Slow Play (The Rules 3)

“You look in pretty good shape to me.” He nudges me with his shoulder and I really do almost go toppling over. He’s as solid as a mountain, this man.

“Not really. I’m thin but I come by it naturally. When I was in my early teens, they all thought I was anorexic.” I frown. I’d forgotten all about that, though I don’t know how. I hated when my mom took me to the doctor, stressing again and again that I must have some sort of problem.

Which is ironic really, since she’s the one who gave me the problem. She always told me I needed to watch my weight, watch what types of food I ate, was always tugging at my clothes and implying that I somehow looked fat. She’s the one who could’ve made me anorexic in an instant. I’m surprised she didn’t.

“Whose they?” Tristan asks.

“My parents.” I go quiet. I don’t want to talk about them, though I really should with Tristan.

“They were hard on you?” he asks gently.

“Most of the time I didn’t think they knew I existed,” I confess truthfully. “They were always busy.”

“Same with mine, especially my dad.” Tristan stares off into the distance, squinting at the sun. “He’s a workaholic. Has a lot to show for it too, so that’s something.”

“You come from a lot of money.” I state the obvious.

He turns to look at me. “The Prescott fortune is in the billions. Shep and I have a lot to live up to, though we’re not expected to do anything. Not like Gabe. His dad fully expects him to take over their family business someday, not that he wants to.”

“Are you going into your family business after you graduate?” I ask, curious. He never talks about his future either. But neither do I, more so because I have no clue what it might hold.

“If they’ll have me. I guess.” He returns his gaze to the falling sun, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his mouth twisted in this tight grimace. “I don’t know if that’s what I want to do.”’

“What else do you want, then?”

“I know I like spending time with you.” He takes my hand and squeezes it in between both of his. “That was probably fucking sappy as shit, huh. Sounds like something Steven would say.”

I laugh because—and I know this is wrong—I like how jealous he is over the relationship I have with Steven. Though calling it a relationship is a stretch. It’s more like a friendship. “Steven is very sweet.”

“And I’m not. I’m the farthest thing from sweet,” Tristan says, knocking into my shoulder again, more gently this time. “You like ‘em that way? Am I wasting my time here, angel?”

Is he testing the waters to see how I’ll react? How does he want me to answer?

Turning to look at him, I smile, my gaze never leaving his. “I don’t think you’re wasting your time. And sweet’s overrated. I prefer them a little spicy and full of themselves.”

His smile grows. “I’d never think you’re a waste of time. I hope you realize that.”

“I do,” I say sincerely.

I so do.

After our enlightening talk on the front porch—who knew going for a run would cause Alexandria to open up so much—we snuck into the house and into her room, thankful everyone that were already inside was concentrating on the game play unfolding on the TV screen versus us.

“We could’ve been terrorists and they would’ve never noticed us,” Alexandria says indignantly once I have the door to her room shut.

“Right, like terrorists are targeting your house,” I joke as I turn the lock firmly into place. I want zero interruptions right now.

“Fine, not terrorists, home invasion people.” She pauses and I give her a look. “What? Those types of crime scare the crap out of me! You’re sitting at home, minding your own business when someone suddenly busts in and demands all your valuables. I can’t imagine how scary that would be.”

“Your home is invaded every day with Conrad’s friends,” I tell her seriously. It’s the damn truth. The living room is currently filled with five guys, three of them I don’t recognize. “Or Kelli.”

She makes a face. “Don’t mock Kelli. She’s frustrated.”

“Over what?” I settle on the edge of Alexandria’s bed and watch while she mills about her room, grabbing a hair tie as she piles her hair on top of her head and puts it into a sloppy bun.

I like it when she does that. I pretty much like it when she does anything.

“Steven. They’re still playing the I-don’t-like-you-but-I-do game.” She rolls her eyes. “They need to just do it and get it out of the way.”

“That sounds familiar,” I say with a smile, earning a slap on the arm for my efforts.

“You know my reasoning behind taking it slow,” she chastises, completely adorable. And I never think a chick is adorable. “You said you were okay with it.”

“I am. I swear.” My mouth goes dry when she reaches for the hem of her sweatshirt and lifts it up. And up, until she’s revealing her bare stomach and the sexy as fuck sports bra she’s wearing. It covers a lot but Jesus. Where did she get that thing? “What the hell sort of fresh torture is this?”

She tugs her shirt completely off and tosses it on the nearby chair. “What’s wrong with my sports bra?” She glances down at herself, even more adorable than she was before.

I wave a hand, indicating for her to come closer. She does as I ask, stopping directly in front of me and I reach up, toying with the little zipper handle with my index finger. “This. This is what’s wrong with your sports bra. It fucking unzips.” Right down the center. One tug and I could see everything.

And that’s all I can think about. Me, unzipping the bra slowly and revealing those perfect small tits with the rosy nipples. Spending the rest of the afternoon sucking on them, the both of us naked in her tiny bed.

Rolling her eyes, she bats my hand away and takes a step back. “What’s the big deal? So it’s a zipper.”

“A zipper that comes undone and offers me a glimpse of the promised land,” I immediately retort.

Alexandria rolls her eyes. “Are you calling my breasts the promised land?”

“I will call them the Statue of Liberty and Mount Everest all rolled up in one to prove to you how magical your tits really are,” I say solemnly.

She bursts out laughing, shaking her head. “You are seriously unreal.”

I bounce on the edge of her bed, bracing my hands on the mattress. “How big is this bed anyway?”

“It’s a queen. So sorry it’s not a California king or whatever you have back at your place. Some of us peasants can only afford so much.” She sniffs and tilts her nose. Is she joking? Please God, tell me she’s joking. “I bet your bed is even custom-made.”

It is. The mattress and box spring are longer to accommodate my height. “You never complained when you were in it.”

Her cheeks turn crimson. “Do you always have to circle back to sex?”

“Where you’re concerned? Hell, yeah.” I grab her about the waist and pull her in between my legs, my hand sprawled across her butt. She’s wearing spandex black leggings that leave nothing to the imagination. As in, all I see are her long, long legs and her perfect ass. “A man only has so much patience.”