Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika 3)

I was doubled over laughing, but I still managed to nod.

He stormed from the room.  I finally straightened to find everyone looking at me in wide-eyed shock.

Frankie was the only exception to this.  She looked frankly gleeful.  “Wow.  So the crazy train is going full speed ahead, huh?  ‘Bout f**kin’ time.”

I waited about five minutes before I felt my phone vibrate in my hand.  I had one new text.  I checked it, and sure enough, I’d gotten nothing but a picture from Tristan.  It was taken using the mirror in the bathroom, not thirty feet away.

He’d taken his shirt off, and unbuttoned his jeans.  He was giving a very toothy grin to the mirror, one big hand fisting his big cock.  He’d gotten himself hard.

I blinked.  I’d done the whole thing because it was funny.  I’d never imagined a dick pic could actually be hot.  It looked like he was inviting me to join him in the bathroom, which he probably was.

I ignored the possible invitation, putting my phone away, my face so red I could feel it.

My eyes went nowhere but the crotch of his pants when he came strutting back into the room.  At least he’d gotten a handle on his hard-on, though I wasn’t going to ask how he’d done it.

He raised his brows at me expectantly as he sat down beside me again.  “You get it?”

“It’s not time-stamped.  Do it again.”

I couldn’t keep a straight face when I said it and neither could he.

“You can see that it is in their f**king bathroom,” he said between heaving laughs.  It was a straight belly laugh for him.  My absolute favorite.  I would have gone through hell and back to hear that laugh come out of him.

Had gone through it.

Would again.

“The conditions were very clear.  Time.  Stamp.”

He looked around the room, shaking his head in laughing disbelief.  He pointed at me.  “This woman is evil.  Never lose a bet to this woman.  What, do you think I anticipated that you’d make me do the picture in this very house, and just happened to have one already taken, in that same bathroom?”

I tapped my imaginary watch.  “Time’s a wastin’.”

“James, do you have a newspaper somewhere?  I need to timestamp a picture.”

James, who was across the room, chatting with Akira, gave Tristan a thoroughly disgusted look.  “Seriously?  You think you need a newspaper to timestamp a photo?  Get out of the stone ages, Tristan.  Just hand me your phone and I’ll do it.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to see this.  Newspaper?”

James stood up and went, I assumed, to get a newspaper.

Tristan turned his laughing attention back to me.  “You need to erase the other one.  I did not agree to two, and you are being a snot, so I’m not giving you a freebie.”

I looked around, hoping we hadn’t brought too much attention to ourselves, but of course we had.

Still, I looked back at Tristan, smiling at him with my eyes.  “Make me,” I mouthed.

He got up and walked out of the room, headed down the hallway that led to the bathroom.

He looked agitated.  The good kind of agitated.

James came back into the room carrying a newspaper.

I intercepted him, holding out my hand.

“I’ll take it to him,” I told him with a smile.

He looked taken aback, but he handed it over with no hesitation.

“Thank you,” I said cheerily, heading down the hallway, where Tristan had disappeared.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, light on.  I stepped close to the door, as though to knock, when it swung completely open, and a smiling Tristan snatched me inside.

He’d surprised me, and just going on instinct, I smacked him in the chest with the paper I was holding.

I did it again, holding it out for him.  “You better hurry.  I think you have like thirty seconds left.”

He shut and locked the door behind me, swung me to sit on the long bathroom counter, then started shrugging out of his shirt.

“If you don’t hurry, you’re still going to owe me on this bet.”

With a curse, he pulled his dick out, grabbed his phone and the paper, and took a hurried shot in the mirror.

I was still laughing when he hit send.

I stopped laughing when he moved close, his hands going to my thighs and parting them so he could step between.  His eyes and his hands were all over the one knot that was keeping me dressed, but not for long, since he untied it faster than I could say, “We shouldn’t.  Someone will hear.”

He was parting the two sides of my dress, folding it back over my shoulders.  “You didn’t wear this dress so I wouldn’t f**k you the first chance I got.”  He unsnapped the front of my bra, pushing both cups to the side.  “And look at this.  I got a chance.”

It was by all definitions a quickie.  A panties shoved to the side, c**k shoved in, yanking out, rocking, rutting, quickie.

A fast, swift, brief, hasty, fleeting, hurried, rushed, quickie.

A hard, rough, vigorous, brutal, crude f**k of a quickie.

That’s not to say it wasn’t awesome.  I got off, he got off, and I could have spent the rest of the day sleeping on his chest and dreaming about how sweet life could be.

And that was the problem with quickies.  They were always quick for a reason, and then you were thrust back into real life, when all you wanted to do was loll about, sated.