Because he looks like he wants to go in for round two.
We're shocked out of our mess of thoughts when Tristan's phone rings. He looks down at the phone in his hand as if he's never seen one before and is now trying to figure out what to do with it.
The shrill sound snaps me out of my trance. I shuffle out of his embrace, still dizzy from the tequila or lust-drunk haze. I feel my senses come back to me along with the memory of what I was trying to tell Tristan. "Sabrina was watching us," I tell him hurriedly. I'm not sure why I need him to understand that there was a reason for what I did but I suddenly feel the need to explain my actions.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Then his eyes dart around, looking for the girl in question, and it seems like he finds her because his gaze immediately hardens and a scowl forms on his face. I think it's intended for Sabrina but when he turns back to me, that angry expression grows even angrier when it's aimed at me.
He finally answers the phone with a terse, "Hello?" He looks away from me and down the street.
I swallow roughly as my face flames with embarrassment. I thought I was helping the situation by kissing him but based on his reaction, it seems I've misjudged everything. I step further away from him.
After a short phone conversation, he turns back to me, jerking his head over his shoulder and signaling the car that's currently pulling up in front of us. "That's us. Get in," he says gruffly. There's definitely a bite in his tone.
The ride home is a quiet one. The last shot from the bar seems to have finally made its way into my bloodstream because despite my lips still tingling and the feel of Tristan’s fingers imprinted on my hips, my shoulders relax, and I forget about the scowling man sitting next to me. I even forget about the sudden desperation to escape Tristan that shot through me when he became angry after our kiss. I can see the rigid set of Tristan's jaw out of the corner of my eye and the tense way he's gripping his thighs. If I were sober, I'd probably try to figure out how he went from seductive gentleman to his usual emotionless, pain-in-the-ass self in under a minute. But I'm not, so instead I sigh and close my eyes.
When we pull up to the house, Tristan thanks the driver and gets out of the car. I follow quietly behind him as he starts walking toward the house. We're almost to the door when I trip—on thin air, like a cliché drunk—and fall forward.
Tristan catches me before my face can meet the pavement and pulls me upright. "Jesus, watch it," he barks, steadying me on my feet. "Can you not be a klutz for just one second?"
I study him for a moment, then sigh and decide not to fight him. I blame—or credit?—the alcohol for my lack of anger and aggressive comebacks. Instead of feeling defensive, I realize suddenly that I just don't care.
Without thinking about what I'm doing, I step closer to him and run my fingers through his hair, trying to understand the sudden shift in his mood. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he stands still and lets me play with strands of his hair. Without the tequila coursing through my veins, I never would have let myself touch him like this. But right now, I can’t find it in me to care.
"It must be exhausting being so mean all the time," I observe thoughtfully. Something flashes in his eyes, but I can't put a name to it, and then it’s gone just as quickly.
I turn away from him, completely oblivious to how much I just overstepped our normal boundaries. "Not to mention you would be so much hotter with just a little less snark," I call over my shoulder. I'm too busy drunkenly fumbling with my keys in the lock to notice his eyes widen at my honest comment.
"Ha!" I exclaim triumphantly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. But before I can take more than two steps in, I feel myself being pushed to the wall, Tristan's body pressing tightly against mine. "Hey!" I cry. His moody expression is gone, replaced with the smug face that I know so well.
"You would hate me if I was a nice guy," he drawls.
I roll my eyes at him, trying to push him off me. "Guess we'll never know, because you being a nice guy is as likely as me using the word 'literally' wrong." He grins, knowing how much I hate when girls use the word to describe something that is very clearly not literal.
"Admit it," he says softly, pushing me harder into the wall with his body. My breath catches as his face nears mine. "You like me the way I am."
"I—I don't—" my brain no longer seems to be able to form a coherent sentence. All I can do is stare into his hungry gaze and try not to picture what it would feel like if he fucked me against this wall right now.
His lips brush against my cheek, at the same time that he kneads my hips with his fingers. Every touch, every whisper of his breath, is further uncoiling the heat that's growing between my legs.
"You don't want someone to pull your chair out for you, or ask you what you want to eat," he continues. "You want someone that doesn't need your permission. Someone that will call you on your shit." He tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls my head back. I gasp in surprise. "You want someone that will spank you when you're acting stupid."
I can't contain the whimper that slips from my lips. I squeeze my legs together, trying to think of a response but failing. When he pulls back to wait for my reply, I know that no words could answer his unspoken question.
There are so many things that I hate about this man—he’s arrogant, and selfish, and rude. He’s a player that uses women for sex, and the only thing he actually gives a shit about is fighting. He’s the definition of self-absorbed. I should be shoving him away from me, telling him to fuck off and to stay on his side of the house for the rest of the week. I shouldn't be thinking about what he tastes like, or how his cock might feel inside of me. I shouldn't be wondering how hard he could make me come.
But his words remind me that the same alpha qualities that make me hate him... are also the ones that are making my knees weak.
I realize in that moment that every insult, every prank, every teasing comment, is exactly what ratcheted up our sexual tension this week. His alpha personality is what drives the fire between us. We couldn't have one without the other. And I am so desperately, achingly, tired of fighting that fire...
So, whether it's the tequila or the need to finish the kiss that we started, I decide I don't want to fight it anymore.
I learn forward and roughly press my lips against his, my hands fisting in his shirt. I press my body as close to his as possible—suddenly, I can't seem to get close enough. The tension between us steals my breath away. It feels like every place we touch is on fire. I part my lips, my tongue darting forward to stroke his.
He groans and opens his mouth. He pushes me harder against the wall—it feels like he can't get close enough, either. His kiss is brutal and aggressive, and I know my lips will bruise but I don't care. In this moment, I want all of his roughness.
As if reading my mind, his hand shoots up to grip the front of my throat and push my head back against the wall. I moan in pleasure. He grins at my response and kisses me again.
"You might regret what you just started," he growls against my lips. "Hate sex can be intense. And with the way you and I feel about each other, I might actually kill you with pleasure.”