by Jane Galaxy
“Where did you get this?” She said as she turned it over, looking at the other side. The logo was made up of the different hands of the Protectorate members meeting in the center of a circle like a sports team huddle; Dirk Masterson’s hand encased in the carbon fiber exoskeleton, Red Rogue’s kevlar fingerless glove with her signature red nail polish, the Patriot’s hand with his white cuff and the dark gray duster over it, and Morganna’s gauntlet, the chains from her Karangu pickaxe wrapped around her wrist.
“Someone gave it to me at a conference!” Tristan cried, digging through a drawer to find a bright green and red box of tea bags.
“And this one?” The other mug had Lucius’s staff for the handle, a curving shape like a hunting bow that he used to disarm and disable his enemies before encasing them in ice. Tristan frowned in thought.
“I think Prasad got it for me somewhere,” he said.
Sophie accepted the mug of tea and gently blew on it to cool it down.
“It’s a very nice house,” she began.
“But?” Tristan continued carefully, blowing on his own tea.
“These two mugs are the only things that seem like they belong to you.”
He looked around and sighed in agreement.
“This is where everybody thought my domination of the serious theatrical world would truly begin after I graduated,” he remarked.
“Your apartment back in LA feels more like you,” Sophie said encouragingly.
“It’s where I store all the nerd.”
“Can I look around?”
He nodded while taking another sip, and Sophie wandered at will. The living room was done up with modern furniture that was definitely not from IKEA, judging by the feel of the leather. There were the bookcases she’d seen from watching Tristan talk about his latest charity projects on the YouTube channel that his publicist had set up for him. The brief thought of stepping closer to check the titles occurred to her, but it drifted away again just as quickly.
That just wasn’t him.
The rooms were gorgeously appointed, masculine yet understated. And very, very clean. Someone came here while he was out of the country to dust, polish, and make sure everything was ready in case he decided to unexpectedly drop back in.
Either that, or living here wasn’t really living.
With a glance toward the kitchen, Sophie stood with one foot on the second staircase step.
“Can I see upstairs?”
He called something she couldn’t understand through a mouthful of what could have been cookie, and Sophie shrugged before going up.
Toward the front of the townhouse, overlooking the street, was an office, this one nothing like the one in Los Angeles. Instead of anything personal, the walls were decorated with abstract artwork done in grey-green oils, giving the room a wholly impersonal look, like something out of a decorator’s catalog.
“One of my suite mates at university painted those,” said Tristan behind her, making Sophie jump. He was leaning in the doorway with his head cocked to one side, hands in pockets.
“They’re got a sort of Rothko look to them,” she answered after a pause.
“If Rothko were colorblind,” Tristan added, and laughed when she turned to look at him.
“Do you like it here?”
He glanced all around the room, but still didn’t cross the threshold.
“I’m supposed to study in here, learn the character motivations and recite the dialogue.”
“But?”
“It’s all a bit soulless, I think. Like living in a hotel.”
Sophie hmmed and came right up against him in the doorway, looking up. He fought hard to keep a smile from his mouth, but couldn’t quite manage it, and stepped out of her way with a teasing look just as he finally broke into a grin. She went down the darkened hallway to the back and looked into Tristan’s bedroom. A large bed, walnut furniture, sort of a mid-century modern feel. An Eames chair and footrest in the corner by one of the tall windows, out of which there was the glimpse of a back garden, a little private park he probably shared with a few neighbors.
She felt Tristan come up from behind and stand close to her, both of them looking into the room at his bed, the duvet piled invitingly high like a marshmallow. He was warm, and either the tingling in her hands had moved into her arms or she could feel the faint vibrations of his pulse through the space between them.
Sophie turned and said,
“So when are we going to stop pretending that I’m interested in an architectural tour and just tear each other’s clothes off like we’ve both been wanting to for the past day and a half?”
Instead of answering, Tristan cocked his head again and looked at her, very pleased with her frankness.
And then he obliged her by pinning her to the doorframe with a kiss that gave away just how strong he was with that lithe body.
Uh-uh, Sophie thought. My turn.
With both hands on the expanse of his chest she pushed, then grabbed his upper arms before the surprised expression on his face could morph into some noble resolve to cut things off if she wasn’t quite ready. And then somehow, Tristan was landing with a thick intake of breath on the bed, Sophie straddling him and working the notches on his belt until finally she got it through, and then she was lifting her shirt up and over her head, her vision going dark until she came back and found him also naked beneath her, between her thighs. They gazed at each other for a moment, and Sophie realized she was flushed.
This was what she’d flown more than five thousand miles for, and it was worth it.
She’d make damn sure of that.
Sophie leaned over, sliding her breasts up along his chest and winding her arms around his neck.
“You know, it’s funny how not jet-lagged I’m feeling right now,” she said lightly.
“Sleeping the whole flight has its advantages.” Tristan’s voice had gone low and dark with heat and lust, and Sophie pressed her lower lip between her teeth, refusing to break eye contact as she reached down between them, along his swimmer’s abs until she found what she was looking for.
