Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika 3)

I had to ring the doorbell several times before a shirtless Tristan opened the door.

He was gleaming with sweat.  It would have taken inhuman willpower not to drink in every inch of his muscled, tatted up body.

And I was human.  Oh Lord, was I human.

He’d clearly been working out by the no shirt, athletic shorts, and running shoes he was wearing.

He’d always been in incredible shape, but this new, disciplined version of him had taken it to a whole new level.  He’d taken all of that antsy energy that he’d once used alcohol to mellow out, and applied it to a workout routine of epic, addictive proportions.

And I was addicted to the results.

His shorts hung low and his sweaty, cut to within an inch of its life, pelvic V muscle, was giving a silent but clear invitation to my tongue.

I knew what I wanted first.  It was all I could do to keep from getting on my knees and going down on him on his doorstep.

I moistened my lips, then reached out a finger, running it down his slick chest.  He didn’t so much as twitch.

That should have been my first clue that something was wrong.

But I was blinded by all of that gloriously bared flesh, oblivious to all but the physical.

“You’re early,” he panted.

“You changed my mind.  You sold it.”  I took a step closer, watching my hand trail south.  I could see his erection moving, growing through his fluid shorts.

I wasn’t even going to let him shower before I wrapped my lips around his spectacular cock.

He turned abruptly, striding back into his house, leaving me to follow.

And I followed, shutting the door behind me and locking it.  I toed off my shoes in the entryway, and unbuttoned my dress.  I pulled it over my head and threw it behind my shoulder before I’d made it through two rooms.  I unsnapped my bra, tossing it behind me somewhere between the living room and dining room.

I was completely nude by the time he stopped, his back to me, in the kitchen.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I told him huskily.

He rounded on me, took in my state, and set his jaw.

“Who were you out with this afternoon, Danika?” he asked me in a terrible voice.

I stiffened, wishing I’d kept my dress on.

I didn’t know how to answer, and the first thing out of my mouth was perhaps the most incriminating thing I could have said.  “Who told you?”

His eyes clenched tightly shut.

He reached up a hand and raked it through his hair.  It was trembling.  Badly.

“You answer first.  I want to hear it from you.  Who were you with this afternoon?”

I swallowed hard, feeling sick to my stomach.  Why the reaction? I asked myself.  It was illogical, but even so, undeniable.

I felt bad about this.

Guilty.

Because he wasn’t angry.  I’d seen Tristan angry more times than I could count, and though he was difficult when he was angry, I could manage it.  Could manage him.

But this wasn’t anger; it was pain.  My actions hadn’t enraged them; they had hurt him.  It was so much harder to navigate than simple rage.

“I went to lunch with Andrew.  He was in town, and we’re still friends.  It’s not something you should be getting this worked up over.”  There, it was out of my mouth and nowhere near the deal he was making it into in his head.  “Now tell me how you found out, and what you heard that’s upsetting you like this.  It’s clearly been blown out of proportion.”  I began to inch back, intending to locate my dress and have this conversation with a bit more dignity.

He followed me, out of the kitchen, through the formal dining room.  He followed until I reached my dress, menace in his every step.

The second I had the dress in my hands, it was wrenched away.

He didn’t use his hands but his body to force me back and down onto the sitting room’s sofa.  He followed me, covering my body, his eyes liquid gold as they bore into mine, lit with accusations that I couldn’t bear to face.

He crawled between my legs, pushing my arms above my head, clutching my wrists.  “When I was leaving your office I heard Kate and Sandra talking.  They were wondering if you were going to tell Andrew about me.  They weren’t sure which one of us was your boyfriend, and which one of us was the other man.”

I winced.  The girls were being harsh on me behind my back.  That was never fun, but especially when the bite of that gossip could leave some lasting marks.

One of his hands snaked down, and he fingered my sex.  He rubbed until I was nice and wet, then plunged two fingers in deep.

He was thrusting them in and out when he asked, his voice so pained that it made me ache, “Did you…?” he couldn’t finish.  He had no stomach for this, but I knew what he was trying to ask, knew what his mind had fixated on.

“No, of course not,” I said unsteadily.

His eyes closed, fingers coming out of me.  I looked down between our bodies as he pulled his stiff, quivering c**k out of his shorts, and guided himself to my entrance.

With agonizing slowness, he rubbed the head of his shaft against my tender flesh.

“Did you kiss him?” he asked, as he began to push inside.

“No, no, I told you.  He and I are just friends now.  That’s it.  Friends.”

He kissed me, shoving home.

I sucked at his driving tongue as his shaking body took my shaking body in hurried, desperate thrusts, my hands still pinned above my head by one of his.