time, knowing he was my boss had been enough to stop me from going too far. But now, it’s not nearly enough. After a moment, I sigh. “You, Tristan. I just want you.”
A nerve ticks in his jaw as he holds me firmly at arm’s length, unsatisfied. “That’s what you had the night you came to my apartment. And you left the second you found who I really was. I’m still a Bettencourt, and I always will be.”
Someday, I hope I’ll own my past as confidently. I am so sick of secrets, so sick of hiding. But that day is far in the future and Tristan is here right now.
I’m not ready for this conversation. Not yet, maybe not ever. But I say what’s in my heart anyway.
“I know exactly who you are. You’re TJ—an outrageous flirt who wears the hell out of a tux and kisses like I’m all the oxygen he’ll ever need. And you’re Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt, the fucking fourth. Prodigal son, financial genius, and believer in fairy tales and happily ever afters. A real-life Prince Charming.” And then I drop to my knees, breaking his grip on my arms. “But tonight, in this room, the only thing that matters is that you’re mine.”
Tristan’s palm hits the wall with a smack as my lips close around the bulbous, velvety head of his cock. His other hand twists in my hair, gripping it in a not-at-all-unpleasantly-tight fist.
“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve wanted this.” Tristan’s voice is a gruff rumble that comes from deep inside his chest.
His thickness pulses inside my mouth and I moan, withdrawing just enough to murmur, “I think I have some idea,” before taking him in again, my fingers holding him steady, my thumb pressing against the ridged seam of his balls.
When I glance up, I see Tristan staring down at me, watching me swallow inch after inch until my cheeks and throat bulge. Then reverse and repeat, building a steady rhythm.
After a few minutes, his eyes are narrowed, his mouth pursed, the vein at his temple throbbing madly. “Enough,” he g
rowls, the raspy one-word directive more of a plea than a command.
I open my mouth, allowing his glistening tip to skate past my lips. With one hand I hold it against my cheekbone, and toss him a mischievous grin. “Are you sure?”
I could go down on him forever. I’ve only done it a few times before, and I’ve never really liked it. It felt like something I had to do, rather than wanted to. But with Tristan it’s different. He smells good, he tastes good, and even though his hand is on my head, he doesn’t try to set the pace, or push my face into his crotch. With each lick, each taste, I feel his thighs tremble, hear the quickening of his breath.
But I let him pull me up, pressing my cheek against his chest as he kisses my forehead, my hair still wrapped in his hand. “My turn.”
He leans into me, my back arching as he bites softly into my neck. Kissing, tonguing, nipping at my skin, scorching a path to my breasts. They are already screaming for his attention, blood pulsing beneath my nipples. I cry out as his lips close over them, sucking each one in turn.
One second I am in his arms, the next I am airborne. Covered by a down-filled duvet, the bed I land on is soft. Tristan pounces, hard on top of me. Very hard. My breasts overflow his hands as he moves lower, his tongue dipping into my belly button, leaving me gasping for air. Before I can catch a deep breath, his hands are on my knees, coaxing them outward.
“Tristan.” I sigh, not knowing what to do with all the pent up yearning inside of me. But I’m scared, too. He’s the only man I’ve ever climaxed with. What if it was just a fluke? I can do it myself, sure. But an orgasm is so intimate, so personal—what if I can’t do it again? I’ve always held back just enough that I never quite jumped over the edge, not until Tristan showed me I could fly.
I soon realize my fears are unfounded. Tristan is no one-night wonder. He doesn’t let me hold anything back. He takes everything I have, whether it’s offered it or not.
So I might as well just . . . soar.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as his lips trail hot kisses up the insides of my thighs, as his thumbs hold me open, as his mouth closes over my sex. His tongue explores every fold, every crevice, before seeking out my pulsing clit, bathing it with just enough pressure, just the right speed. Just . . . Ohmyfuckinggod. My orgasm breaks over me, each wave pounding me into submission. I hear the quick rip of a plastic wrapper and then Tristan is inside me, sliding into home. I hook my ankles around his hips, pulling him closer, tighter. I want to consume him, every last inch.
His elbows land on either side of my head, his hands wrapping around my shoulders, holding me steady for his thrusts. Otherwise, I would inch further up the bed with each powerful stroke, my skull smacking the headboard. But no, Tristan holds me tight. Safe. Our eyes lock, burning into each other. That’s exactly how it feels to me. Like a smoldering match thrown onto an oil slick, instantaneous flames claiming the right-of-way.
Inside I am burning hotter, deeper. A fire more intense than I’ve ever felt before. So intense it borders on pain. “Tristan . . . Please.” I don’t know what I’m asking for, what I need.
But he does. “Come with me, baby,” he urges.
My hips rise up to meet his. Again and again. My mouth opens. A cry, a sigh, a desperate groan. I cleave apart, entirely open to Tristan as he roars his own release and collapses on top of me.
Tristan
Jesus Christ. Before tonight I wanted Reina, sure. Never more so than when I showed up at her door to find her naked beneath a barely tied bathrobe. Backlit by the skyline shining through the oversized windows, her skin as smooth as polished marble, her figure so flawless it could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. The energy around her had practically pulsed.
But the moment I feel her tighten around me, want solidifies into something more. Something that feels a lot like need.
