I tried to. My hands went to the zip on my dress. I tried to force myself to feel the fabric, the skin warm just beneath it. Slow. Another part of me wanted to tear off what I was wearing and throw myself on him. Beg him to take me. It would be so easy.
I looked over and a smile was playing on his face. “I know. Don’t you think I know? That’s why I make you do it. Don’t disappoint me now.” And with a smirk he settled back on the pillows, his hands now grasping the very hard evidence of his own longing. I looked at him and I finally pulled the dress over my head. Then the bra, one strap after the other, dropping over my shoulders, wriggling out of the silky fabric stretched taut over my breasts. Everything felt stuck, as though something was keeping me from pulling off all my clothes as quickly as I wanted. I unhooked the bra and let it fall with a little flourish to the floor.
“Nice,” he said. His eyes were blindfolded, but I felt he knew exactly what I was doing as though he were watching. His hearing super acute, every sound creating a picture in his mind. And he showed me, taught me, reminded me, the mind is the most powerful source of feeling of all. Once it’s practiced. Once it’s trained. I hooked my thumbs under the elastic of my panties and pulled them down, slowly, even more slowly, ridiculously slowly.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Until you can’t stand it.”
It went on forever. I could hear his breathing, a loud, steady pressure in the air. A drip of sweat dropped from my forehead to my breast.
“You’re wet…everywhere…your skin. Inside. Outside.” Tristan whispered. How? It made no sense but he knew. He knew. He was a magician. I was sure of it. Something other. Just like the first glimpse I’d had of his eyes, the look that passed between us. There was more there, something mysteriously powerful.
I moaned. “Tristan.” Unconsciously, I stared to wipe away the fine sweat on my forehead that was threatening to drip into my eyes.
“No, leave it,” Tristan commanded. “I like you wet. Slippery. Sliding over me.” I watched his mouth move beneath the strip of black silk covering his eyes. “Come to me now, love.”
Deliberately, I moved over to the bed. Tristan spoke again. “You know what to do.” I tore open the little packet with my teeth, and prepared him. Then I climbed on the bed, careful not to touch him again. His body was humming with electricity. I thought I could hear it, a low throbbing frequency. Pure energy. Under control. There was always an inch of separation, humming, the power between us, the way you can feel something when you put your hands together yet not quite touching. A force field. Total energy building up. I held myself over his taut body. It was difficult not to touch him, his smooth skin, the scars, that tattoo, the veins, pulsing, blue under the pale surface. I clenched my fists. He laughed, mocking me. “Do you want to hit me darling? Or something else?” And he smiled. So close, yet not. Not. All that force rising up. I moved forward. Soon. Soon we would touch. And there would be nothing else. Every inch became a lifetime, nothing but time. Everything was time and energy between us. Like recreating the world, an animal gift. Since the start of light.
My thigh grazed his side and we both let out a sound. Unrecognizable. Lower. Lower. All of me was tense above him. My legs burning with the pressure, not to touch, to go even more slowly. Down, lower. Almost. Then nearly there. I shifted my hips up slightly, trying to capture him without hands, leaning forward, hovering over his chest, my breasts finally meeting his, lightly grazing the skin, nipples touching. His breathing was more ragged now, a long distance runner, his heart beating so loudly, I felt I could see it, hear it, feel it just beneath me, release, want. I would have him. I stretched my body out as long as I could, guiding my hips over him. There, just the tip touching. He let out a long hiss. I came down a little lower there. I moved my hips down his body. There. And there. I pulled on the scarf around his neck. Tristan let out a low moan. A heat like fire lit under my skin everywhere. A drop of sweat dropped onto his chest. He twitched as though I’d burned him. Lower.
