Tempting Tristan

by Melissa Foster

  Like I’d turn down spending more time with him? “Really, T? That’d be great. I don’t know the area well enough to decipher a great location from a mediocre one. I’m actually meeting a real estate agent at noon if you’re free.”

  “Sure. I don’t work until six tonight.” Tristan points to my grandmother’s studio and takes a step toward it. “There’s some unfinished furniture in there.”

  I grab his arm and shake my head. “I know,” I say too sternly. “I’ll get to it.”

  He eyes the door. “You don’t like people seeing your unfinished work?”

  If only it were that simple. I point to the archway leading to the kitchen across the room. “My current work is in there.” I put a hand on his back, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to.” I’m enjoying his appreciation of my work, despite the awkwardness of avoiding my grandmother’s studio.

  The kitchen table is pushed against the wall, stacks of wood, scraps of metal, glass, shells, pieces of netting, and other items I’ve collected lay in piles on the floor. I still have a lot of my equipment in storage, but the lathe and table saw sit where the table used to be. Pieces of a chair I’m building cover the top of one of two wooden workbenches.

  I feel Tristan’s eyes on me as I touch the toe of my shoe to a stack of driftwood. “These are for a free-form chair.”

  I walk to the pile in front of the stove. “The last time I was here, my grandmother and I drove to her friend’s house out near Falmouth after a storm and collected a number of these pieces that had washed up on shore. I’m making a chandelier from them.”

  He holds my steady gaze as he steps confidently across the floor. I try not to stare at the way his chest lifts as he breathes, or the ripple of his abs as he nears, and fail epically. Just like that, I get hard.

  “I was going to give it to my grandmother this Christmas,” I say, trying to distract myself from the lust in his eyes and the sculpted bronze shoulders before me. But the heady sound of desire in my own voice is too thick to disguise.

  “You miss her.” His dark eyes never leave mine.

  In the months since my grandmother’s passing, many people have told me they were sorry for my loss, and they’ve shared stories and told me they missed her, but not one of them has removed themselves from the equation long enough to see my pain.

  I nod.

  “You’re not ready to face her studio.” There’s no judgment in his tone. He touches my arm, and though his words emote friendship, the darkness in his eyes offers much more.

  “Not yet.” My voice is croaky, and our eyes hold for so many beats the air between us shifts and simmers again as it had on the beach.

  His chest rises as his hand slides down my arm to my fingers, lingering there. I’m tempted to curl mine around his and pull him against me. As my fingers begin to move, his slip away, and he takes a reluctant step back.

  I step closer, unwilling to allow a disruption in the energy buzzing between us. I want more of what we just felt. “It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to touch a man.” I have no idea where the confession comes from, but there’s something about Tristan that makes me trust him and want to keep him close. Very close.

  He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t step away. The desire in his eyes is raw. I drop my gaze to his formidable erection straining against his shorts and step closer, pushing the limits because that’s who I am. That’s how I handle things. Only I’ve forgotten that until this very moment. I’ve repressed taking what I wanted for so many years, the unfamiliar urges roaring through me feel primal.

  Tristan holds his ground, lifts his chin. His jaw tightens, and his eyes go impossibly darker. He’s so fucking hot I want to take him against the wall.

  “I can’t.” His voice is strained with unmistakable hunger, heightening my ache for him.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  His jaw clenches repeatedly. “Both, I guess.”

  I shift my hips forward, brushing against his cock, hoping to tempt him into tasting what I’m certain will be unfuckingbelievable. “Because…?”

  There’s a war going on behind his eyes. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him, but we’re both caught up in the inferno.

  “Damn it,” he growls, and grabs my head.

  Our mouths crash together, and my first taste of him unravels me. I back him up against the wall, our bodies grinding together. Taking the kiss deeper, rougher, he groans, and heat streaks down my chest, throbs between my legs, and I need to touch him. I palm him through his shorts, and his head tips back. He’s every fantasy rolled into one delectable man, and I’m like a rabid dog, unwilling to deny myself his pleasures.

  “Fuck,” he grinds out.

  He’s hung like a fucking horse, and as I claim him in another scorching kiss, all I can think about is his cock in my mouth. He grabs my head, angling my face, and intensifies the kiss, wrestling for dominance. I widen my stance, pinning him against the wall with my hips, and grab his hands, imprisoning them beside his head.

  “Fuck, T. You’re so fucking hot.”

  He grinds against me. “I can’t do this, Alex. Not yet.”

  In the space of a breath I try to process the way his body is contradicting his words. Then his mouth is on me again, taking me in another turbulent kiss. We’re both moaning, clawing for more, and I lose myself in the kiss, the heat of our bodies. He takes advantage of my momentary weakness. Shifting his weight, he pins me against the unforgiving concrete wall. His eyes are fierce, he’s hard as steel, and he’s got a harsh scowl on his perfect, fuckable mouth.

  “There’s nothing I’d rather do,” he pants out, “than push you to your knees and have you suck my cock until I come.”

  Holy hell. “Done.” I slide down the wall, and he lifts a knee between my legs, stopping me.