Still inside her body, I roll, bringing Reina’s soft curves with me. My heart is racing, as much with fear as with exertion, and I tuck her head beneath my chin, making it impossible for her to look me in the eye. Sex has never been emotional for me, at least not until tonight. I cared for the women I’ve slept with in the past, of course. Well, most of them, anyway. But I approached sex as if it was a game. There were rules: pay attention to what made her tremble, and especially to what made her pant and plead. Make her come first. And use all necessary safety equipment.
I went into each encounter intending to blow away the competition and come out on top—every time. And although I took my partner’s pleasure seriously, the act itself was no indication of emotional connection. Sex was fun, but it didn’t make me want to hold a woman close to me, dreading the moment we’d have to get out of bed. Sex has never made me want to study the shadow of eyelashes on a cheek, or the pattern of tiny veins on the inside of a wrist.
I’ve followed all of my rules with Reina . . . and yet sex with her is completely different than it has ever been with anyone else. Now that the act itself is over, I should be sated, filled with that particular post-coital lethargy. But nothing about what we just did feels like an ending.
It feels as if— It feels as if my heart is beating inside Reina’s body. I’m not sure if I’ve given it to her, or she’s captured it herself. But it’s hers nonetheless.
As a kid, I had a dog. A big, slobbering golden retriever I christened with the wholly unoriginal name of Rover. He loved swimming. Lakes, pools, the ocean—any body of water was fine by him. That dog would swim until I worried his legs wouldn’t keep him afloat any longer. And when he finally made his way out, legs wobbling, snout practically dragging on the ground, he would shake his entire body so hard anyone standing within five feet would be completely drenched. And then Rover would stumble off to find a sunny spot where he’d lie down and doze for hours.
That’s what I want to do. Shake all the Reina off and find a place to recharge. She is everywhere. In my skin, in my blood. I can still taste her, and every inhale is laced with her scent. A man could drown in Reina and die happy.
But I don’t feel happy. I feel exposed, and vulnerable.
I am a hedge fund manager—I don’t do vulnerable.
I am also, always, a Bettencourt. Our motto is Frappez Fort Avec Tout. Strike Hard with Everything. We are predators—betting big, fighting powerfully, and winning, generation after generation. We don’t go weak in the knees over a blonde minx with a Mensa mind and a bombshell body.
Reina’s breaths deepen, becoming regular. Sleep tugs at my consciousness, too. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get some rest, see what happens when we wake up. Life has been such a whirlwind since meeting Reina, maybe I’m overthinking things.
But I know one thing for sure—I already want her again, even more than I did an hour ago. Now I know what it’s like to feel her lips wrapped around my cock, hear the sound of her needy mewling as I thrust deep inside of her, see the look in her eyes as she climaxes. I don’t know if I will ever get enough of Reina St. James. And I’m not sure that I want to, either.
How will Reina feel when she wakes up? Maybe once will be enough for her. Or maybe it will be one time too many. I have no idea, but there is a frisson of fear at the base of my spine. What if she’s perfectly happy to end things after tonight? Continue on in a purely professional way? I won’t like it, but can I live with it? Maybe.
But God help me, if I see an ounce of regret shining from within the depths of Reina’s evergreen eyes when she wakes up, it might just kill me.
Chapter 11
@BettencourtBets: Word on the Street: Polaris will be In-The-Money after a successful road show!
Reina
The first thing I notice when I wake up, besides the fact that it’s still dark outside (thank God—if we overslept Kyle would have another reason to be furious with me), is the small puddle of drool beneath my cheek. Crap. I drooled on Tristan? How mortifying. I bring my hand upward, wiping at his chest as gently as I can manage.
“Hey, you’re awake.” His voice is rough and scratch
y, still thick with sleep.
Good morning, don’t mind my saliva. “Yeah. Just now. Sorry for passing out on you, literally.”
I crashed, hard. Which is new for me. Sex normally leaves me feeling keyed up—my skin tingling, blood buzzing, heart racing. It’s always more foreplay than finale because I never cross the finish line.
But not last night. Not with Tristan. Jesus Christ. No joke, IVy knows what he’s doing.
Back-to-back, explosive orgasms were the icing on a multi-layer cake. The craziness of the past couple of weeks, our insane schedule on the road, flying across multiple time zones, the nonstop sexual tension between Tristan and me, seeing my parents. How much can one person take?
I succumbed to the steady drumbeat of Tristan’s heart beneath my cheek, his calloused thumb kneading the muscles at the back of my neck. And I drooled. Ugh.
He shifts, rolling over so both our heads share the same pillow. “I didn’t mind.”
There is just enough light in the room, between the open shades and various electronic devices, to see his face clearly. But I’m not quite ready for that yet.
I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about giving in. To Tristan, to my own desires. My emotions are all over the place. Guilt, certainly. Though probably not as much as I should be feeling. Fear. Despite Tristan’s assurances that no one (besides Kyle, apparently) will find out about us—what will happen to me if he’s wrong? Have I destroyed my career before it’s even begun? Confusion. Why? Why am I risking everything for this man?
But mostly . . . Mostly, it’s just quiet contentment that’s whispering through my veins, as gentle and pleasant as the caress of a satin ribbon. Capitulation was so very sweet.
I close my eyes, replaying the evening in my mind. The glittering ballroom filled with glamorous people, my shame-faced getaway after spotting Van Horne and my mother, and then my unforgettable night with Tristan. I stretch a little, feeling the delicious pull of soreness in places only he has ever reached. I had no idea.