“Yes, love. Now.” When I didn’t move, his voice was a low pleading groan. “Lily. Please,” Tristan murmured. I still didn’t move. And then he tore himself from the bed, and with one swift motion, he was inside me. Then he pulled out again, nearly all the way. The sound that left his throat was a howl of sheer desire, restrained, tied down. I could feel just the tip of him moving, pulsing slightly, slowly, as I lowered my body down on his. His breathing was ragged now. It echoed in my head, again, in, out. I couldn’t remember when I’d breathed. Slower. I could feel him bigger inside me, wider. A little bit further. Both of us taut with waiting. Another year of waiting. Another one. The emptiness. The hollow feeling inside. Begging to feel. Hollow like the universe. Burning. His skin was on fire. Further. Holding myself over him, not touching anywhere but there, another movement of skin a little bit further. Another drop of sweat. His breathing rougher, he let out a low moan when I sank my hips down, like another longing partially satisfied. I could feel him, hot inside me. It was almost hard to grip onto him, his skin and mine slippery with sweat. Wanting him, all the way, the last inch down, all of him, all he had. No, it was too slow. Someone cried out. That much. That little. Another galaxy. All that waiting. Another mile. Hot, his beating hot heart. I had the sheets gripped in my hands now, pulled up with the effort not to slam against him, his blood beating in mine. And then he couldn’t hold on any longer and he thrust up inside me, a wail desperately crying out like the last final barrier crossed.
His hips were moving, again, again, steady. Then he stopped, his breathing harsh. I writhed around on him. This couldn’t go much longer. Every moment going higher, listening to Tristan moan, a long low keening as he kept moving in tiny spirals, tiny. The almost invisible patterns he traced were breaking open worlds inside me. He was calling out to me now, his voice all small encouragements, we needed this to stay alive. He thrust again, his hands on my hips, over and over, little movements, moving me where he wanted. Then he almost imperceptibly started pulling out and back, slow, long, drawing me along then almost out. “That’s it, my love,” he breathed. “Hold on. Hold on to me.” I clung to the muscles in his arms, as he raised them over his head, the end of the scarf wrapped around his fingers, pulling taut. And we had the perfect tension, rocking steady, a heartbeat, timing, timing like the music, matching. Then his hands dropped, to grip my arms hard, harder, not stopping, the rhythm between us beginning to break up on the crests of his voice moaning, breathing. I tried to hold on but he took over, and calling out for me to go with him, he arched up underneath, his head thrown back, as I pushed myself on to him as deep as I could, tightening around him, my skin on fire, gasping, his low voice, a wild cry, a final groan, and shaking, he grabbed me, clinging on, and we held on, beating pulse like flames, and everything went black as I fell against his chest.
chapter twenty-five
L.A.
And finally the big day arrived. We were staying for the night in the hotel, partially because it was more convenient, partially because the record company wanted to know where Tristan was at all times, even though they presented it as a perk of the event. A professional dresser and makeup artist came by in the early afternoon to make sure our outfits were correct, and to do our hair and makeup. “It costs a lot of money to look like I just screwed someone,” Tristan said to the woman as she rubbed the ends of his hair with pomade, then sprayed the roots with hair spray. She laughed but ignored him. I got a similar treatment, but mine took even longer. I did look good though, I thought, even if it was alarming to think this was probably as good as it was ever going to get. For a moment, I understood the pressure of having to be on camera all the time. Everything had to be right. Or the moment was gone. Except it’d be gone anyway.
Tristan poked his head in, and approved the proceedings. “I like your hair like that. You look fantastic, Lily.” He winked at me. “The glories of Hollywood. Maybe we should do this more often?” He gave me a little smile
, and went out to the living room, while the makeup artist gave me a small container of powder and a brush with strict instructions on how and when to apply it, especially if I was going to be on camera. I had a feeling I’d forget, or not realize that I was shining, and not in a good way, just before my big moments. Hopefully my Tristan-approved hair and the general aura that Tristan gave off would be enough of a distraction.
