The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

Were we talking about the same thing? I questioned myself. I was talking about being satisfied, as in being with the right man. Seducing my betrothed to make him want to love me. Love me the way I wanted to be loved. Tristan made it sound sexual. Was he talking about…?

  “Oh my gosh. I didn’t mean that. I’m not comfortable doing that to myself.”

  Tristan laughed again.

  “You’re adorable. Are we talking about the same thing here?”

  “Aren’t you talking about touching myself?”

  “No,” he choked, and the vibration rippled against my back. “I was talking about making yourself happy. Satisfied.”

  I closed my eyes in embarrassment; thankful he couldn’t see me. I had definitely had too much to drink, if this was my train of thought, and how I misinterpreted the conversation. It was becoming obvious to me that I couldn’t be around Tristan without thinking about sex. Everything he did, but most especially that kiss, had ignited feelings in me that I was having trouble containing.

  “But now that you mention it…” he cleared his throat at my ear, then spoke softly into it, “why don’t you touch yourself, Irish Isle?”

  I shook my head. Not now. Not tonight. I wanted to remain in my little cocoon with him in the dark, sharing the same chair, and a bottle of wine. No more heavy stuff today.

  When I didn’t verbally respond, he spoke again.

  “How about…if I touch you, Irish?”

  I felt myself stiffen and he kissed my neck briefly. A rush of tumultuous waves rumbled through my lower body.

  “We could say I’m teaching you…how to be satisfied.”

  The palm of his hand smoothed down my arms slowly, then rubbed upward softly like a tickle. Fine hairs on my skin rose with his touch, despite the warm night.

  “Mmmm…” He nuzzled his nose against my neck. “You smell so good.”

  I remembered him saying that to me in his drunken stupor on the couch.

  “Are you drunk?” I giggled.

  “Nope.”

  I went quiet with the seriousness of his voice and a brief kiss to my neck.

  He moved his hands to my hips and gently slipped the fabric of my dress upward. It didn’t have far to go, as it was already short and my knees were raised. I should have worried that I was exposing myself to anyone who walked the night beach, but it was dark by the water, and we hadn’t turned on the porch lights. No one could see us. The way he kept stroking my skin, I wouldn’t have cared.

  He let his hands wander forward, and he made me sit up a little more against him. His fingers spread over my hips, then rounded my legs and slid in between my thighs. Fingertips lightly lingered across my bare skin. He repeated that soothing motion several times, before he let those tempting fingers trail all the way to my center to find me wet, soaking my panties beneath my dress.

  “Oh, my Irish Isle, …” his voice faded.

  The throbbing between my legs beat triple fold as he tickled across my center with experienced fingers. Teasing me. Torturing me. I’d never had a boy, or man, touch me like that. I almost screamed with the need for him to press firmer.

  He must have sensed my body language, because on the second round, he rubbed one finger hard through my wetness. I whimpered like I had when he stroked my breasts, earlier in the day. My legs fell open to the sides, resting against his, which cradled me from behind. He was surrounding me and I was letting myself drown in him.

  “May I?” he whispered in my ear then nibbled it with his teeth. He didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t think I could speak. His finger slipped under the elastic and rubbed through my sensitive folds once before slipping inside of me. He bucked against me from behind before holding himself still again.

  “Fuck, Irish,” he said like a prayer. “You’re soaking. Do you want me?”

  I didn’t answer. The truth of it would be too much. It would break me.

  He dragged his finger in and out of me several times. My heavy lids closed: my head fell back to rest against his shoulder. My hips began to move of their own will, and I relaxed into the sensation that was beginning to take over my entire body.

  He slipped another finger inside me, twisting his wrist in a way that made me flinch forward. I saw stars for a moment and they weren’t the ones in the sky. I whimpered again.

  “Am I hurting you?” he stopped, holding his fingers still inside me.

  I could only shake my head and gently lay back against him. The subtle cry was need, not pain.

