I'm Not in Love

Remi

Tristan asksto take a break about forty-five minutes into the session. I’m ready for a break too. The silence between us is staggering, and I want to reestablish our amiable bond over a couple of glasses of ice water.

“I’ll get you a drink,” I offer.

“Thanks.” He stands, hesitating slightly before heading—stark naked—to the half bathroom. I glance away, as ogling him at this moment is against the rules.

I rush to my bedroom and snatch a black velour robe from the back of one of the wardrobes lined up against the towering brick wall. Then I race to the bathroom and say, “Uh, Tristan, I hung my bathrobe on the doorknob so you can, um…”

Yeah, he knows why I’m offering him a robe. This feels far more like a stilted work environment than my “date” and I hanging out on a lazy day at home.

“I appreciate it, Remi.” The robotic tone is gone. It’s the voice of the man I’ve come to know and… like. “I won’t have to streak across your apartment again—I mean, what would the neighbors think?”

I smile in relief at his change in attitude. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

A minute later, Tristan—enveloped in my bulky black robe—sits at the breakfast bar, sipping ice water from a goblet. “I wonder if the kids had fun at the movies with Dacia and Tara last night.”

“If they got Jared a large bucket of buttered popcorn, I’m sure he had a blast,” I reply.

“You’re coming to know him very well. And mmmm… buttered popcorn sounds good.”

“I’ll make you some.” The words pop out before I have a chance to think.

“Okay, then, we’ll eat popcorn—after we’ve finished working. You don’t need your model poking around his mouth with his tongue to get kernels out of his teeth.”

I sigh and step closer to his stool. “That wouldn’t be my first choice, as far as the use of my model’s tongue goes.”

Tristan places his goblet on the counter beside mine. Then he slides his ass from the stool, stands before me, draping his arms around my shoulders. “Would this be a better use of my tongue?” He places his hand at the back of my neck and pulls me down into a kiss.

The kiss is deep; all I can do is hum my approval.

After exploring each other’s mouths until we’re breathless, Tristan murmurs, “I can think of something that would loosen my muscles for the rest of today’s modeling session. You’d be doing me a huge favor.” His sneaky smile has me unraveling at the seams.

“And what w-would that be?”

“Maybe I could show you what I mean… in the bedroom.” His gaze is seductive, a shimmering pool of seafoam green. It’s extraordinary how his eye color changes with his moods.

“Of-of c-course,” I stutter.

Tristan doesn’t take my hand and lead me to my room—but then, it isn’t necessary. He slides his arms from my shoulders, turns, and saunters away. I have little choice but to follow, as I’m drawn to him like a teenager to a warm six pack of beer behind the lawnmower in his best pal’s garage.

I stumble over the robe he lets slide from his shoulders in the doorway to my bedroom, exposing his sculpted back, narrow hips, and tight ass. We never made the bed this morning, so Tristan easily slips between the rumpled sheets, spreading his arms and legs wide, as if in welcome. I rip off my T-shirt and yank down my faded blue jeans without so much as a feeble attempt to unbutton them, clumsy in my eagerness to feel his skin against mine. My boxers soon hit my ankles and are then kicked only God knows where.

I can’t explain the dramatic mood change that happens when Tristan sighs and glances toward the window. “I-I want you to make…” His complexion pales, a perfect match to his sudden vulnerability. He pulls in a shaky breath and starts again. “Remi, will you make love to me?”

Make love to me…Tristan’s choice of words echoes in my head.

Is that what we’ll do in this bed—make love?

I’ve always preferred to think of it as fucking, but that’s just semantics, isn’t it?

“I will,” I say, shoving the quandary from my mind. “Yes, of course… I will.”

When he closes his eyes, it feels as if he’s shutting me out. I can’t tolerate the separation.

“Look at me,” I demand for the second time this morning. “I need to see your eyes.”

Tristan’s lashes flutter before he complies with a single, almost imperceptible nod. When he looks at me, his gaze, though still a delicate pastel, is sufficiently powerful to penetrate mine.

I can’t ever let myself love him, but I already need him.

I climb carefully on top of his spread-eagled form, relishing the sensation of his smooth, toned body. “Your skin…. it’s like silk on stone,” I observe, caressing his firm bicep with several fingertips. “Soft but also strong.”

Again, he closes his eyes, and this time, I feel relief. Each time I gaze into those endless depths, I fear I’ll lose myself.

“I-I want you… inside me,” he persists.

Though I’m pleased we’re on the same page, I need to take this slowly. I need time to gather my wits—to steel my soul—so I don’t fall too far or too hard. “There’s no rush.”

“But I want you now,” he adds rather sharply, opening his eyes widely in appeal.

I can’t not smile. “Eager much?”

Or is he afraid he’ll change his mind, given time to ponder?

“Come on, Remi. Let’s just d-do it.” His voice’s pitch rises with each word.

Typically, I don’t take orders from lovers, but everything is different with Tristan. “It’s okay, Tristan. Slow down… and take a breath.”

His gaze softens at my urging, and I observe the obedient rise and fall of his graceful chest… once and then again.

As he offers his trust to me—a man so entirely undeserving—I lift myself from his body to take him in so I can savor the moment. I memorize every breathtaking detail of his open gaze and his velvet skin and the pink flush rising over the fading mark I made on his neck to spread across his sculpted cheeks. When I can wait no longer, I dive in.

I suck lightly on the tender skin in the hollow of his neck, but instead of sliding my kisses down his body as he expects, I move up. Along his jaw, behind his ear, into his hair. How can a man taste and smell so perfect? It’s as if Tristan was made for me.

“That feels good,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

Abruptly, though, he turns his head. When our lips collide, he opens his mouth. This is a deliberate invitation for me to invade… and I haven’t the will to resist. Between his open lips, Tristan’s unique flavor is intense and more enticing than I’m ready for. I groan my bewildered pleasure, sink my tongue in deeper, and turn his body with mine as I fall to the side.

“Are we gonna do it now?” he asks.

Again, I wonder at his eagerness. Could it be apprehension? Or maybe simple fear? “Relax, Tristan. Let things unfold.”

“O-okay.” His breathing is too fast. He’s practically hyperventilating. “Okay.”

“Making love” will be “causing pain” if I don’t coax his tense body into relaxation. And so, with all the tenderness I can muster, I turn him onto his stomach and kneel beside him. Once on his belly, he glances back at me with wild eyes. I smile tightly and massage the rigid muscles of his shoulders.