Frankie went back to work, and I studied the back of Tristan’s head, letting my other hand stroke over the silky strands of his hair. I loved the new length. It was just perfect for gripping.
“Do you like the tattoo?” Frankie asked.
I didn’t look at it. “I’ll look when it’s done. I can never get a clear picture, until I see the final result. It’s what makes me a good appreciator, rather than an artist myself.”
“But this is a work in progress tat. It will never be done. He’ll be getting one of these blossoms, every single sober year, for the rest of his life.”
That had me looking. The word blossom raised some red flags, and I thought, oh no, he wouldn’t have.
But he had. On his back, scrolling over most of one shoulder was a cherry branch. It wasn’t on the same spot on his back as it was on mine, but there was no mistaking that it was a mirror of my tattoo.
On the branch were five small blossoms, each a slightly different shade, each with a number, bold and in red. One, two, three, four, five, and soon, already more than half finished, a six.
I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes, and bowed my head. I couldn’t stop the tears, but I could keep them quiet and hidden, bowing my head far enough to let my hair fall over my face.
I still held Tristan’s hand, and gripped his hair, but now I was doing it just to stay upright.
“Cut,” Frankie called. “I need a break, guys. Let’s take it outside for a minute, grab a coke.”
I didn’t acknowledge her thoughtful maneuver, didn’t so much as look up.
“Do you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice telling me that he knew I was reacting, and not reacting well.
“Am I supposed to like it?”
He didn’t answer me.
“Am I supposed to like it?!” I asked again, voice raised, filled with rage. With pain. “Or be ruined by it?”
He moved so fast that it startled a yelp out of me. He raised his body, and flipped up into a sitting position so fast that it was like a trick. Part of his act.
He grabbed me, not timidly, no, aggressively, yanking me against him, between his legs, pushing my face into his chest. “No, sweetheart, no. Not ruined. It was a tribute. It was not supposed to hurt you. It was as much for me as for you. However we ended, however you hated me, I didn’t ever want to forget what we had, or to forget what I’d done to deserve losing it.”
“That’s not a good recovery tattoo, Tristan. It sounds more like an albatross around your neck to me. Aren’t you supposed to celebrate your successes, not wallow in your mistakes?”
His lips were on my jaw, his breath hot. “I’m not wallowing in the mistakes, Danika. I acknowledge them, give them their proper due, but those mistakes aren’t my obsession. You know what is.”
His lips were open, moving down my neck, then up again, until he was breathing at my mouth, his minty breath mingling with my own. “Do you remember this room?” he breathed.
I closed my eyes and trembled.
It was too much. I was done for. Defeated.
I hadn’t had any of my defenses left coming in here, and he’d pulled no punches at all.
He gripped my hair in both hands, anchoring me while he tilted his head, and brushed his lips across mine. Softly, too softly, his mouth teasing back down to my neck, rubbing that irresistible scruff of his into that most sensitive area.
I moaned, loudly, and he covered my mouth with a short bark of a laugh. “I don’t suppose we can take our time right now, huh?”
I just shook my head, my trembling hands going to his chest, tracing over his glorious ink.
He moved in a flash, grabbing me, turning, and perching me on the table, until our places were reversed. He started inching my loose skirt up my hips, and once it was up around my waist, he parted my legs wide and stepped in, two fingers pushing into the side of my panties, feeling at my sex.
He cursed and praised me as he found me wet and ready for him.
It was a rush job after that. There wasn’t even time to take my bra or panties off. He just opened the front of his jeans, pulled his jutting erection out, and guided it with his hand against my pu**y.
His other hand pushed my small panties to the side. We both watched, rapt, as he thrust forward hard and his c**k disappeared inside of me.
I braced my hands behind me, still watching as he slid out, then in again, a few test drives before it turned into a full-on hell bent f**k.
I didn’t last long, my head dropping back as I started clenching on his plundering cock.
He grabbed my ass in both hands, lifted my h*ps off the table, and started drilling into me, keeping it up until he was emptying himself.
I stroked his hair, his shoulders, his face as we leaned against each other and panted, taking forever to recover from that madness.
“We weren’t quiet,” he murmured against my cheek. “I was trying to be quiet, because this clearly isn’t private enough, but I failed.”
I giggled. “Yes, you did. What’s your problem?”
He pulled back to give me a playful glare. “I’m not sure if you realize this, but you were much louder. There is no way Frankie isn’t going to know exactly what just happened. I hope you were ready for her to know.”
I flushed. I didn’t think I was ready, but it was too late now. My complete lack of self-control where Tristan was concerned had just shoved all discretion out the window.