  He began the motion of dragging in and out of me, then twisting his wrist causing those fingers inside to hit me in such a way I was melting. I relaxed enough; my legs fell even further open to him. My body was taking on a warm, calm sensation, and I could feel my toes begin to curl. My hips began a sultry dance against his hand.

  “That’s it, Irish. Be satisfied. Let it happen.”

  His thumb flicked the nub of skin outside of his internal stroking fingers. I had to grip his thighs surrounding mine to hold myself still. The sensation was a strike of lightning over my body.

  “Like that,” he muttered in my ear. It was a statement, not a question.

  I didn’t move. I let him move me. He stroked in and out. He rubbed side to side. He twisted his wrist, and I fell apart. I bent at the waist to lean forward, but his free hand slipped around my stomach, beneath my breasts, and held me back to his chest.

  “Against me,” he growled. “I want to feel it against me.”

  I spiraled out of control, straightening my legs and squeezing his hand between my thighs. I arched my back, my head pressing into his shoulder, and an animalistic moan escaped from deep inside me. My hands moved to grip the arms of the lounge, in an attempt to hold myself down. I was floating, and the release just came, and came, and came.

  When I finally couldn’t take anymore, and the sensation seemed to subside, my back dropped and my hands released the armrests. He still stroked me slowly, but I covered his with my own to stop him.

  He removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth, sucking them for a moment. He moaned softly as he pushed my hair back from my neck then kissed me tenderly.

  “I’ve never felt anything like that,” I whispered, keeping my eyes closed to savor the remainder of the moment.

  “Hmmm…The Heartbreaker aims to please,” he teased.

  He was teasing in a sense, but I didn’t like the words. I twisted sideways against him, slipping an arm around his shoulder to hook around his neck. I tucked my knees together and looped them over his leg. Curling into him, I let him cradle me.

  “What about you?” I said lazily, still melted liquid in his arms.

  “That was all for you, Irish. Lesson one.”

  “Mmmm…” I purred, leaning my head against his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart.

  Lesson one, I thought, would be how to prevent The Heartbreaker from breaking my heart.

  Chapter 16

  [Tristan]

  It blossomed by the feast of sunshine.

  I woke stiff in more than one place on my body. I was still in the metal chaise lounge. My back was killing me from sleeping in the upright angle all night, my dick solid from dreaming of more than just touching Ireland. I couldn’t believe she willingly let me touch her. I couldn’t believe I did willingly touch her, knowing she would soon belong to another man.

  I wasn’t surprised to find myself alone, but surprised disappointment was the emotion I felt. Ireland wasn’t in the house, which didn’t surprise me either, considering her pattern to train early in the morning, when it was cooler. I used the quiet to work on my song. I was suddenly inspired, finding Ireland to be my muse.

  I didn’t hear her enter the house or exit it later. I was so wrapped up in writing lyrics. By late afternoon, I had a pretty solid grasp of what I wanted to sing, just not all the chords to play it. I would have loved to confer with Lansing, but he was preoccupied. Truthfully, I didn’t wish to contact any of the band members yet. I had other things to focus o
n instead.

  When I did finally meet up with Ireland, she said she had homework to do. I felt distinctly ignored after last night’s escapades. I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject, or ease her awkwardness, knowing she was inexperienced. Inexperienced, but desperate to learn if her orgasm last night gave me any hint. Maybe ignoring one another was for the best, I decided, because I certainly couldn’t explain how for two nights in a row, I found myself holding her. Startlingly to me was I wanted to know how I could hold her again.

  I had to remind myself that she would soon belong to another man. My need to hold her pushed at emotions I hadn’t felt before; like the desire to hold a woman. I hated to admit it, but I was a love-‘em-and-leave-‘em kind of guy. I finished my business with a woman and gently left. I didn’t cuddle. I didn’t spoon. I didn’t prolong. With sex, it was mission accomplished, time to move on. So I was agitated with myself to discover how much I liked waking up holding her on the couch. How I liked falling asleep holding her on the lounge chair.