  “Then what?” he challenges.

  “Whatever you want.” I top, but my mind is gone. I’m fantasizing about what it would feel like to bottom for him. I freeze with the thought. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let him see my leg, which means I need to get a fucking grip. Dropping my pants to my knees is one thing, but taking them off?

  As if he sees my inner conflict, his mouth comes coaxingly down over mine in a sensual, deep kiss, calming the erratic storm inside me.

  “What I want,” he says as our lips part, “and what I’ll do are two different things. I want this.”

  He strokes my cock through my pants, and I grind my teeth against the incredible feeling of his strong hand driving me out of my mind.

  “But I’ve made enough mistakes,” he says with a pained look. “I need to do things right this time.”

  I lean forward and steal another kiss. His hand moves to mine, and he laces our fingers together, holding them beside my head as I’d done to him, only his grip is lighter. He knows I want this.

  “What is it about you?” he asks against my mouth. “You make me forget to be careful.”

  “I blame you.” I narrow my eyes but can’t stop the grin tugging at my lips. “I haven’t wanted, I haven’t taken, in so long, I’d almost forgotten how.”

  I feel his strength ease and I shift us again, bringing him against the wall. He’s smiling, though I know his back has to be scratched from the rough concrete.

  “I’d almost forgotten how, but then I see you,” I admit accusatorily. “You open that hot mouth of yours, and every word that comes out of it, every look you cast my way, claws at me.”

  I cup his cheeks and press my lips to his in one final kiss.

  “You’re going to walk out that door, go home, and take an ice-cold shower.” Sending him away is the last thing I want to do, but I respect what he’s told me. “But you won’t be able to get me off your mind, the same way I won’t be able to think of anything other than you when I walk my ass into my own icy shower.”

  The liquid heat in his eyes is now tempered
with amusement. “I won’t?”

  “Yes, T. You won’t. Where can we meet for our date?”

  His eyes fill with confusion at my change of subject. “Date?”

  I kiss him softly. “You want to be careful, do things right. I haven’t done this in…well, ever. But a date seems like the right first step, and since you offered to go with me to meet Dinah, the real estate agent, why don’t we meet for coffee first and make it into an afternoon date.”

  “A date? Yeah, I’d like that. Brooke’s Bytes, the Internet café on the boardwalk. Does eleven work? And do you mean Dinah Crickenton?”

  “Eleven’s perfect, and yeah, I think that’s her last name.”

  Tristan cringes. “She’s not the best agent around.”

  “See why I need you?” I step away and eye his erection straining against his shorts. “You might want to wait for that to go down before taking off.”

  “Like that’s going to happen?” He utters a curse, walks over to the refrigerator, and throws it, and the freezer, open, standing in front of the cold air.

  I grab one of my clean T-shirts from the laundry room off the kitchen and toss it to him. He catches it with one hand.

  “Come on, stud. I’ll give you a lift on my motorcycle.”

  He closes the doors and puts on the shirt, which hangs over his shorts.

  “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

  “You wish. We’ll see how the date goes.” I grab my keys off the counter and head outside. As he slips a helmet on, I climb on my bike and pat the seat behind me.

  He straddles the bike and wraps his arms around me. “Oh yeah, like this is going to help my situation?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll sure enjoy it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tristan

  ALEX IS WAITING for me outside of Brooke’s Bytes at eleven. Alpha doesn’t begin to describe the gorgeous tight-jawed creature watching people walk by with his arms crossed and an intense look in his eyes. It’s easy to imagine him standing guard in his military uniform, taking in everything around him. It’s no wonder Livi thought he was straight; the hard-bodied man is all rough edges. When his eyes find mine, his crooked smile softens those chiseled features. All for me.

  He steps forward and possessively places a hand at my waist. His smoldering eyes stoke the fire that has been burning since this morning, and he kisses my cheek.

  “Hi, T. I’m glad you made it.”

  I’m too busy soaking in the feel of his hand and his clean, musky scent to form a response, so I go with a smile.

  The bell above the door rings as he pulls it open, and we follow the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee inside. The jukebox, which only plays eighties music, is playing “Kiss on My Lips” by Hall and Oates. Three guys are sitting on red vinyl stools at the counter, drinking coffee and gazing at their laptops, and almost every table is taken by people equally as enamored with their tablets, laptops, or cell phones, with the exception of one by the window.

  Brooke looks up from behind the counter. “Hi, Tristan. Grab a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  She fills her customer’s coffee mug as we claim the vacant table. Alex takes the seat beside me. I secretly love this, because while it’s common for heterosexual couples to sit side by side, the guys I’ve been with have always preferred to have their own space. Coupled with his warm greeting, I’m feeling pretty damn good.

  Alex reaches for my hand, oblivious to how much these little things mean to me. He must notice the surprise in my eyes because he starts to pull his hand away.

  “Too much?” he asks.

  I tighten my grip. “I’m not sure there is such a thing.”

  The relief on his face is palpable. “It just feels good to be away from a military base. If I cross a line, kick me in the ass or something.”

  I’d like to do a few things to his fine ass, but kicking it isn’t one of them.

