Slow Play (The Rules 3)

Definitely not in a love way.

Talk of family holidays and where I’ll be spending my Thanksgiving was the most soul crushing conversation I’ve had in a long time. Lucy’s question was completely harmless. Totally normal. Yet all I could think about was my parents stuck in prison and me, alone without a house to go home to.

I appreciate Steven’s offer that we spend Thanksgiving at his parents’ place. Kelli and I already said yes to his invitation. Tristan didn’t seem to like the idea when I mentioned it, but did he make any offers when the spotlight shone on him thanks to Lucy?

That would be a no.

Not that I expect him to feel sorry for me and take me with him to meet his parents. We’re not that serious. Flirting and a few kissing sessions does not a relationship make.

But still. That entire conversation turned into Awkward City. And I’ve been wallowing in it since we left the restaurant.

What I appreciate about Tristan is he doesn’t push. I’m evasive. Not comfortable talking about my family and what happened to them. It’s embarrassing. He’s curious. I know he wants to help—and find out the scoop. When I throw up a few blocks, he doesn’t dig any further. And I love that. He just offers comfort, holds me close and treats me so tenderly I almost want to cry.

Worse? I almost want to confess everything. My parents are convicted felons who are doing prison time. That they embezzled money from my father’s company—stole the very money so many people trusted them to invest. They robbed so many people of their future and all we had left to show for it was a gorgeous house full of beautiful furniture and designer things.

Nothing substantial. Nothing meaningful. Nothing good. My parents aren’t good people.

Sometimes it worries me that I’ll turn out to be a bad person too.

Tristan slowly lets go of me and I step away, watching as he walks over to his desk and pulls his phone out of his pocket, setting it on top of a docking system I hadn’t noticed before. Within seconds music is playing, some sort of mellow rock stuff that again, I recognize as from the 90s.

“Do you have a grunge thing?” I ask when he turns around. I’m trying to lighten the mood and I hope he plays along.

“We all have a grunge thing. Me, Shep and Gabe.” He ticks their names off of his long fingers. “There’s no quality music anymore. It’s all pop shit.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a huge fan of Demi Lovato,” I tell him with as straight a face as possible. Fine, I am a fan. I almost felt too old watching that Camp Rock movie on Disney years ago but I loved it. Sonny with a Chance, starring Demi? Loved that show too. I’ve always loved her.

“Ugh. Next you’ll tell me you’re a Bieber fan,” he says, looking like he just sucked on a lemon.

“Ick, no way. I prefer Nick Jonas.” Yeah, of course I do. That boy grew up fine as hell. Why wouldn’t I be a fan?

Tristan groans and holds his head like it’s going to explode. “You’re killing me here.”

I laugh and he sends me a rueful grin, his hands dropping to his sides. The smile fades and then he’s just staring at me, making me hyperaware of the fact that I’m here. In his room. Just the two of us.

Alone.

“So.” My voice is artificially bright and I twirl around so my back is to him. I can’t deal with the way he’s watching me. Having him so close, all that potent energy coming at me in thick, heady waves is screwing with my brain. My gaze locks on the giant king-sized bed with its silvery blue comforter and dark brown leather headboard. It’s a luxurious bed. Simple yet masculine. Comfortable looking. A bed. And we know why I’m here. It’s not to take a nap.

My knees wobble at the mental image of Tristan and I wrapped around each other in his bed and I mentally tell myself to get my shit together.

“So…what?” he asks, his deep, slightly rough voice sending a ripple effect across my skin.

“Do you bring lots of girls to your room?” I ask, tensing in preparation for his answer. I’m sure he brings tons of girls up here. I imagine these walls have seen and heard things I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“I don’t bring any girls to my room,” he says, so carefully I turn to face him once more, my mouth hanging open.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Oh God, I’m stuttering. This can’t be happening.

“I’ve never believed any other woman I’ve met is worthy to see my bedroom,” he says, his gaze never wavering. “Just you.”

My cheeks go warm. What is he even saying? And God, the way he’s looking at me. I can almost feel his eyes touch my skin as they wander all over me. “Tristan,” I chastise. Like a dummy I can’t come up with anything else to say.

“I fucking love it when you say my name.” His voice is fierce, so is his stride as he starts walking toward me. “Say it again.”

What in the world…

“Tristan!” I start to giggle, confused by his sudden shift in mood.

“I’m serious. It makes me crazy when you say it.” He stops in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch him. Or he could touch me—and I want him to make the first move. I’m not feeling capable enough tonight. Besides the ball is in his court.

I clear my throat, wondering if it’s best if we cut the evening short. “Maybe we should—”

He cuts me off. “I knew if I brought you up here I’d never want to let you leave. The thought of you naked, in my bed…it twists me up inside. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Oh. Wow. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Stop, Tristan,” I say weakly. His words are doing things to me. Making me feel…almost crazed with wanting him.

A little growl sounds from low in his throat. “From the first moment I saw you, I can’t think about anything else. I’m like—I’m fucking Romeo over here.”

Wait a minute. What he’s saying—his words sound familiar?

“I fantasize about your lips.” He touches my face, his fingertips running down my cheek, skimming across my mouth before his hand drops. “Your perfect, pink lips...”

Giddiness explodes in my chest. “Oh, my God.” I tackle him hard so he has no choice but to brace himself as he grabs hold of me around my waist so we both don’t topple to the ground. “You’re quoting fucking Harry Goldenblatt to me!” How much Sex and the City did he watch by himself?

Tristan dips his head, the smile on his face so genuinely sweet I’m breathless. “Charlotte’s my favorite.” He kisses me, the touch of his lips on mine making me immediately want more. “You remind me of her.”

“Well, you don’t remind me of Harry at all.” Charlotte’s second husband on SATC was a bald, sweating mess of a lawyer who loved Charlotte with his entire being. They were the cutest couple ever.

Tristan is a hot hunk of man flesh who uses and discards women like they’re Kleenex. Until…me? This is hard for me to wrap my head around but somehow, he likes me enough, is attracted to me enough, that he wants to reveal himself to me, bit by bit. Real bits.

Every new glimpse I get makes me like him even more.

“I feel his pain though,” Tristan murmurs, his mouth on mine once again, stealing my words, stealing my breath for the quickest second before he breaks the kiss. “I want you so bad, it’s fucking killing me.”