"I'm not really sure why you think you knowanythingabout my sexual proclivities—and frankly it's a bit creepy how much youthinkyou know—but I assure you, Tristan, your sources are sadly mistaken. Maybe I would've gone home with him if he hadn't—if he—never mind…" my voice trails off because I realize I don't want to admit how my interaction with Chris had ended.
In an instant, Tristan is on his feet. Before I even realize he's moved, he's standing only a few inches away from me and holding my wrist in an iron grip. His other hand grasps my chin and lifts my gaze to meet his. His eyes are burning with the same fury that I saw in them earlier tonight, except now it looks like there's a sort of panic mixed in them, too. "What happened?" he demands. "Did he touch you?"
"N-no, of course not," I stammer. "Nothing happened—"
His fingers tighten on my chin. "Don't lie to me, Remy,” he growls.
The accusation snaps me from my nervous haze. "I said nothing happened," I snap, tearing my face from his grasp. "And anyway, how is this any different from what that guy did to me tonight? You're just as much in my space as he was."
I ignore the part of my brain that's screaming this feelsnothinglike the other encounters.
The anger dims in his eyes. Instead, I see a flicker of something else, just as a cocky smile slides across his face. He leans forward to whisper in my ear, brushing his lips lightly over my skin and causing a shiver to ripple through me. The lingering smell of whiskey entwines with his male scent and envelopes me in an intoxicating bubble.
"The difference is, I know for a fact that you like me being this close to you—that you’re actually soaked right now," he purrs.
I can't stop my sharp intake of breath. As if on cue, my cunt starts throbbing. Suddenly all I can think about is how badly I want him to bend me over and fuck me until the sun comes up.
He pulls back and stares in amusement at the expressions flitting across my face. He knows exactly what kind of war he just started in my brain. He always knows. And he always enjoys it.
"That's pretty self-assured, even for you," I manage to say. "Unfortunately, it's a ridiculous theory."
His grin spreads wider. He reaches up to run a fingertip lightly down the side of my face. "Prove it," he says in a deep voice. My heart is beating so hard that I'm sure he can hear it.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," I blurt.
He tilts his head and studies me with a curious expression. "Okay," is all he says. He shrugs and runs his finger down the side of my face again. As if my blatant rejection doesn't bother him at all.
He trails his finger from my cheek to my lips, his touch feather light. He slowly, gently, traces my lips with his thumb. He pauses at the center of my bottom lip.
His smoldering gaze feels like it's cutting through all my secrets, yet I can't bring myself to look away. Just when I start wondering if it’s possible to combust solely from eye contact, he pulls his finger from my lips and sucks it into his mouth.
It’s like a direct line to my aching core. When I catch a glimpse of his tongue wrapping around his finger, my breath catches and wetness pools between my thighs. That feeling only multiplies tenfold when he growls, “I knew you would taste like cherries.”
His face leans closer to mine and for a second, I think he's going to kiss me. I feel my heart rate spike to unhealthy levels.
But he just brushes past my mouth and presses his lips against my ear. “I think you’re going to change your mind,” he whispers. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop thinking about it until you do.”
I can't stop the shiver that runs through my body. He notices and pulls away with a grin. Stepping back, he lets go of me completely.
"Goodnight, Remy," he says smoothly. Then he walks up the stairs, leaving me in a puddle on the floor.
* * *
The next morning when I wake up, the house is quiet. Tristan is notoriously an early bird, so I realize quickly that he must already be at the gym. I groan when I remember our interaction last night.
I briefly debate skipping the gym today. Saturdays are the only days that my and Tristan's schedules overlap, so I know I'll have to interact with him this morning. And after last night it might not be a bad idea to put some distance between us.
But I quickly shake the thought away. I love training for more reasons than one, and I refuse to give up even a day of it because of a guy. I'll suffer through a class with him if I need to. I'll just make an effort to ignore him entirely.
The more I think about it, I realize I should probably keep away from Tristan for the rest of the week, not just today. He's been near me too much lately and whenever he's that close, it feels like I can't pull myself away. Because of that I feel like I've been two steps behind in our games all week—he's clearly been the one in control.
As I throw the covers off myself and pull a sweatshirt over my head, I make a decision: keep as much distance between us as possible for the rest of the week.
I take my time getting ready. I've never been the type that could train on an empty stomach, so I make some scrambled eggs and brew a cup of coffee. I hum happily as Frank Ocean plays in the background. After I'm done eating, I settle into the couch with my coffee and a book.
An hour later, I've changed into my workout clothes and grabbed my gym bag. Twenty minutes after that I'm walking up to the gym, taking a deep breath to steel myself for whatever side of Tristan I'm about to experience.
When I walk in, that breath rushes out of me as I automatically and immediately relax. This place is like a second home to me. Everyone is practically family, and the environment itself feels like a sanctuary. Whenever I have a bad day, regardless if it's from work, friends, or family, this place is here to welcome me with open arms. I can pound my frustrations into a heavy bag or grab a partner to drill some techniques and take my mind off my problems. This gym is better than any therapist.