  After avoiding her all day, or her avoiding me, I couldn’t last another minute. When she came to announce she was going to bed early, I couldn’t contain my words.

  “Spend the day with me tomorrow?” I practically begged.

  She narrowed her eyes at me and smiled slowly, biting her lower lip.

  “Okay…” she hesitated.

  “I have a plan. I promise you’ll like it. It will be most of the day. Will that be a problem?”

  Her smile grew as she worked to contain it by biting her lip. “No.”

  We had to wake early, which didn’t seem to be a problem for her, but she didn’t have time to train. I told Ireland to wear her bathing suit, which she covered with a dress, and I threw on a t-shirt to go with my swimming shorts. I suggested we both wear sunglasses, and I completed my disguise with a backward baseball cap. I grabbed our snorkeling gear, which gave a hint as to our destination, and an underwater camera I splurged on the evening before, when I walked down the beach to make the reservation for the day’s activities.

  As we arrived at Blue Sail Adventures, I explained that we would spend some time snorkeling and then travel to Stingray Bay, a popular attraction of the Grand Cayman Island. Although it was a rather touristy thing to do, and we would be accompanied by other visitors to the island, it was the best I could do on such short notice. I would have preferred a private excursion, but I also believed a little company would help distract me from my growing obsession with Ireland.

  The catamaran was large enough to hold fifty people or more, with a lower deck that housed a bar and cabin seating. Ireland and I, however, sat in the bow of the boat on a small ledge, with our feet balanced on netting below to prevent people from falling into the water. She sat close to me. Our legs touched as the boat rocked and swayed on its initial travels. The morning sun was already bright and sunglasses were on our faces. I was good at ignoring the stares and whispers of the other passengers. I was sure they were wondering who I was, and if I was really him. I hoped, for Ireland’s sake, that I wouldn’t be recognized and people would respect our privacy.

  When we arrived at our first destination, I helped Ireland, as I had the day before to adjust her flippers and right her mask, before we took to the water. There was no way to talk, and we had to communicate only by pointing at the various fish and coral. I had practiced filming a bit with my new camera the night before, so I did my best to aim and shoot what Ireland pointed out. I noticed she liked the brightly colored fish the most, especially the blue that seemed to glow in contrast to the coral.

  A short time passed, and the snorkeling group was gathered back to the boat for the second part of the day’s journey, Stingray Bay. I was taken aback by the number of tourist boats that surrounded the sand bar in the middle of the bay, and the even larger number of people that buoyed and swam amongst the gentle stingrays. Like some ancient mythical water creatures, the stingrays seemed amazingly comfortable gliding amongst the feet and legs of hundreds of people. The guide from the boat helped collect stingrays and hold them steady under the water for tourists to touch. The guide even explained how to hold one from the underside and allowed visitors to try to steady the muscular fish.

  I sensed that Ireland wanted to touch one. I stood behind her as the guide assisted the creature into her arms. Together we formed an enclosure, balancing this eighty pound winged water animal as it tried to fly from our arms. Ireland squealed like a child and her excitement was contagious. At one point while we stood in the clear water, just taking in the chase of the creatures, Ireland turned to me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  “Thank you for bringing me here. This has been so incredible.”

  My heart swelled with pride that I made her happy. Wrapping an arm around her back, she lifted her feet in order to avoid stepping on approaching wings underwater. Her weight shifted to me and I hiked her up on my hip. She slipped her arms around my neck, and I suddenly found us in the position we had been in when she thought I had drowned. Arms around my neck, legs around my waist, Ireland held onto me like I was a life buoy. She wasn’t squeezing me with that death grip like the other day, just loosely wrapped around my body, which was responding to her against me. I held her around her lower back and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder.

  “Thank you for coming with me. I’ve had a lot of fun.”

  She pulled back and smiled. Kissing me gently on the cheek before unwrapping herself from my body. I felt the loss immediately, as my arms reminded me I longed to hold her.