Then came the waiting. It was only an hour, but ten minutes in, I wished the makeup artist had stuck around to give us something else to think about. Tristan looked edgy. I tried to distract him with a question about L.A., how it had changed since he’d started coming here. I knew Tristan wished that they still held the awards at what was now the Gibson Amphitheatre. “It’s a shame,’ he said. “Another historic piece of L.A. going—torn down in favor of the Harry Potter Experience, or some such shit. I’ve nothing against Harry Potter, mind…it’s just a shame.” Then he started pacing around the vintage two bed villa, as usual making everything seem small in comparison. If he had started shoving furniture out of the way, it wouldn’t have been surprising. He walked back and forth a few times, finally heading to the kitchen, where he flung open the silver fridge, and pulled out a tiny bottle of Stoli, and downed it before I could say a word.
“Tristan?” I ventured. “Are you ok?”
He pulled out half a bottle of champagne, and reaching for two glasses from the stocked cabinets, he came over and sat down heavily on the sofa. “Shit, Lily, touring, promotion, the whole business. Here we are in the lap of luxury, and all I can think about is the end of things. Not to be pessimistic, but how to go with the flow, ride the tides, stay afloat—all these fucking metaphors, and yet all I see around me are things going down, and I’m not sure the new ones are a decent replacement. They’re thinking of tearing down Madison Square Garden. It’s not like it is the greatest place acoustically, but it’s got history. Everything goes. Even us.” He poured out the champagne. He jumped up again. “Let me get you a straw. That’s what they use to stop the lipstick smearing.” He came back with the straw, and seeing the look on my face, finally smiled. “You pick up some interesting tips of the trade in this business.” We sipped at the champagne. It did take the edge off, just a little. Then Tristan started speaking again. “This is why people go crazy, Lily. You’re at the top, the fans are screaming, the limousines are waiting. Anything I want from girls to guys to drugs to anything you can think of is a phone call away. A phone call away, Lily. If that. That’s it. I can tell Adrian to get me something, and he’ll get it. That’s his job. He may try to talk me out of it—that’s his job too, but he can’t stop me.” He refilled his glass, and I sipped at mine through the straw, slowly, wondering where all this was going to end. “Trevor—Trevor could stop me. But where is he? He should have been here by now, but got held up.” He stood up abruptly with his glass and pulled back the blinds to look out on the grounds and the path that led up to the pool.
“Five hours. Then it will be done. One way or another,” I ventured.
Tristan paced. “I know. And the after parties. Don’t forget them.” He came over and sat back down next to me. “I feel desperate, Lily. Desperate. I don’t know why. I want to enjoy this, and the more I want to, the more I realize I can’t. Stupid, really. Millions of people dreaming of doing this, and here on the inside, what is it? Tension, anxiety. Competition, whether you want it or not.”
I took his hand. “I used to think people put up with the games. Then I finally realized they start them. It’s the only thing that gets them up in the morning, figuring out the rules, using them, hurting people.”
Tristan took a deep breath. “I don’t like all the games, Lily. I don’t care how well I look like I’m playing them.”
I looked at his hands, and then up at his eyes. They were dark, hurt. Watching him, I had that feeling again, of a very long tunnel, the spaciousness of his thoughts, this moment, his soul. Fragile. No one should see that, I thought. It’s like an invitation to demons.
“We won’t play. We will just turn up. And Tristan?” I squeezed his hand and glanced away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Lily?”
I gave a small laugh. “Nothing. Just something like I’ll stand between you and the gates of Hell to keep you safe.” I sipped some champagne through the straw, feeling foolish.
Then my glass was on the table, and his arms were around me, pulling me on to his lap, holding me to his chest. I could feel his strength returning, and I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of his body, so much larger than mine, all around me.
The bell rang and we both jumped. We stood up and Tristan brushed at my dress with his hand. “I’ve creased you. Shit.”
My smile couldn’t have been bigger. “Fuck it. Let’s go give them something to remember.”
“Lily.” His face said everything.
“Tristan.”