The slightest gasp from him, and she turned her wrist to slowly run the ‘o’ of her closed palm along the length of him.
“What about you?” She continued the casual banter. “Are you feeling jet-lagged? Because it doesn’t seem like it—”
He suddenly started laughing uncontrollably, his middle jumping around beneath her as Tristan closed his eyes and said between breaths,
“I dunno, Sophie, I could be up for a while!”
And lapsed back into laughing at his own joke. Sophie had never really been one to resist a dick joke, and it was an odd one, but it had made Tristan so happy that she couldn’t help it—she joined in, then grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently.
“We’re supposed to be super serious about sex, remember? Come on, this is the moment.”
Tristan was wiping tears out of his own eyes, mostly from the emotional catharsis rather than his comedic timing, she thought.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right.” And immediately his face collapsed into dead seriousness, which made Sophie key straight up into hysterical laughter at the sudden contrast. His acting skills were not overrated. She had to hold herself up with one hand on the bed next to his head, and finally lay down next to him, still giggling. Tristan wrapped his arms around her and pressed them close together. She leaned against him.
“Maybe we’re just not serious sexy people, you know? Like we’re just gonna be weirdos, and maybe we should just be weirdos together.”
“Oh God, finally someone I can be awkward with in private and it isn’t horrible,” he murmured. “I like you so much, Sophie.”
“I like you too,” she said into his shoulder. Then she pulled away and gave him a once-over, frowning slightly. “Why did I ever think I didn’t like you?”
“One of the mysteries of the universe, I suppose,” Tristan said, and lifted himself onto one elbow to begin kissing her again.
“No, no, stop, wait.”
He did.
“No, I didn’t mean, like, stop, we shouldn’t be doing this, I mean like I spent most of that flight half-awake dreaming about what I was going to do to you when we finally got here.” She leaned him gently back against the bed and in one fluid motion was back on top of his chest, her fake boyfriend between her bare thighs.
They both took a moment to assess this development.
“Honestly,” said Tristan, “I am fully on board with this.” He did look impressed, and at least some of that was not directed toward her breasts on full display at his eye level. Reaching out with one arm, he gestured toward the bedside table, and Sophie leaned all the way over to open the drawer and fish around until she found the foil packet of a condom.
With that taken care of by Tristan’s hands behind her back, she said,
“Sit up a little.”
He did, with a bit of curiosity, and she looped her arms around his neck. Sophie hadn’t wanted to fuck him stretched out across the bed, but instead face to face, noses almost touching, in a way that would let her wind her fingers and then her hands up to her wrists into his hair, run the pads of her thumbs over the soft skin just behind the shell of each ear, and just barely run the edge of her mouth over his as she found the tip of him and pressed down in one hot, slick motion that made them both gasp and pause.
She wanted to, so she did.
Suddenly full, stretched comfortably, her body gave her an instant and heady rush of relief and lust. Tristan’s hands found a place at the small of her back, his thumbs pressing there as she moved up and down over him, letting her set a pace. Sophie pressed her forehead against his, breathing hard, feeling another distinct shock of pleasure come over her every time she sank down, the thick edge of him firm inside.
And then Tristan reached down and with one curled finger, gently stroked her slick and swollen clit.
Sophie’s thighs squeezed around his hips reflexively, and when she’d recovered enough to begin again, this time she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and moved harder, faster, egging him on to do the same.
He did, rather obligingly, and one last wave of pleasure reared up in her before Sophie couldn’t stand it anymore and tilted her head back, mouth open in silent shock, her ears ringing but still able to pick up on Tristan making a low sound between clenched teeth before he sank onto the bed, where she joined him.
Tristan winced as he rolled onto his back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing,” he assured her, reaching over to cup her face in his hand. “Only I just remembered I left the tea downstairs and it’s gone cold. I’ll make some more.”
She couldn’t help but start to laugh, and he hesitated before joining her. Tristan’s fingers rose to tuck a loose piece of hair back behind her ear.
Looking at each other as their breathing slowed, Sophie thought it was curious how easy it was to slip into things she never thought she’d do in a million years.
Chapter Thirteen
We shall expect you before tea tomorrow, the text message read.
Tristan stared down into his phone as Susie, the makeup artist assigned to him, was getting ready to place the theatrical white Lucius wig over it.
His father had texted him. It was the second one he’d received since they’d arrived in London. The first one he’d noticed while boiling water for tea in his flat, Sophie in the living room lounging about reading through his script and checking the call sheets. She was procrastinating from outlining the next Imperium issue.
Standing at the kitchen counter watching the kettle begin to fog up, his phone had dinged and he’d checked it instantly, the vague thought that it was Sophie being coy and flirtatious crossing his mind.
Back in town, are you?
He’d nearly responded before he happened to see the name Rufus Eccleston at the top of the screen, and Tristan immediately froze, moving his fingers away from the keys before the ellipses began moving, alerting his father to the fact that he’d been typing. Then again, he doubted Rufus even knew the difference between green and blue message bubbles, closed the text messages app, and poured two cups of tea. Sophie had wound her arms around his neck for a kiss, and Tristan had promptly forgotten that anybody had texted him.