  The return trip to the mainland was the time to kick back and enjoy the sun. Sailing at a leisurely pace, the catamaran provided the availability of the island’s specialty: rum punch. I ordered one for each of us from the bar and met Ireland in our spot, dangling her feet on the net support. We sat close to one another again, thighs touching, heads tilting back to take in the sunshine.

  I had been slightly aware throughout the exertion of cameras flashing as people took photos with the stingrays. I also noticed photographs being taken of couples or groups on the boat. When the professional photographer came to us, I declined the photo for private reasons. I didn’t need the publicity. Ireland seemed to tense when the photographer asked, then relaxed when I politely rejected the offer. I silently wished I had taken the picture as a way to remember the day when I realized I could try to take the photos myself.

  I was zooming the camera lens in and out from our faces for selfies, making the camera weave through the air to randomly capture the laughter on Ireland’s face, when someone offered to take a picture for us. I hardly noticed her size or shape or color, which I would typically have scanned within seconds, assessing the prospect.

  “You two are so adorable,” the woman said, as she handed the camera back to me. She eyed me for a moment longer.

  “Aren’t you Tristan Lyons?”

  “I’m on vacation,” I said politely, ignoring her question.

  “I thought it was you. Is this you’re new girlfriend? Or flavor of the week?”

  I moved to stand, but Ireland placed a hand on my thigh to stop me. I was never surprised how crass fans could sometimes be, but I was appalled that Ireland had been insulted in such a way.

  “I think you need to apologize to my lady friend,” I demanded.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were so refined in what you called your girls. I read once you liked to call us fangirls, ‘flavors.’ Like we all had a yummy distinct taste.” She smiled sweetly and licked her lips. When a potbellied older man approached her, she turned away from me as he guided her to the opposite side of the boat.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I apologized to Ireland.

  She shrugged. “It’s not like I’m not aware that you have lots of experience. So what’s your favorite flavor?” She tried to laugh, but there was something off in her voice. I wanted to say she was my favorite flavor. There was so much more I wanted to taste of her, but I held off my response. I hadn’t answered her questio
n and she was already standing. She downed the rest of her rum punch and held out her hand to take my cup.

  “I’ll go get us another round,” she said. She struggled slightly on the netted material as the boat rocked gently through the ocean waves. A man helped her find her footing on the opposite edge, and she walked down the ladder to the bar without a glance back to me.

  She’d been gone several minutes before I decided to follow her. I found her balancing her elbows on the bar, a man on either side of her, and two bartenders behind the bar thoroughly enthralled with her. Again, there was something vaguely familiar about her as she leaned on the counter, surrounded by men, but I let the thought pass, assuming it was my own growing familiarity with her body and her presence.

  The one bartender had captured her attention with a rant on the lesser tour services that held the stingrays out of the water, forcing them to choke as they couldn’t hold their breath like humans and needed the water, not air, to breathe. Ireland smiled sweetly at him, unaware of the men on either side of her checking her out. She had on the yellow bikini again with black edging on the sides and around her waist. Her hair had air-dried and it was slightly kinky looking. Her glasses were on her head like a headband, and she looked beautiful in a very natural way. She had a sprinkle of freckles that were highlighted by the sun across her nose, and her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires with the attention of these men around her. She was a goddess, and I wanted to worship her. I was enraged with jealousy that these other men wanted to worship her, as well.

  “I’ll have another of what she’s having,” I said over her shoulder to the bartender, causing everyone to look in my direction, especially Ireland.

  “Forget something?” I laughed without humor as I nodded at her drink.

  “Oh, Chris gave this to me, on the house. Or rather on the boat,” she giggled.

  “How generous of him,” I responded, sarcasm dripping from my lips.

  “Yes,” she replied, “I think rum punch is my new favorite flavor.” She took a long sip of the drink as she looked at me over the rim of the plastic cup.