* * *
The red carpet was stretching out over the stairs, and a collection of women, most of whom seemed to be blond, and who were all wearing some of the highest heels I had ever seen in my life, stood precariously at intervals to help celebrities and actual musicians. All of them seemed almost as incapable of navigation over the carpeted path as each other, trying to get through the phalanx of photographers and TV journalists with microphones awaiting them, while the lines of fans hovered dangerously close to the action. It was a like a gauntlet, some kind of trial by fire that each person had to pass through before they would be permitted inside, where more cameras would attempt to catch their every expression, praying for some particularly newsworthy gaffe or outburst. If they were really lucky, there’d be a nipple slip.
I watched as a woman with long dark hair tottered over to Steven Tyler, trying to keep his attention on where she wanted him to stand for the banks of flashing cameras. He looked pretty good, all things considered. The high heeled helper finally managed to neatly extricate his companion and guide her over to a waiting area, out of range of the cameras. Her dress barely covered her boobs, each standing up individually, separate in a way that made me think of a wax mannequin. There was a certain dead look to her, as magnificent as her outline was, and the amount of skin she was showing. I still had the feeling that she needed to be kept away from any open flame. The helper had guided him over to the area, and was talking at him, when Tyler finally looked up at the cameras. It was though a switch had been hit. He exuded energy, keeping up a constant series of little movements, turning towards the banks of photographers. It was impressive, his posing, that he could even keep his eyes open wide and smile, the constant repeating bursts of light bouncing off him as he turned one way then another. One of the photographers called out, “Over here Steven!” and the cry was picked up by another, then another, until it looked and sounded like nothing more than a frontal assault. Finally it was over, and the woman in heels came over and guided him further down the brand-named alley of logos on white backdrops and the unreality of outdoor red carpets, up to the next group, who would actually ask questions.
There were a few people ahead of us, and Tristan looked uncomfortable. I reached out and squeezed his hand, even though we had mostly agreed not to give any of the paps a shot of us acting as a couple, if we could avoid it. But he looked down at me, and nodded his head, smiling. “It’s a fucking zoo,” he murmured, low enough that no one could hear, although the name of the latest celebrity to be in front of the cameras was ringing out clearly, drowning out most human interaction. “But it’s all worth it,” he said, his mouth curled in a half smile. “We get to the end of our lives, and everyone can say at least I tried hard.” He laughed. “15 minutes more of our non-fame…” but he trailed off, as he noticed another woman made wondrously tall with her skyscraper heels headed our way. Defiantly, Tristan raised my hand to his lips, let his tongue follow the delicate bones to the fingertips, then released it. I looked around. No one had noticed. It was too blatant, yet it wa
sn’t blatant enough. Only a hand.
The woman in high heels was now approaching Tristan, reaching out her hand, ostensibly to guide him. He flinched, then seemed to realize that she needed support, her left ankle slightly turned to one side in an uneven step that looked painful. He extended his arm, and she took it, gratefully, and he let her lean on him, while appearing to be guided over to the photographers. I followed a couple of steps behind, and when she released him, he held out his hand to me. I looked at him for a moment, and his mouth went up again in that half smile, as he tilted his head. So—it was up to me. How much of it did I want? If anything made sense, all this did not. It would be a very definite statement, but perhaps that was a good idea. Or not. But the blinding smile Tristan gave as I gave in and headed in his direction wasn’t just noticed by me. The paps went crazy—and why not? He looked beautiful, in his element, and was playing the game the way he wanted to play it. His hand reached for mine, and he pulled me to his side as he ran his other hand through his hair, and posed us for the cameras. The light of the flash was almost painful. “Look out and up and raise your eyebrows,” he whispered. “Find something, a point to gaze at.” We turned and posed from another angle, the paps yelling out. “Tristan! Tristan! Congratulations! Over here. Look over here. Tristan. Oi Hunter! Her name? Name? Tristan!”
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