The haze surrounding them had gone on for two weeks, and it had seemed that nothing would ruin it.
But this new message was a bit of a concerning wake-up call; for one thing, it meant that his father had been receiving reliable reports of Tristan being in London. It was impossible that Rufus followed the usual media outlets—he was more apt to stick to stodgy theater papers or hear about something through word of mouth.
And then there was the fact that Tristan had a break in his filming schedule the next day. Everything was focused on Morganna, and he wasn’t on the call sheet. That wasn’t public knowledge, and it didn’t particularly matter since he’d be back on set soon after that anyway.
Who was getting this information in the first place, and who was sending it out?
Tristan frowned. He didn’t want to suspect someone like Gabriella without any obvious examples of her meddling, but she had gone to the press in the first place. Not to mention she’d more than likely leaked anonymous sound bites about their relationship souring, which had forced them into the public spotlight with that awkward date that kept getting gate-crashed. Gabby was really the only logical culprit—and despite the Tristan-and-Gabriella breakup, she was on the board of several theatrical companies with his father, and had backed Julia’s plays more than once. Her relationship with Tristan might have ended spectacularly, but Gabriella was still deeply entrenched with the Ecclestons.
There was no way he could share any of this with Sophie—Lord knew she didn’t need to be dragged into any of this.
Tristan, meanwhile, couldn’t escape it, not with his father demanding an audience. Perhaps time and not having seen one of his children for nearly two years had acted like a reset button for Rufus—Tristan doubted it, but there was always the possibility. One night at Battenmire wouldn’t kill him.
Probably.
Besides, he still had a stack of comics in his old room that included an early Ariana: Queen of the Coven that he knew Sophie would go absolutely mad for. Likely his room hadn’t been touched; it wasn’t like his father or anybody else in the family to go digging through his things. All Ecclestons were far too concerned with themselves to think about anybody else’s inner life.
He resolved to talk to Sophie before one of the shooting breaks, and was settling in with a pair of earbuds and a classical playlist to put himself into the right frame of mind, when the door to the makeup trailer opened and Prasad came in.
“You haven’t been talking to Rufus, have you?” he asked his friend after they’d said their hellos.
“What!” Prasad was utterly taken aback. “Mate, no. Ugh. God. No. I’m insulted that you’d even suggest such a thing. Are you kidding?” His friend’s face relaxed. “Rufus Eccleston wouldn’t look me in the face even if he was presenting me with a Best Screenplay—no offense, man, but your dad is…”
“Massively classist and racist by default?”
“I was going to be a little more diplomatic, but yes,” replied Prasad. “Not exactly the sort of fellow to be in my corner as long as my last name’s Ranjaragan. Why d’you ask?”
Susie was calmly laying the mesh netting over his hair now, pretending that she wasn’t listening to their conversation.
“No reason, except that he’s figured out I’m in town and has ‘invited’ me to come up to Battenmire.”
Prasad made a horrified face.
“Which is actually a command to come up as soon as possible so he can go full Spanish Inquisition on me about why Gabriella and I broke up.”
“Why Gabriella broke up with you,” Prasad corrected him. “That isn’t something you need to answer anyway—what’s he on about? You’re an adult, and he needs to summon you to hi
s knee to explain yourself?”
“Probably he’s actually been made aware of this whole thing with Sophie, and wants to remind me of the consequences of not behaving properly or I’ll be written out of his stupid book,” Tristan said with a dark bitterness.
“So are you going to go?”
Tristan sighed.
“It’s unpleasant, but I ought to be able to withstand at least one night, right?”
Prasad looked dubiously at Susie, who kept her expression carefully neutral.
“Great,” Tristan said wryly. “We’re all on board, then.”
Telling Sophie was a bit harder than talking to Prasad. He didn’t want her to be disappointed or think that he was abandoning her in London.
“It’s only for a night, and I’ll be back the next afternoon, I’ve got a call time early on Friday, so it’s not like he can imprison me in the tower without a production assistant noticing,” he said. Unless Rufus and Gabriella had gotten their hands on the PAs, too. Why did his voice sound so odd to his ears? Strained, like he was lying, even though he wasn’t.
Sophie cocked an eyebrow at him.
“I’m joking, there’s no tower at Battenmire. A fairly decent wine cellar, though, so if he locks me up down there I’ll probably just drown myself in Montrachet.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
He put his arms around her and pulled her in toward him. “It’s not that I don’t want you there, it’s—it’s that you don’t want to be there. Trust me.” His voice still sounded odd. But he wanted to keep her, keep them, like this for as long as possible. Nothing to pollute or ruin what was finally making him happy, after the longest time.
She still looked skeptical, but brightened after a moment.
“I suppose Prasad and I could go see Mouse Trap—he said it’s awful, but I love corny things like that, plus it’s Agatha Christie, and who doesn’t want to see that?”