  Brooke serves the table beside us, then hurries over with two coffee mugs and a coffeepot in hand. “Sorry, guys. It’s been crazy in here this morning.” She has a curious look in her eyes as she sets the mugs down and fills mine.

  “Brooke, this is Alex Wells. Alex, Brooke Baker.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Alex says warmly. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

  She looks around and sighs happily. “Thank you. Some days I want to pull my hair out, but most of the time I love it. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please.” Alex holds up the mug, and as she fills it, he thanks her.

  The bell above the door rings, and Brooke calls out to the young couple that walks in. “Grab a seat and I’ll be right with you.” She returns her attention to us and pulls a pen from where it was tucked behind her ear and a pad from her back pocket. “Are you guys here for breakfast or just caffeine?”

  “Just coffee,” I answer. “Go help the others. I’ll leave cash on the table when we’re done.”

  “You’re a doll.” She slips the pen above her ear again and squeezes my shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Alex. Sorry I don’t have time to chat.”

  “No worries.” He shifts a heated gaze to me and says, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

  After she moves on to tend to her other customers, I lean closer to Alex and lower my voice. “You’d better stop looking at me like that, or I won’t be able to walk out of here.”

  He laughs and squeezes my hand. “While I make a mental note to give you more of those looks, why don’t you tell me something about you that I don’t know. What are your hobbies? Favorite things? Most hated things?”

  “Am I being interviewed?”

  “No, but you’ve already learned a lot about me, and I don’t know much about you.”

  I sigh as if it’s a great imposition, but the truth is I’m delighted that he’s asking. Most guys never ask more than if I’m a top or a bottom, something he hasn’t even asked yet.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very interesting. I read and surf, like everyone else in Harborside.”

  “I can’t surf worth beans, but I love to read. Who’s your favorite author?”

  “Stephen King. I collect his books, signed when I can find them.”

  “Awesome. Maybe we can hit a few bookstores on one of our dates. What else?”

  I’m still stuck on the idea of going on a date to a bookstore. That’s one of my favorite things to do, but I usually have to go alone.

  “There is one other thing I like.” I turn away, slightly embarrassed.

  “Based on your expression, I’m guessing it’s an odd sexual fetish?”

  I laugh. “You might wish it was after I tell you. It’s gardening.” I wait for him to laugh, but curiosity, not humor, shimmers in his eyes. “My mother makes these elaborate rock gardens. Ever since I was little she’d create them. Then every year she’d change them in some way, expand them, plant different flowers, make bigger hills. I love watching the plants grow over rocks and wood and whatever else she includes. Shells, statues. They’ve been as much a constant in my life as the turning of the seasons, and when I finally get a place of my own, I hope to have my own gardens.”

  “Rock gardens?” he asks with a serious face.

  “I told you it wasn’t interesting.”

  His eyes brighten. “You’re talking to a guy who grew up not knowing where I was going to lay my head down from one month to the next. I think it’s fascinating. I can only imagine how incredible it must have been to have that to look forward to and count on from year to year. What else?”

  “You’re going to think I’m a walking cliché.” I sip my coffee, watching him watch me and thinking about the nomad details he’s revealed. Everything about him is intense. The way he looks, the way he speaks, the look in his eyes right this very second, as if he doesn’t want to miss a word I say.

  “A bartender who enjoys reading, surfing, and gardening is far from cliché.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. But I also have a thing for organizing events and int
erior design. Total cliché, I know, but not only from a decorative standpoint. I like the process of reconfiguring space. The second year I worked for Wyatt’s father, he renovated the Taproom. I helped him redesign the interior layout in a way that worked best for customers. After the renovations were done, I organized an event for the opening, lined up local press, helped figure out some marketing strategies to expand the customer base.”

  He sits back and crosses his arms with a skeptical look in his eyes. “Do you want to become an event planner?”

  “No. I enjoy bartending, and planning events full-time would drive me crazy. But planning a few events a year like Mr. Armstrong used to do? That was cool. I do miss that.”

  “Can’t you still do it?”

  “We do two events a year.” I take another drink of my coffee. “I wouldn’t mind doing a few more.”

  “I’m beginning to think we were meant to meet, because I am not good at organizing, and while I can make kick-ass furniture, my interior design skills leave a lot to be desired.” He drinks his coffee, and a coy smile appears. “Think I can convince you to help me out with those things, too?”

  Oh yeah, and a lot more.

  After we finish our coffee, Alex insists on paying, and surprises me again by taking my hand as we leave the café.

  “Our first date,” he offers in explanation.

  He won’t hear any complaints from me.

  Scents of fried foods, popcorn, and carefree days hang in the air as we make our way toward the parking lot. The crowds, the smells, the noise, and people playing on the beach are the hallmarks of summer. There are fewer now that it’s September, and in a few weeks, when most of the boardwalk shops close for the season, it’ll be almost deserted. But the last time I was here with a man I was seeing was the night I broke up with Ian. I’m glad to replace that awful memory with this happier one.

  Alex bristles as a group of burly looking guys brush past us, eyeing our joined hands.

  “You okay?”